Waiting for a Star to Fall

The ancient mariners guided themselves around the globe using little more than a sextant and the stars above.  The Greeks named many of the stars and the constellations were named, particularly those stars that make up the signs of the Zodiac.  Many of us today can spot the Big Dipper, known to the scholars as Ursa Major, but beyond that, fewer people actually know these various celestial collections.  We simply take out our hand held electronic devices and hit the maps app and viola; we are on our way.

Unfortunately, with the ever increasing problem of light pollution, seeing the stars so vividly has become even more difficult.  The glow from large cities effects us even when we are out in the country.  With the expanding population, there are more homes, and consequently, increasing numbers of street lights.  I remember my first flight to California before starting graduate school.  My parents put me on the redeye out of Boston, and on the way across, you could imagine the cities below based on the size of the radiating footprint.  As we approached the LA basin, I have this unforgettable image of this expanding sea of lights.  It overwhelmed me.  While in California, my friends and I would head out to Joshua Tree or into the mountains to camp, and the night skies there were not tainted by those city lights.  That's where the stars had center stage and would light up the night sky.

Late July into early August marks the annual Perseid meteor shower which for star gazers is one of the years "highlights".  So, if you are blessed with a clear night and are so inclined, raise your eyes to the heavens in hopes of catching one of these remarkable displays.  You won't be disappointed, and if you don't, you may have to wait for next year's "stars to fall"!  Enjoy.

FOMO

The family vacation, Rangeley week, began on Saturday, and the anticipation has been palpable for several weeks leading up to this much beloved week of fun.  For some, the week has had a delayed start because of scheduling conflicts, although if one can arrive even for a few days, the experience is worth the effort.

I received a series of text messages shortly before and after my arrival which generally is not unusual under these circumstances, but what I didn't appreciate was the lingo used to describe not being physically on site.  FOMO or the Fear of Missing Out evidently is the abbreviated text jargon for this very emotion.  Well, I am that much more informed about the texting world than ever before, after my daughter shared this generational information.

Rangeley week has been a fixture now on the summer calendar for nearly 3 decades, and it has morphed into the equivalent of SBW, Summer's Best Week, and TAFJ, That's a Fact Jack!

Hidden in the Fog

While sitting on the front deck of a my sister in law’s family camp in Maine, I was looking out over the lake which was blanketed in a dense fog.  The morning Sun was up, but its warming effects hadn’t yet taken hold to burn it off.  Having enjoyed a glorious day of weather the day before and having been here several times over the years, I knew what the landscape ought to look like, yet I couldn’t see any of it.  I heard the soft  sounds of voices echoing from the lake, presumably those of fisherman heading to their favorite sites.  The distinct hum of car and truck engines in the distance, the chirping of birds, and the many other sounds of the day all provided for the melodious background music.  

So, what does this all mean?  In many respects it reminds me of the meaning of faith.  Faith is believing in the things that you cannot see.  When the fog is thick and obscures the view, one must rely on those other senses to offset the visual impairment.  It is having complete confidence that those unseen images really exist: however, as the fog lifts, the panoramic view confirms the presence of one’s belief that there is something wonderful out there just waiting to be “scene”!  Keep the faith my friends…

Soul Searching

No doubt all of us have roots somewhere, whether it’s in our local community or from a distant shore, so naturally, there are times when we may return to those roots.  My mother’s father came from just outside St. John New Brunswick, and when she was younger growing up in Boston, she’d often take the trip to Black River with her family to visit with family and friends.  There were times when her aunts would forgo the 2-3 day car ride down east, so  instead they’d take her on the steamer out of Boston for St. John.  Once at Uncle Willy’s though, as we later referred to it, life would slow down and the days would become seemingly carefree.  It was definitely a simpler time, but the experience left one rejuvenated in many ways.

After my mother started her own family, she shared this tradition with us.  It started with my older sisters and became a regular junket for years to come.  On one occasion, I recall my father telling me that mom had taken her mother and my oldest sister to BR for a week long respite.  Well, the weather was reported to be glorious, so they were going to stay another week.  This went on for 3 weeks and finally, my grandmother and mother decided it was time to return home to Boston.  For the trouble of staying with my great uncle and aunt, both my grandmother and mother each felt compelled to give them a little something for their stay.  They did this independently of informing the other, assuming  and there would be enough between them to get home.  Well, as my father informed me, they arrived in Boston with a few bananas and 2 dollars in their pockets!  Evidently, that was the price for making the pilgrimage to a small piece of heaven on earth.

There have been many trips back to BR over the years and each one had its own uniqueness.  My mother rescued a wooden sleigh from an abandoned farm, she reclaimed barn boards to repurpose them into a lean-to at home, we had 4 flat tires on one trip traversing the gravel roads of BR, and all of this was woven into the routine of the day, eating, gathering berries, walking the landscape, including the beach, playing in the creek, or whatever suited the moment; life in Black River was decidedly less complicated.

If you asked my youngest brother what he remembers about BR, he’d be quick to tell you about one of the scariest moments of his life.  The bucket for collecting the well water had fallen off the pole and hook while fetching water; it obviously needed to be recovered from the bottom of the well.   My dear uncle came up with a plan.  He enlisted me to help hold my brother’s ankles while we lowered him into the well hole.  I was thankful that my uncle thought that my brother was the best one for this task, as none of us would ever have said no to my uncle.  In a manner of speaking, I was off the “hook” too!  As my brother recounts this story today, we laugh, but back then, it was frightening

On  my most recent trip down to Canada, we pitched camp in the front yard, as the home is no longer habitable,  and spent a few days clearing the brush that had overgrown the property.  We reminisced about our own personal memories and laughed repeatedly over some of the antics, as we likely had done so many moons ago.

As the years have passed, the trips to Black River have become few and far between.  The oldest of the nieces and nephews were introduced quite early on, and there are some who have never even seen the old homestead.  However, for those of us who have experienced this little oasis of calm in life peppered by turbulence, the old sod has been a place where you can connect to the past,  perhaps plan for the future, but clearly  it is the present, a  treasured gift to the soul!

A Saint Among Us

The calendar indicates that it is July 9, 2018.  Ordinarily, the day would come and go for many of us like so many other days do, but today I am reminded of the man I called dad.

In the days following the fourth of July, my father's health seemed to take a sudden turn for the worst.  However, given the fact the he was 93, the decline was more likely due to the end of a life well lived and an inevitability, rather than an unexpected development.  He passed away in the confines of the family home surrounded by his loved ones, a blessing to him and a gift to those he loved.

Dad, everyday since has been a day that your presence has been missed, but indeed, you have certainly not been forgotten.  When I see the cardinals at the feeder in the morning and recall your words of wisdom echo in my mind while talking to family and friends,  I am reminded of your enduring influence.  Your legacy is alive and well, and that brings a smile to my face and a tear to my eye.  Love you!

What the Fourth means to me

Every July fourth, we as Americans gather to celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence, as this marks the birth of our nation.  The founding fathers envisioned a country that was free from tyranny, allowed freedoms that weren't permitted under the rule of England, and above all, allowed us to live as free man and woman.

When all of the cookouts are over, the fireworks have dissipated into the night air, and I awaken tomorrow, I will count my blessings that I am an American.  That advanced citizenship carries advanced responsibilities too, and therein lies the goal set out by our founding fathers. 

Thus, in the words of Thomas Jefferson, as written in our declaration...We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal... We are one people with backgrounds as diverse as our land.  Let's be reminded that as one nation under God we are many people, but one united family,  Happy Fourth of July!