A Glorious New Day

This morning, the air feels cleaner, the birds sing sweeter, the sunrise ushers in a day of serendipitous possibilities...all because last night, just before midnight, Gotham was vanquished.

The Boston Red Sox followed up their ecstatic game three 16-1 thrashing of the forces of evil, with a 4-3 victory to win the series. The fact that this two game ass-kicking took place in Yankee Stadium, that hideous concrete and steel knockoff moneygrab ie..The House That Greed Built...makes it even sweeter. Watching 49,000 entitled, pompously obnoxious Yankee fans slouching out, crestfallen, back into the five boroughs from which they had crawled, was a moment of delicious schadenfreude. I can only hope that George Steinbrenner’s hot corner suite in hell has a TV. Wouldn’t have wanted for him to miss it.

As soon as the Houston Astros won the World Series last year, the baseball press began the drumbeat about how dominate the Yankees were going to be in 2018. Once Giancarlo Stanton was signed, ESPN began their drooling, fawning coverage of these new, kinder, gentler Baby Bombers. Why, between Stanton and Judge, they might combine for 150 homeruns!! Instead, Stanton stuck out over 200 times, and had Judge not missed 50 games with an injury, he would have struck out even more than Stanton. Something went awry on the way to the coronation. So now, ESPN’s dreams lie in ashes, the Steinbrenner spawn have been sent back to the drawing board, and John Sterling is left trying to figure out a new insipid homerun call for Giancarlo that doesn’t rhyme with choke.

For me, the remainder of the baseball post season will be a delight, now that the evil empire has been defeated. I can sit back and watch the games, marveling at the masterful pitching, the clutch hitting and brilliant defense that will be on display. I will be rooting for the Sox, naturally, but even if they lose, I will still rejoice until the final out of the year, no matter who wins. Because the Yankees are gone, a rapturous feeling has returned to October baseball, not unlike the palpable relief that fills the house when a baby’s fever breaks, or the joy that comes after grandma miraculously recovers from a long illness. Watching the transmission of the Yankee team bus fall onto the interstate has to be close to how the beleaguered pioneers out west felt when they saw the cavalry come over the hill rescuing them from marauding Sioux warriors. The Bastards of Bastone couldn’t possibly have felt a greater sense of relief upon hearing the first roar of Patton’s tanks than I felt last night when the umpires gave the out call after their ridiculous review of the last play of the game. Now. Finally. At long last...our children can once again play in the streets. Life is sweet again. The specter of death has been removed from the land. We have stared into the eyes of darkness and seen a new light!!

While reading this, some of you might think that this is a little over the top, a touch melodramatic, and maybe a bit overblown. If so, now you know exactly how I feel when I read your political posts on Facebook.

Foolishness

At the risk of alienating those of you who are sick and tired of my Maine posts, I have one more...although this will be my final one of 2018. It has been a magical six weeks. 

The first three weeks on Pemaquid Lake was our summer vacation. The second three weeks on Quantabacook was an impulse purchase, booked on a whim in late October of 2017, after returning from our first trip to Loon Landing. What I didn’t know at the time of this impulse was the path of destruction that life was about to cut through my finances. With each new surprise expense, I weighed my options. Should I cancel? Take the hit from the rental company? Each time, I talked my self out of it. When the bills from the wedding started pouring in, when the air conditioner had to be replaced, then the water heater, then the deluge of medical bills...I stubbornly held on to my Loon Landing reservation. It made no financial sense. It was foolish.

But sometimes, the very best experiences of life are birthed in foolishness.

As I looked through the hundreds of pictures we took, these are the ones that will stay with me:

A Walden-esk scene from our hike beside the Georges River.  

One of the 45 bass I caught on the same lure during five visits to my fishing hole at the south end of the lake.

A note I left for Pam one morning when she was out kayaking somewhere. This would never happen in Short Pump, and if it did, it would be a text.

Even in a driving rain, my wife contemplates heading out in the kayak anyway.

A schooner glides past the point of the Rockland Breakwater lighthouse.

Maybe the finest reading spot in the entire universe...the bench seat at the Camden Library.

Pam, chasing another sunset on her paddle board.

Me, returning from a fishing adventure.

Ridiculous beauty...

Our Loon buddies.

Every morning, filled with possibilities...

Every evening, comfy cozy.

So...there you have it, three weeks on Quantabacook. Now, it’s time to pay the piper. I have not only foolishly spent money I shouldn’t have, I have foolishly forfeited three money making weeks relaxing in Maine. The eight ball now casts its shadow over me. My troubles are self inflicted. But, you know what? I don’t care. My checkbook will recover. It always does, eventually. 

Foolishness is in the eye of the beholder.

Today Is The Day

The sign told us that we were entering the Gibson Preserve of the St. George River. It was open to the public, free of charge. The guide described it correctly as an easy to moderate hike of less than two miles. It was a delightful walk featuring a winding river, a Christmas tree forest, and a canopy of gorgeous fall colors. About half way in, we discovered a huge, thick, and ruggedly built bench covered with red leaves...

Take a closer look. Time has faded the message. We didn’t notice it right away, but along the top plank of the back board were carved the words...This is the day. As an added flourish, the carver took the time to make the T a medieval drop cap.

For the past three weeks, this has been our unofficial theme. This is the day...not yesterday, that’s already gone and nothing we can do will bring it back...not tomorrow, that hasn’t come yet, no sense borrowing trouble and making too many plans for a day we might never see. Today...that’s what we have, and it deserves our undivided attention. If today brings perfect weather we will have ourselves a marvelous time doing the things that perfect weather was made for. If it’s gloomy, overcast, raining and cold, we will find other ways to enjoy the day, with the understanding that even gloomy days can be redeemed by staying in the moment.

This is our last day here. The weather isn’t great. Tonight we will scurry around the place packing up so we can hit the road in the morning. If I think too much about leaving I will miss what this day has in store...and that would be a big miss.

Today is the day....

Toxic Masculinity

“There are certain things every man must know. They are, in no particular order—how to change a flat tire, do a chin-up, make scrambled eggs, do laundry, throw a punch, get down on your knees and pray, fasten the clasp of a woman’s necklace, handle a horse, change a diaper, split wood, and earn the love of a dog.”

Elizabeth Kelly, from The Miracle on Monhegen Island

When people ask me why I read so much, this is what I tell them...because, every once in a while you run across something quite beautiful, a phrase or sentence that sticks with you for a while. The fact that these sentences above were written by a woman is instructive of something, but I’m not sure what.

I’ve been hearing the term toxic masculinity a lot lately. It’s become a buzz word, a catch phrase of the media and academia. As best as I can figure out it’s meaning, toxic masculinity is short hand for everything bad about men, our tendency towards violence, brute strength and manners, but mostly our tendency for sexual aggression. It’s hard to read the news lately and not admit that there does seem to be something dreadfully wrong with us. Nevertheless, I am conflicted by this term.

When I was a boy, I learned about what being a man was from my Dad. There were no, or more accurately...few, sit down lectures on the subject. Mostly, I learned by observation, watching the way he did things. I noticed the way he spoke to my mother, always in a different voice register, with what I can only describe as tenderness. I noticed how he spoke about my mother, with respect and admiration. Even when they argued...and they did argue...my Dad always seemed restrained by some unseen thing. Mom did most of the arguing, Dad would offer only the occasional halfhearted rebuttal. It was as if he was overly aware of us kids...that we were listening. My father was a man of a different generation, and no doubt, some of his views about the proper roll of men and women in the church and the world would seem old fashioned and out of touch to modern ears. But, there was absolutely nothing toxic about him.

I was in awe of my father’s knowledge of the real world. The man literally knew how to do everything. He may have earned two advanced degrees in his time on this earth, but he never forgot the skills he learned growing up as a sharecropper’s son. Today, we call them life hacks. All I know is, if the transmission of the old Studebaker was on the fritz, Dad could fix it. He could plow a straight row in the garden with a blindfold on. He could fix a leaky faucet, perform rough and fine carpentry, do electrical repair, install drywall, drop a crow menacing his tomato plants from a hundred yards with a .22 rifle, build window fans from scratch, yet...hold the trembling hands of a grieving widow, comfort a young couple through the excruciating loss of a child, and fight back tears while holding each of his new born grandchildren. He was a product of his experiences, of back breaking manual labor as a child, of serving his country in the jungles of the South Pacific as nothing more than a teenager, and of his abiding and transformative faith.

As uncomfortable as I am with the term, toxic masculinity, it brings a ring of truth with it. When I hear the phrase, I become instantly defensive. This is not me...this is not who my brother is or who my Dad was...I know hundreds of men about whom this term would be a scandalous slur!!

But, I’m not blind. I see the news. I read the reports. I know the statistics. They cannot be denied. For a large slice of this world, men are toxic. Too many of us have confused masculinity with a twisted, brutish knockoff version, fueled by arrogant entitlement, and distorted by pornography. 

Elizabeth Kelly’s list of man-skills took me back in time. I counted off the ones I could do and smiled...(can’t handle a horse and my laundry skills leave a lot to be desired). Then I thought of my Dad. He could do them all and a whole lot more, and all without any strutting bravado. Dad’s was a silent strength. In one of his one sentence lessons to me about manhood, he would often quote scripture...Let another man praise you, and not your own mouth; a stranger and not your own lips. He assumed I would understand and expected me to learn.

Who is teaching today’s young men?

My Girl

   

 

 

This is my girl. She is adventurous, fearless, and relentless in her two-fisted pursuit of this lake.

Two minutes ago, she stood at the door gazing at the raindrops falling on the water and asked...I wonder what it would be like kayaking in the rain? 

She is crazy.

But, when she is here, she is the best version of herself. 

I can hardly keep up.

I Know...

Each morning here is a glimpse into the sublime, a fresh canvas of jaw-dropping beauty that manages to simultaneously lift your spirits while making you feel small and insignificant. As I stared at the latest sunrise, it occurred to me that this happens each and every day, whether or not I’m here to see it. An audience of one. This is eternal beauty and I see through a glass darkly. I take it all in, the grand sweep of it, and know that my redeemer lives...

Today’s Agenda

We have had two uncomfortable weather days in a row, resulting in lots of exploring. While, there’s nothing wrong with exploring, since we’ve actually seen some cool stuff and had fun, I don’t like being away from the lake all that much. Today and tomorrow are supposed to be bright and sunny, with today being the warmer of the two...upper 60’s. I intend to take full advantage. My activities will include but not be limited to the following:

Going for a run.

Continuing my assault on the bass population of Quantabacook.

Going for a swim...for the first time ever with an air temperature in the 60’s.

Kayaking to the north end of the lake...5 mile round trip.

Reading on the dock.

Taking an afternoon snoozle.

Eating a Whoopie Pie.

Having a bowl of Riverducks ice cream.

I will do all of this while trying desperately to ignore the fact that we have now entered our third and last week here.