Walking the Berkshires

Gone Fishing

These words are written on my grandfather's grave, carved on local field stone plucked and scoured by ice and sea.  There is a family story that goes with it, and this other meaning will pass from general knowledge when none of us now living is around to explain it.  That is one of the reasons I started this blog nearly a decade ago, back in the fall of 2005 when my head and heart were full of ideas and memories that needed a new outlet for expression.  It was to leave a record, even in this most ephemeral of electronic media, for others to find and follow.

Since then, my interests have taken new directions and found new outlets.  I started writing a nature column for the local paper,  and that is where my environmental writing has gone ever since.  There is enough material now to compile into book form, a project I hope to pursue.  Social media supplanted blogging as an outlet for the short form post with immediate reader feedback.  My personal life took new directions as well, and I no longer spend nights up late at night, avoiding unhappiness at home.

I stopped writing here on a regular basis several years ago, but I still blog elsewhere.  Instead of a general purpose blog I have three specialized ones.

My interest in 18th century material culture research and living history finds serious expression in the newest of these: "Another Pair Not Fellows; Adventures in Research and Reinterpreting the American Revolution."  I am still proud of the historical research I conducted and present here at Walking the Berkshires, especially the series which was recognized with a Cliopatria Award in 2008 and the documentation behind four posts on the march of Burgoyne's Convention Troops through Connecticut which was accepted in research paper form as an addition to the collections of the David Library of the American Revolution.Over time, I will probably archive relevant material from Walking the Berkshires here, possibly after first reformatting them as .pdfs on Scribd.  There are a couple that ought to be presented as scholarly research papers, and a seventeen post series with broken links is not really the best way to present that material. 

My irreverent sense of humor and love of the scholarly send up produced the fictional Journal of Constant Belcher, a wholly contrived character whose misadventures during the American Revolution make such convincing use of actual documentary evidence that I inadvertently mislead the entire Revolutionary War Reenacting community when I announced its "discovery."  I had assumed that entries such as the following made with tongue planted firmly in cheek would have been a dead giveaway - Maj. Bloomfield bid me make a place for his horse in the boat for crossing to Cuckoldstown /  Gave it green pippins from his haversack So that it might ease our passage with a copious wind/.  Sadly it was all too believable, and there are places in the hobby today where the mere mention of Belcher's name causes eyes to roll and brows to furrow.  There is a Facebook Page for Constant Belcher, too, where the social media are alerted to my latest discoveries from his journal.

Finally, there is a blog called Cornflower Blue & Corduroy; Wargaming the German - Herero and Nama Wars of 1904 -1908.  This is a new direction for two old interests - a love of painted miniatures and of Namibia.  I have a very small circle of people with whom to share this area of historical inquiry and recreational pursuit, but it has involved my learning to decipher and translate German in the old Fraktur font and presenting my findings, sometimes for the first time,  in English translation.

As for Walking the Berkshires, it is so well diffused in the electronic media stream that I still get contacted through email by people who have found one of my old posts.  I see my role for now as its curator, tending the archives without adding new acquisitions.  This blog made many important connections and friendships for me, in particular with the genea-blogging community, many of whom I still find on Facebook.  It deserves to be cared for rather than abandoned.

Gone fishing was requested as an epitaph by my grandfather, Robert Howard Barker, after talking about the great uncertainties of death with his young son Robbie.  The idea of burial and what happens to the body and spirit is a lot for any person to absorb, particularly a young child.  Robbie had been learning about the water table in school, and so resolved this great mystery by announcing that after he was buried, he would go fishing in the water table.  My grandfather announced then and there that "Gone Fishing" is what he wanted on his gravestone. 

Three decades or so later, I'd like to think he got his wish.

The "Obligation to Dialogue" in the Age of Social Media

Haverford College was a special place for me, and I continue to feel its influence in my life nearly a quarter century since graduation.  Its Quaker foundations were self evident without being overbearing, more the medium for the culture of a flourishing community than a rigid behavioral directive.

Among its notable attributes was a self enforcing honor code, a commitment to consensus, and an obligation to dialogue. The latter proved a challenging concept, for to do it well meant to be open to new insight gained through engagement, while also confronting difficult issues and relationships with clear-eyed candor. 

Some of my classmates were predisposed toward confrontation rather than dialogue, and more at home speaking truth to power instead of listening and reflecting closely.  Others became paralyzed by self reflection, unable to navigate the existential crisis that often attends a dawning awareness of complicity in systems of power and privilege.  I tried to find the center of these extremes, though not always successfully, and not always risking the more uncomfortable, but perhaps more candid approach.

Since my time at Haverford, I have grappled with the implications of the words of Abraham Joshua Heschel;

"...indifference to evil is worse than evil itself...in a free society, some are guilty, but all are responsible." 

I come at this from the perspective of one who prefers - in fact, who has found it professionally quite useful - to find common ground with those who may hold other values quite different from my own. There are readers of this blog who share my love of history but not my politics.  There are friends of mine in the reenacting community whose company I greatly enjoy, but who hold certain beliefs and share things on Facebook that make me cringe: statements with which I have no wish to be associated.

Social media, and Facebook in particular, offer the quick and the simple over the thoughtful and nuanced. It is not a forum for serious and searching debate. It wants to sort and group us (and market to us based on those associations).  It rewards our every utterance with "Likes" from a collective of "friends" who in aggregate may have very few points of common interest or continuity in our lives.  In fact, I suspect that having all of my Facebook Friends get together for a social function might prove less successful than just asking 400 random people to drop by for food and conversation and letting the chips fall as they invariably may. 

On the other hand, having a dozen of my reenacting friends who did not previously know each other come down the shore for a weekend of sun and discovery together last year worked far better.  People made connections and found they shared interests beyond this hobby, and our conversations did not devolve to spurious quotes, political rants, or occasionally tone deaf humor, as tends to happen with social media. 

This is understandable.  People behave differently when the conventions of courtesy and hospitality apply to social interaction.  We do not wipe our muddy feet on our host's carpet, but what gets posted on one wall ends up in a friend's feed, and sometimes it has a similar effect.

Walt Whitman was comfortable with his own shifting viewpoints; "Do I contradict myself?  Very well then, I contradict myself.  I am large, I contain multitudes." I think the obligation to dialogue that I learned at Haverford requires conviction leavened by humility.  There are a few absolutes that for me remain immutable.  Cross those lines and I risk "indifference to evil".   Beyond that, though, there are many, many, many ways to approach ideas that challenge my own and make me uncomfortable.   It doesn't work so well when I am defensive, or tired, or lack the time to give a thoughtful and considered reaction.  Sometimes I have to sit with that feeling and puzzle it out.

I was raised by two loving parents who are staunchly non violent.  I love living history and reenact Revolutionary War battles.  It does not follow that I support the NRA, or vote 100% for one party over another, or even understand the Constitution and our Founding generation the way that others may.  There are not enough data points in this sample for someone to make those assumptions about me, and I try to accord others the same courtesy.

I am reaching the point, however, where I am no longer willing just to ignore or block the tone and content of what sometimes gets shared on Facebook about 2nd amendment rights.  I add things up differently, and for me nothing trumps 20 murdered first graders and six fine educators, each killed by multiple rounds fired from a legally obtained semi automatic rifle. 

The Constitution has been amended 27 times precisely because times change and the Founders, however wise and farsighted, were not omniscient.  I see a need today to reconcile an individual's right to bear arms with the need for reasonable and prudent safeguards to apply to legal gun ownership. 

If that ends up meaning that as a result of new legislation, I require a firearms permit for my replica antique flintlock, and some sort of firearms safety training, and even a background check, before I take the field to play at war with my friends, I am willing to abide by those conditions if it means our children and  grandchildren are safer at school.  I do not believe that if we give an inch on gun safety laws we will lose our right to bear arms, but I do believe we cannot replace the lives of those children, and too many others, who are killed in gun violence every day in this country. 

I find I still have an obligation to dialogue on this and other difficult, challenging issues - respectful, direct, courageous and sincere dialogue.  Facebook is not the place for that, and it probably won't happen in the comments to this blog post either.  The next time you and I get together, though, around a campfire or across the dinner table, we can talk about this stuff.  We have to.  I promise to listen to you and consider your words carefully.  I hope despite what differences may remain, that we continue to hold each other in respect and will remain friends,in the truest sense of that word.

 

 

Holding the Groove

I grew up at a rural boarding school in New York's Hudson Valley.  The formative years  were 1976-1982, before I went off to boarding school myself.  The students in those days still wore their hair long, and the girls favored long overcoats and fedoras.  I idolized the high school students who were actors, and the ones who played guitar on the steps of their dorms and faced their huge stereo speakers out windows towards the quad. 

Disco was dead on arrival, but not the Grateful Dead, nor were the Talking Heads.  Classic Rock was not yet a commercial radio format; it was what your older cousins or big sister turned you on to, before they left home and moved on to new sounds.

Back then you discovered new music in used record stores, from dorm mates who hailed from hipper locales, or over the weak signal of some backwater college radio station.  Forget about wanting my MTV; there was no cable and barely any television reception so we went without.  We traded tapes until the clones lost all fidelity.  We taped pennies to the stylus to hold the groove. 

Today my vinyl sits in the attic, waiting for me to gather up the components needed to reassemble an analog stereo system with those huge, Boston Acoustics speakers from my parent's living room that now sit mute and unconnected.  I bought my last vinyl recording in 1989 - a used one at that from Plastic Fantastic Records store, that one-time music collector's mecca out on the Main Line. I'm not sure what market there is today for an original recording of Bob Weir's solo album Face, but I have it upstairs, along with lots of other music from my youth that was old even then.

I have written before about music as touchstones of the past, reflections of the person and the place I was at the time.  If I find myself driving along, up and down the dial, and suddenly I hear "Rudie Can't Fail" or "Like a Rolling Stone" - or, God help me, "Sugar Magnolia", then I drive down other highways of the mind, back in that familiar groove when I was 12, or 16, or 20. I am still a tourist, though, an observer from the future, when the switch gets flipped and the music comes from "another times forgotten space." 

The soundtrack of my life today is much harder to pin down.  The source material is different, for one thing, and my environment is not rich in new sound.  I am singing more, though, as often as not around a reenactor's campfire -  "Give me the punch ladle, I'll fathom the bowl" - and sometimes lyrics of my own devising.  You won't be hearing any of these on the radio, though they sometimes find their way onto Youtube.

I still love a righteous groove, plenty of bottom, and hot horn hits.  I'm partial to songs that last more than 3 minutes.  In this age of earbuds and bowling alone, sometimes I want to lift the sash and let some mighty music off the leash.  Perhaps on the first warm day of Spring, when all these pupating houses disgorge their blinking butterflies, I'll find what is hip in the old vinyl stacks.

 

My Year in Reenacting: 2011

When I knew for certain back in the fall of 2009 that my marriage was not going to continue, I started to ask myself questions about what I wanted in my uncertain future.  I knew I needed friends, and something to do I was passionate about.  I thought it might be time to get back into reenacting, since it had been nearly three decades since my brief stint as a Northern Confederate.  My interest in family history and the Revolutionary War period, not to mention a connection made through this blog to a fellow student of history who was also a reenactor, made joining the 1st New Jersey (Continental Line) a potential good fit, and early this year I started to pull together my kit and delve in to this new hobby.

It has exceeded my every expectation.  The dedication of my fellow living historians, the comraderie and welcome I received has been a true pleasure to experience.  An unexpected bonus is the willingness of my new partner to find a way to be involved in this hobby on terms that work for her and allow us to participate as fully as we wish.

From Training Day in early April at Washington's Crossing (in ill-made breeches) to the 9 1/2 mile march we made from there to Trenton just yesterday, I certainly jumped in with both feet this year.  Among the many highlights were singing at Wyoming (and the songs and broadsheets that came after); getting to know some of our honored adversaries in the 35th Regt of Foote, especially its sometimes batman;  the crab feast at Mt. Harmon that made up for the theft of the King's sausages; Hut weekend at Jockey Hollow and the chance to live and work as the Continentals did (in much better weather), cooking brisket for our comrades at Cold Spring; rowing the Battoe Moon by moonlight; Constant Belcher (that fraud!); and the footsore march to Trenton. 

I also enjoyed the chance to stand guard at Mt. Harmon, the large-scale engagements at the full Line events, and finding opportunities to enage with the public.  I'm looking forward to finding ways to do more of that in camp next year, and give them as good an experience there as we try to do on the field.

I truly appreciate the wonderful craftsmanship and service provided by many sutlers in this hobby.  Special props to Mona Hubardtt who knits the finest linen and wool stockings available, J. J. for the excellent and affordable regimental coat; Charlie of Charlie's Boatworks in Frenchboro, ME for collaborating on the wonderful soldier's box; David Hannon of Minuteman Armoury; Pete and Wendy from Middlesex Village Trading Company; James Moore of 18th Century Bibles for their superior offerings; and Ted and Sue Huesken of Rancocas Merchant along with our own 1st NJ.  You do a tremendous service to our hobby and appreciation of the material culture of this period and we could not do it without people like you.

To Larry, and David, and William, and Marie, and Tom, and Heather; and George, and Scott, and Paul, Thad; and Talya; and especially all my good friends in the 1st and 2nd Jersey; I raise my tricorn in a Happy New Year's "Huzzah!"  I'll see you in the field come Spring, if not before.

The Year That Was (2011)

Now We Are Six: What's That in Blog Years?

Walking the Berkshires reached its 6th Blogiversary today.  While we are not what we once were (and who is), there is still some of the old fire and new fuel for the imagination.  Facebook continues to siphon off the short and social stuff and drive traffic back to the occasional pieces that still grace these pages.  The local newspaper gets the science and nature writing that was the original inspiration for WTB.  Much of what remains is dedicated to my living history passions and research into the American Revolution. 

As a good archivist, I am starting to think about the future of this blog, ensuring that the 1342 posts that continue to attract an average of 278 daily page views (545,000 lifetime) with very infrequent posting remain accessible when the time eventually comes, as come it must, to draw the curtain. 

We are not through yet, though, and there is more to say and share.  To you who have been my friends and readers during all or part of these past six years, I remain eternally grateful.

Love Finds a Way

Viv and I did the hardest work of our adult lives to carefully uncouple our marriage while preserving our family and our hopes for happier times, and I had reason to expect joy. My two greatest fears about divorce - fears that kept me from facing the possibility well before we took steps to end that  marriage - were crippling debt and losing close connection with my children.  Neither of these outcomes was inevitable, and today I am able to maintain my household and be an engaged and full parent with my children.  Under our joint parenting arrangement they move weekly between two homes just a few blocks apart, and know they have two loving parents, and always will. 

I had another fear, or more accurately, a resignation, that having lost romantic love I would no longer feel or find it with another.   Our relationship endured for nearly twenty years as a couple, and fifteen of them as husband and wife.  I looked forward to finding out what I wanted in my personal life outside my chosen roles as father and provider, but did not expect to find intimacy and joy with a strong, intelligent and caring partner anytime soon, if at all. 

This was a case of my head trying to rule my heart, and even as strong minded as I can be (not to mention headstrong), there was never a question of which was the stronger force.  I am still an impulsive, hopeful romantic.  The heart, even a broken one, trumps the mind with me every time.  It's just that the heart does not always see with clear eyes, though it when it does there is piercing clarity.

While we were still living in the same house, waiting for the necessary parts of our lives to fall into place that would allow us to accomplish under law what had already happened in fact, my former partner and I discussed how this arrangement made it difficult for either of us to move forward in our emotional lives.  I was encouraged to date if I wished, but keep any relationships outside the home and the awareness of our children until we had managed to move into separate households and finalize the divorce.  I considered this a highly unlikely scenario, imagining that a conversation in some local bar in which I revealed both my attraction and the fact that I was still married and living with my estranged wife would be a non-starter for anything approaching a meaningful relationship.  I was lonely, and longed for a loving partnership, but I did not know if this might still be possible for me, or where, or when.

And then the stars aligned, and by a wondrous series of coincidences, love found a way.  Our story is a great one, the stuff of romantic comedy and of good things happening to good people, and the arc of the story is still unfolding.   We met over a year ago when my life was still in Limbo and hers was likewise one of translocation and new direction. 

You might say we met through the Internet, for she had found my blog by happenstance and had been a quiet admirer of my writing for years.  You might say we met through mutual friends, for this is certainly true, although we were not, strictly speaking, set up with each other.  We did not meet at College, though we have many friends there in common, as my time at Haverford did not quite overlap with hers that followed at Bryn Mawr.

We met when I drove to Philadelphia at the end of May, 2010 to attend my 20th reunion.  She was staying in Philly with the family of my dear college friend, Janet, and I knew of her only as their "house guest" Talya, who had been BMC Class of '94 and was staying with them while she finished writing her PhD for an Autumn defence. Talya says that she came back the US after seven years studying at Newcastle University in northern England with the stated goals to find "a job, an apartment, a boyfriend and a cat", although not necessarily in that order.  As things worked out, the cat was last, the boyfriend first.

I had actually been asked by Jan a month or so prior whether another of our classmates might be suitable for Talya, but this was before I had made my plans for divorce public, and there was no mention of such matchmaking thereafter.

I drove to Haverford that weekend hoping that among people from a place where I once thrived I might meet someone who was in a similar place in their lives and where there might be a spark.  I knew I would meet Talya at Janet's  house and had been told she was a fan of Walking the Berkshires and was excited to meet me, which my friend considered "adorable". 

Even I, with my wounded heart, recognized the potential in that description, but I knew nothing more about Talya except that as a BMC alumna she might like to go to the step sing at Bryn Mawr that evening.  So I extended that invitation via an email to Janet and drove to my reunion open to possibilities.

I can still remember how it felt when I walked into that home in the Northern Liberties, hugged Janet and her family, and turned to be introduced to Talya.  It was one of those transformational moments when everything comes into clear focus and nothing afterward is going to be the same.  I saw her, had a crystalline sense of immediate recognition, felt my heart leap as it had not done since my children were born, and told myself; "Don't blow this."

From that spark came joy, and close companionship that has survived the long process of my getting divorced and beyond.  It has endured over long distances, relocation for her first to an unfamiliar and uncomfortable city, and now our living together in Northwest Connecticut as the next phases of our individual and shared lives take form. 

I was open from the start with my former partner about this new love, and today my children love their mother and Talya for who they are in themselves, not one or the other as substitutes for the innocence they lost.  Viv and Talya and I are planning a South African-style braai in the coming weeks to make introductions, rather than having them meet up unexpectedly in the supermarket in our small town.  There is understandable awkwardness, but there are hopeful signs.  You know you all are all doing something right when your ex-wife is happy to look after your girlfriend's cat when the two of you are away on vacation.

It is not simple, but then life seldom is, and ours is a partnership of intellectually curious and sensitive hearts and minds that is strong and sustaining.  My eyes are open, and so is my heart. I can risk love and commitment.  And now you know the reason why. 

Living on Sugar Mountain

We have been enjoying a remarkable stretch of fine summer weather here in the Litchfield Hills.  True, there has been some rain, and in general the season has been wetter and cooler than usual, but for all that there have been a number of brilliant blue skies with low humidity and a fresh wind.  The temperatures have stayed in the comfortable 80s and high 70s during the daylight hours, with cool evenings ideal for sleeping.

Nonetheless today I hear the drone of the first cicada, a harbinger of the advancing season if ever there were one.  My vegetable garden is in that transitional stage where the early greens and herbs have bolted but the beans, squash and tomatoes have yet to ripen.  The wild blackcaps are in season now, if one knows where to find a sufficiency without undue risk from poison ivy, and the cultivated red raspberries in my yard are more productive than in other years.  My thoughts turn to pie, and vanilla ice cream smothered in berries, and cool drinks in the evening shade.

I am also considering which of my potential summer projects I will actually tackle this year.  Will I get the oft-threatened dumpster and cart away the accumulated dross and bulky waste produced over a decade in residence, or will I sharpen my chainsaw and drop the sickly butternut and carve another totem pole?  Is this the year when I will take the well seasoned ceder posts and make a pentagonal rondavel complete with phragmites thatch?  Will I muster the energy and enthusiasm required for any of these ventures, or will I be content to trim the verge, weed around the edges, and acknowledge that I am still weary from the long journey to life after divorce?  Despite my genetic predisposition and familial conditioning to bustle, there is something to be said for simply taking one's ease.  For that, there is fresh mint for iced tea, and the occasional key lime mojito.

Today my children will come over from their mother's for the afternoon so that the three of us can go to the local carnival.  They have an African Elephant to ride and the usual carni amusements, and there is a model train display in the partially restored Union Train Station.  It is a fine day for cotton candy and colored balloons.

 

Blink

Tonight I will watch for fireflies by the garden gate. The field grass and wild apple branches will be thick with rising mist as daylight fades.  I will stand with my children and together we will trace those meandering lights in their hundreds out in the meadow. 

In the procession of the season, fireflies and mountain laurel blossoms are among June's finest offerings.  They follow the ephemeral glory of the woodland wildflowers and anticipate the wild berries of early summer. The laurel will blush and bloom for a couple stunning weeks in June, and the fireflies will linger on until the mower lays the tall grass down. 

My children count the days until Summer vacation - almost to the hour -  but I mark the passage of time by the growth and change that is going on all around us.  I see the Orioles weaving their nests in the oak tree, and snapping turtles hauling their ponderous forms out of the swamps to lay their eggs.  I see the starter plants in my vegetable garden rapidly filling in what always feels at the outset like ample space between them. 

This will be the year when Elias learns to be a stronger swimmer, and dares remove the training wheels from his bicycle.  This will be the summer when Emily brings a friend (and a boyfriend, no less), to Windrock for the weekend.  The day is coming soon when I will shave my beard and mustache and put on wool and linen to participate in the annual reenactment of the Revolutionary War battle of Monmouth Court House.  

I want to run my hands over the tops of the grass, already wet with dew.  I want to watch my wide-eyed children gently cup a firefly, and wander in the mountains when the laurel is in bloom.  I do not want to miss any of this. You have to seek these timed moments of grace and wonder.  The great wheel is always turning while it carries us forward.

Cooler Heads Prevail

I am a good negotiator.  I understand the relationship between the value we place and the values we hold. I know that intangibles matter, and that there are no bank vaults in heaven. I know that it is rarely if ever the case in my personal or professional negotiations that it comes down to destroying the village in order to save it. I can walk away without burning all my bridges.

My father has a remarkable ability to turn vocal adversaries into staunch allies.  Once, when he was a young headmaster at a struggling boarding school where our family roots go deep, he promoted one of his harshest critics to a position of leadership that grew to a close partnership.  He saw something in this individual that was keeping him from reaching his potential and turned a potential threat into an opportunity.  It does not always work out this way, but when it does the results can be astounding.  Abraham Lincoln did something similar with his cabinet, and in many cases won the admiration and effective partnership of his former opponents.

I am not, by inclination, a cutthroat player of zero sum games.  I do not consider negotiation a game at all.  It is often possible to get an excellent deal that benefits more than one party.  It is sometimes possible to get an acceptable deal that improves with age if tended with care. 

Especially in land protection transactions, the best outcomes take both patience and clarity of communication to achieve.  At the end of the day, the conservation organization has more leverage than it might appear to a small nonprofit staffed by volunteers as it negotiates with high net worth individuals who are used to corporate business transactions.  Saving land, especially family land, is a different animal than mergers and acquisitions, and takes a different sensitivity to qualitative values than simply determining the appraised value of real estate.

Negotiations in my personal relationships are most satisfying when I end up feeling good about my motivation for generosity.  There was a time in my life when I found it very hard to say no.  Now I am more concerned with when and how to say it.  If I have an Achilles Heel, it is that I would prefer to be liked than to get what I want by being difficult.  I am quick to accept responsibility for my own mistakes, and am getting better at discerning which are mine to own and which belong to another.  I have a temper, and work hard to suppress it. I have learned how to give criticism and express displeasure effectively in some conflict situations and am still learning in others.  I do not chew out ineffective or unhelpful people, but neither do I choose to continue to do business with them.

Wendell Berry in The Mad Farmer's Manifesto challenges us to "Love someone who does not deserve it."  I would recast this injunction as embracing opportunities to be generous when there is no obligation or expectation that we would do so.  Goodwill often stills the troubled water.  My grandmother used to speak about unkind silences, those missed opportunities to praise and acknowledge, and I find that with anything less than mortal adversaries, this can lead to better relations.

I say all this as someone who is preparing to walk into court tomorrow morning and finalize a divorce from my partner of nearly 20 years (15 of them as husband and wife).  I see this not as a failure but as an investment in the future of our family.  There is hurt and resentment, certainly, and doubt and pain, but there is also quietness and clear-eyed confidence.  Some doors are closed, new windows are opened, and the bridges that remain are maintained by us both and are crossed by the children we cherish.  It is an acceptable outcome, the best of all workable options, and has the potential to improve with age.