When and where I grew up, a person rarely heard the sound of gunfire. In fact, I can only recall a single occasion when I heard it within the county limits. My father was boarding a horse for a friend of his who was an avid hunter. One afternoon, concerned his new horse might be gun-shy, he and my father led the horse into our pasture and the friend fired his pistol into the ground. His horse just stood there, apparently unimpressed, waiting to be released so he could return to grazing. Why shoot into the ground? Well, despite the fact that terrorists are always firing automatic weapons into the air on film, in reality that's not a wise practice because what goes up will inevitably come down, including bullets.
So, that was the only time. Hunters eager for deer or elk had to go up into the mountains to find them and those who sought ducks or pheasant, to eastern Colorado. The fact is, there were laws prohibiting the discharge of firearms near populated areas which, if you think about it, is a wise practice. Every year there are stories in the news about someone mistaking a partner, cow, or dog for deer or moose. How you get a moose from a dog, beats me, but maybe at distance Snoopy looks that big. Anyway, s/he hears a rustling of leaves, the snap of a twig, they turn and squinting through the trees, spy a shadowy figure. The thrill of pursuit coupled with the release of adrenaline takes over and you can guess the rest.
When I relocated from Maine's seacoast, I was informed, "Oh, now and then, you might hear a gunshot or two," since this is fairly open country and Maine law permits shooting on private land. To put it another way, were I so inclined (which I'm not), I could sit comfortably in my lawn chair on the front patio with my father's western-style .30 caliber carbine across my lap and wait for the deer who gobbles up my apples to wander into the crosshairs. Either that, or I could purchase a shotgun on the internet for next to nothing and sneak up on the flock of turkeys that also feed freely on my apples to provide next year's Holiday meals. It would all be perfectly legal and conveniently culturally-sanctioned.
Except for that darned, interfering Super-Ego (Freud's term for moral and personal conscience) of mine. I don't generally shoot at friends unless they really, really, really, piss me off and then I prefer to throw pies at them. I'm joking (even about the pies). Truly, I am. Please, pretty please with maple sugar on it, don't call the FBI ("Honest, Agents Sculley and Mulder, it was only a literary device, you know that from the lines the two of you have to memorize, right?"). Well, while we're not exactly what you'd call "friends" -- I haven't invited him in for coffee or tea with late season apples lately -- I do like seeing Bambi wander through the hayfield, munching freely at will. I also like the turkeys, porcupine, and the other wild critters who seem to think this is their farm and they permit my presence, not the other way around. Maybe I'm softheaded in a hardhearted world, but it seems only reasonable to live in consideration of those who were here long before me and, no doubt, will continue to be once I'm gone.
Now, fair is fair and I don't want anyone to think I have something against my neighbors or anyone else who hunts, because it's not like that at all. True, I'm still not fully accustomed to being awakened on weekend mornings by what I'm convinced is an M-16 going off within walking distance of my house. If it was 1772, when this community was founded, I'd take my trusty long rifle down from over the fireplace and like any other responsible farmer, parson, or whomever with a family, head for the woods imitating Hawkeye from Last of the Mohicans. But this is 2011 and, like I say, I'd rather not shoot at friends or a reasonable facsimile thereof. As things stand, I'll wear orange as a precaution while cutting firewood or walking the dogs, that's not a problem. It's nearing January, it will all be over soon.
(Creative Commons image and Bambi and Thumper by Jaded Jeremy via Flikr)
The things that unite us are greater than those that divide us, as President Barack Obama is fond of saying. The trouble is, I sometimes have a problem believing it. People seem prone to allow everything from the petty to the profane to come between them in the name of ideological purity. But that's one of the qualities I most admire about him, he believes the best even when I'm in doubt.
For instance, take the guy in a pickup truck a couple of days ago -- there were two guys in two trucks, actually, one and then the other. Both got my attention by surprise. You see, all day I'd been encouraging patients to control their cholesterol levels by losing weight, altering their food choices, and getting regular exercise. Sure, there are medications we can prescribe for high cholesterol, but those are mostly for levels that can't be readily controlled by other means. The idea is to get busy doing the things that eliminate the need for medications later on.
On my way home, thinking about a nap, I realized I ought to be practicing what I'd been preaching, so I drove down a nice, quiet country lane, pulled off to the side, set the emergency flashers, and headed off on foot. It was chilly but I had my gloves and jacket and figured I'd work up a sweat soon enough. I'd barely gotten a couple of blocks when I was startled by a horn honking and turned around to see Pickup Truck Driver #1 slowing down and lowering his passenger side window.
"Do you need a ride? Is that your truck back there?" he asked, gesturing with a thumb hooked in the direction of my CRV.
"No, I'm just walking for exercise, but thanks for stopping to ask," I replied. He gave me a curious look, as though he wasn't sure he'd heard me correctly, or if he had, was it time to call the police and have me delivered to the local looney bin. I smiled and did my best to look like a sane, harmless tree hugger who didn't know any better than to walk when I could have easily driven. It apparently worked, because he shook his head and drove off, waving pleasantly. It really was considerate of him to stop, you know? I couldn't help feeling appreciative for small town Mainers.
About two minutes later, another truck stopped and its driver, a white-haired fellow in his 60s with a great smile, asked if the vehicle he'd seen on the side of the road back yonder was mine (sound familiar?). I said yes, and he also offered me a ride. There I was, a complete stranger, and in less time than it takes for the average commercial break on television, I'm offered assistance by two guys, neither of whom apparently gave it a second thought that I might be Jack the Ripper in Polartec. Stephen King, on the other hand, would have a field day.
What is remarkable about all of this is the fact that I've got an Obama campaign sticker displayed on my rear bumper and the second guy stopped anyway. What's remarkable about that? Well, as he drove away, I saw a sticker on his rear window that read, "Don't blame me, I voted for the American." I guess Barack was right, after all. On this country road, at least, ideology be damned. What matters isn't the flavor of your politics, but being willing to help if someone needs it.
(Photo of a dairy farm near Skowhegan, ME copyright 2011 by the author)
Image via Wikipedia
Well, I'm home for the weekend, having gotten away early, following a short day in the clinic, and I've got to say I'm enjoying this rural medicine rotation immensely. In part, I'm sure it has to do with the fact that I'm personally getting to see at least a couple of patients each day on my own before we're joined by my preceptor, and today there were three, all in a row.
I can't begin to tell you how good it feels to do this once again, after such a long dry spell. It's been four years since my little cubbyhole of an office in Denver where I sat with patients, argued with managed care, and dreamed of being a doctor. Walking into an examination room, now, and greeting someone I've never met, asking them what brings them to the clinic, is so much like coming home it's almost beyond words.
What has surprised me about the experience thus far is how much fun I'm having. Previously, my encounters with family medicine have been so-so. Not bad, but not great, either. This time, I can hardly wait to get to the office at 8.30, about the time the nurse-receptionist-office manager-cheer leader in residence and anything else you want to call her, arrives. She's got a wry sense of humor that is wonderful and she knows medicine inside-out. I told her today that when her boss retires, she may as well forget about retiring herself, because I'm hiring her next.
By nine, my preceptor arrives, and the first patient shortly thereafter. If we having breathing room, we'll see this one together. If it's like this morning, the nurse has one lined up for both of us and I'm in heaven. Thirty minutes later, I report to him what I've found and we round on the patient together. There is always a teaching moment somewhere in the mix and I'm amazed at how much he knows and how much I'm learning. And this has only been the first week.
I'm glad to be home, to have a chance to walk my dog and cuddle with the cat, to clear the fresh snow away from the barn and dig out my mailbox that's buried forty inches deep with more snow on the way. But you know? I honestly can hardly wait for Monday to come. I'm seeing diseases I've only read about the past few years, evaluating patients with a growing confidence, and learning about medicine in a way that makes me wish I could scan my preceptor and his nurse into my iphone and carry them with me right through residency. He's a real country doctor and I'm a country boy who's having the time of his life.
(Pubic Domain image via Wikipedia)
It's funny, the things that go through your mind, Chuck thought. He and his dog, Chester, were still catching their breath, having nearly been knocked to the ground by a classic Pontiac GTO convertible racing by in complete neglect of the speed limit. Country roads near his home were narrow, most qualifing for the name "road" in name only. More like glorified dirt tracks, they were paved over remnants of an era when rapid transit meant a fast horse.
The houses told the tale. White clapboard and brick, many with attached barns, double doors wide open to the breeze, tractors peaking from the shadows. Signs marking 25 mph looked as out of date as the traffic they were once supposed to regulate, except on days like this when there wasn't a cop in sight and taking a walk meant taking your life in your hands.
Driving like a bat out of hell was an understatement. It seemed the car barely slowed before rounding a left-leaning uphill curve, but as it did, a passenger heaved a large, black plastic bag off the side. "The dump is on the other side of town," Chuck shouted angrily, and of course, the car was gone before his words could catch up. "A problem my physics professor would have loved," he said to no one in particular.
A few minutes later, the two were standing near the same spot, perpendicular to a small, grassy, rapidly-sloping space between the trees that ended in a perilous 30 foot straight drop into the river. Had it rolled a little further, he mused, whatever's in that bag would be on its way to the ocean, no doubt what they intended. In fact, it was snagged by the exposed root of a white pine that looked large enough to have been a sapling during the Civil War.
"I guess we ought to do something," he said to his dog, who smiled in assent, "but I think it's too steep to handle together. You stay here and I'll be right back." Be right back was their signal for dog guard duty and Chester took his seriously, watching intently as Chuck cautiously worked his way to the bag, wishing he was wearing hiking boots instead of cross-trainers.
Though far from full, the bag was heavy enough he was surprised it hadn't exploded on contact with the ground, chaotically scattering its contents every which-way. Chuck scrambled back up the slope with more care, not wishing to slip and find himself imitating Greg Louganis on a Sunday afternoon sans Speedo, falling headfirst to the river below.
Back on the road shoulder, Chester greeted him with happy licks as he wiped sweat and congratulated myself on being heroic, even if a little foolhardy. It was the same kind of thing he'd have done as a teenager, but back then the idea of falling would have triggered an adrenaline rush. It still did, but it was also coupled with the vision of his medical career coming to an abrupt and unpredicted close. "They were in an awfully big hurry to get rid of this, weren't they? I wonder why...shall we see what we've got? You know the saying, one man's trash is another's treasure."
The bag had built-in tie handles, but they must have been done in haste, because the knot unraveled quickly. At first he only saw dirty, soaked wads of paper towels and what looked like bloody rags. Before Chuck could stop him, Chester stuck his nose into the mass and in the confusion of trying to extract him from the bag, the trash shifted and Chuck saw a foot. A human foot about an inch or so long. His pulse rate racing upwards as rapidly as the escaping GTO, he dug deeper and found another, then two more, attached in pairs to infants with their umbilical cords dangling.
"Thank you, Lord," he said, grateful that somewhere out of the jumble of medical school minutiae, the basics of his advanced life-saving course surfaced. He called 911 on his cell, then held sunglasses to each face to check for breathing, felt for a pulse, and stripped off his T-shirt to wrap the twins the best he could and holding them to his chest until help arrived. Afterward, Chuck said he wasn't sure whose guardian angel whispered in his ear, but Chester leaned gently against the newborns and together, the two formed a neonatal sandwich there on the side of the road.
The ambulance and local police arrived, took his report, packed up the neonates -- both girls Chuck realized when he had calmed down long enough to look -- and headed off to Portland and Maine Medical Center. He visited them in the hospital the next day while Chester, sadly, remained in the car. He did receive a visit from one of the nurses, though, herself a dog owner who happened to have a Milk Bone in her car. It wasn't exactly a medal, but Chester didn't seem picky. The GTO was stolen, naturally, and found abandoned a few days later with no sign of its occupants. The treasure in the trash, as Chuck called them in a moment of irony, were another matter.
(Creative Commons image of Maine barn by HuTDog83 via Flickr)
If I was Doc Hollywood, this could be Grady. It certainly felt like it today. Sometime in 1772, someone decided this part of Maine looked like home and that's when my town, loosely so-called, was born. Although it's mostly farming country now, years ago there was a mill located on the river bordering my hayfield, and old photographs depict loggers riding islands of timber like acrobats in Cirque du Soleil.
For two days each July, you can wander the grounds of a national historical site (photo), a mansion built in 1805, watch frog jumping and ladies' pan toss contests (the latter has to be like an egg toss only more risky), and munch cotton candy. Everyone from the Boy Scouts to local politicians and craftsmen/women set up tables, announcing to the world, here we are -- right here -- you can find our coordinates on your GPS. Making new friends is as easy as extending your hand.
Saturday morning there is a parade replete with marching band, antique cars, and a local hobbyist pulling a flat-bed trailer with a gigantic miniature railroad set up on its surface. The Masons or Elks, I never got which, drove a series of go-carts, each one dressed up like a life-sized 18 wheeler, and a group of lovely young ladies clad in wedding dresses walked along behind them. Being the equivalent of the Village Idiot, I chose this morning to drive to the veterinarian's, only to find myself weaving in and out of the parade as it gathered -- the cop who brought up the rear thought my foolishness more worthy of a laugh than a ticket. Such are the people here.
In the fall, county fairs spring up all over Maine, reminding you that this portion of New England is rural. We may have cities on the coast and ski resorts in the mountains, but in between are a collection of communities that dot the field and forested landscape like freckles on a kid's face. Tonight, for those so inclined, there will be a bean supper with fireworks afterward. I'm passing on the meal, no pun intended, but the fireworks are tempting.
This is a small town afternoon and small town life at its best. Uncomplicated, straightforward, no nonsense, and no posturing. Accept us as we are and we'll do likewise. Children taking pony rides, mom and dad taking pictures, grandparents taking their time, sitting in the shade. And tonight, there will be fireworks. Can it get any better than this?
(Photo by the author, copyright 2010)
My dog's horoscope suggested he structure his time today. I'm not kidding. Now, it's true I haven't looked at his Paw Pilot calender lately, so this might be good advice, but I try not to intrude. It's his business (no pun intended) and we all need respect. Still, one wouldn't want to tempt the stars, would one?
Now, admittedly, there's a bit of a problem with this forecast -- I'm not entirely certain of his birth date. When I adopted him, it was assumed he was born in early January, a Capricorn according to those in the know. But he could just as well be an Aquarius, in which case he's predicted to learn something new about himself today. My dog as Mr. Introspective -- who would ever have guessed?
Then again (pardon my indecision here) he might be a Sagittarius and he should restrain his natural inclination to be involved in everything all at once. Cultivate the inner therapist, observe, scratch your whiskers and when your person offers you a cookie, ask, "And how do you feel about that?"
It's really too bad he wasn't born in October because Libra fits him perfectly: "You have no interest in being intellectual; you're all about feelings." That's absolutely spot on. Don't get me wrong, this is not to say he's, ahem, a bone head, but given a choice I think he'd prefer Dogs are from Mars, Cats are from Venus to The Journal of Cat Communication. He's just not that into academics.
He is a Puppy School graduate, though, and has a diploma to prove it. And he does have his Paw Pilot, but you can bet your life I'm not getting him a phone application for it, at least not until he can pay the monthly bill himself. You've got to draw the line somewhere.
(Image via Wikipedia)
It must be the heat, the heat and humidity. I feel like I screwed my head on crooked this morning and haven't been able to think straight since. It reminds me of Texas, actually (the weather, that is), and in more ways than one. We had tornado warnings tonight in South Central Maine. The good thing is, we have basements, but they're not usually meant for hiding, or at least not from the weather.
I suspect it's global warming, or perhaps El Nino or La Nina -- whatever the weather people are naming climate fluctuations this week. In any case, we're not exactly accustomed to the idea of funnel clouds. Thunderstorms, absolutely, but trees uprooted, roofs torn from houses, that kind of thing is supposed to happen somewhere else. Oh, and there were 12,000 lightening strikes in about an hour, too, thrown in for good measure.
Looks like Mother Nature got things a little screwy, too. But we'll adapt because this is Maine, the home of what my late aunt loved to call "that stern and rocky coast." Where hardy people struggle with the elements and winter seems like the longest season of the year.
There's a silver cloud to this lining: next Friday we'll see lows in the 40s. Brewers have released seasonal pumpkin ales, the apples are falling from the tree alongside the house, and I see glimpses of yellow among the mass of green leaves in the forest. All we have to do is get through the last gasp of summer. If only it didn't have such hot breath.
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I felt it shelter to speak to you. ~Emily Dickinson
I don't know to whom Emily was referring, but I know what she meant. You've been running through a rain, the drops getting larger, falling heavier, falling faster. The sky overhead is darkening quickly, the wind picking up and the trees twisting almost down to their roots with the force of it. You run faster, trying to outpace the p
ursuing storm, and suddenly, you see a shadow, you can barely see it because the rain keeps striking your face and you have to wipe it away. Closer, your hopes rise. Yes, it's a roof. Yes, there's a door. Yes, it's shelter. You rush inside, you're safe.
Not everyone can do this. There are those whose demeanor is as turbulent as the storm, whose interior is as fragmented as a marble dropped in boiling water and then placed in a glass of cold. The fracture lines form a beautiful crystalline lattice but when struck by another marble, it shatters like a wet plate slipping from your hands and striking the floor. In constant need, they can neither protect themselves nor another.
There are those who, like the house built with straw or sticks, can endure the sun but not the sunami. When the wolf howls the foundations shake. There is no basement deep enough in which to hide and like its owner, you fly for your life out the back door.
Then there's Emily's. The ones whose pillars go deep into bedrock, who've endured God knows what and God knows how, but they have. The ones who shed security like autumn leaves, who make you feel wrapped as though by the wings of an archangel, who seem solid because they are and now you are as well. The ones to whom we speak and it feels like something more than shelter.
It feels like home.
(Image of Hurricane Emily 2005 via )
It seems a little early for this and awfully incongruous -- I mean, it's supposed to get into the mid-80s today -- but I smelled autumn in the air this morning. It was 59 degrees and there was an unmistakable scent of change on the wind. I love how that occurs. One morning it's summer, then sometime during the night, autumn sneaks up and you're left shaking your head, wondering what happened.
I passed a Locust tree yesterday that was nearly completely yellow. Surrounded by green leaved oak, maple, and poplars, I imagined their comments went something like, "There she goes again, making a fashion statement. Well, I suppo
se she has to do something to make up for having been named after a bug." Sigh. Trees, you know?
Well, it turns out the dames in the wood might know far more than I imagined. According to one story, the Locust (photo) was given its name by Jesuit missionaries who fancied it was the tree that sustained John the Baptist in the wilderness. The problem is, it's only native to North America, so maybe they were just being tacky after all. Who knows?
I suppose someone has to take the lead, though, if anything's going to change. Stick their neck out, take a risk, maybe look a little silly to the rest of us. It's hard being the only one standing while everyone else is sitting down, muttering, "What's wrong with her?" Sooner or later though, if she stands her ground, it becomes contagious and the next thing you know, the rest of the forest will join her. Then she can smile and quietly think to herself, "But it was my idea first."
(
The great comic actor, Charlie Chaplin, once said, "In the end, everything is a gag." I suspect he was referring to the process he went through in making a film, but truthfully, I really don't know for sure. Nevertheless, it makes me think about comments I've heard, i.e. what if life is really one big joke? All I can say to that is, I hope not.
This is not to say I'm Mr. Humorless. It's just that there are so many things that are light years from funny. I'm thinking, for example, of a four year old boy who crowded between me and the scones yesterday at Whole Foods. He was being a "helper" as he opened the glass door to the pastries for his mother. The little guy was so serious and I appreciated his mother taking him seriously. It's easy to inadvertently trivialize the acts of childhood when, to the child, they are anything but "cute." It made me think of the commercial, "for everything else there's MasterCard," but this is priceless.
And then, there's the mid-morning sun trying to wend its way through the clouds and light rain. What was a mass of green grass and forest ten minutes ago out my window is now a collage of tones that, to my red-green color blind eyes, looks like a prospector's pan full of gleaming sand scattered with flecks of gold.
I'm streaming Colorado Public Radio this morning (www.cpr.org), specifically, KVOD. At the moment, they're playing a Bach or Handel contata with brass accompaniment. It's the kind of piece that makes you think the composer must have stood at a window gazing at heaven and then tried with all his might to translate the vision into music.
I suspect when someone calls life a joke, they're referring to the helplessness they feel in the face of the magnitude of suffering with which we all are confronted. As if some cosmic comedian tossed this mess together like a salad and then stood back to watch us wallow in the oil and vinegar. I can see how someone might feel that way, but I always come back to things that are so joyful, so intensely hopeful, so very real, and I realize there are some things that are simply too good to be a joke.
You know it's spring in Maine when the apple blossoms start to appear. I guess their alarm clock went off last night because the ancient apple tree next to the house was brown yesterday and it's dappled white today. I expect it will be in full bloom by Saturday and it should be a sight to behold.
I've never had apple trees though I dreamed of them as a kid. There are trees in this part of the country, or so I'm told, that were planted by the legendary Johnny Appleseed. I don't know if this is one or not, but it's a nice little tidbit of Americana.
The interesting thing about the apples produced by this tree is, at first they just taste lousy -- or at least to me. Now, I admit, I'm a Gala fan and I like the Jonagolds, but once we get a good freeze something happens and these ancients turn into something incredible. I guess they're late season apples but whatever the reason, it's worth waiting for them to ripen.
Spring up here is also a time when the wild turkeys reappear. You can see the males out in the hayfield, showing off their plumage. The other day I watched one walking rather stately near a group of hens who seemed more interested in lunch. I imagined the conversation going something like, "There's Earl again...males!"
There was also a lone coyote trotting across the pasture yesterday. It was the first time I'd seen one here though you can often hear them late into the night. He, or she, was an unexpected treat.
Springtime on the farm in Maine. Makes me feel like Thoreau.
(Creative Commons image of Johnny Appleseed by Swadifari via Flickr)
It is a rainy day in Southern Maine. Not that this is a bad thing; it's a good thing, actually, because the fire danger has been pretty high lately. But it also means the poison ivy along the edges of the road is getting more than its share of nourishment. I've decided to declare war on the poison ivy this year and next week's sun will signal D-Day.
It's nothing personal; I don't have a history of itchy-scratchy sleepless nights because of a chance encounter with the weed. It's more a matter of boundaries. I'm willing to let it keep the deep forest -- I'm only interested in the roadside and a path into the trees. I'm not asking for everything, just a little safer bit of something. That's fair, isn't it?
I would have been willing to use detante, but that means dialogue and the poison ivy hasn't been responsive when I've broached the subject of a shared living space. It just sits there and stares back at me: the old silent treatment. I even offered it a deal: I don't kill you and you don't infect me. The silent treatment once again.
Really, it's my dog's fault (when in doubt, blame someone else!). When we walk, he likes to do his business off the side of the road. Now, we could just walk around the house, around and around and around until he's done what he needs to do and then head off down the middle of the road. But try explaining that to him. The road doesn't smell like other dogs; there's no D-Mail to check. Blacktop is boring.
So, you see, I'm at the end of my options. Like it or not, it's time for "General Patton" to draw his ivory-handled spray gun and go to work. It's not going to be pretty; I may miss a few but I'll get the majority. Who knows? Maybe the survivors will pass the word and next year will be different. Now, who am I kidding?
I saw something extraordinary this morning. While taking the dog out for his morning "constitutional," we walked down our country lane that is lined with forest on both sides. The sun was shining through the trees and yesterday's fresh snow was falling in cascades from the tree tops some thirty or forty feet above. As it fell, it caught the sunlight and looked like columns of snow flakes and in some cases, there were shadows reflected onto the falling snow so it looked like a gentle spiral winding to the ground.
I ran back to the house, got my camera, and if any photos come out, I'll post one or two for you to see. It was quite incredible, standing there as snow fell, sometimes in small clumps as though the trees were throwing snowballs. You just never know what you're going to see -- what we often fail to see because we're too preoccupied. Perhaps today you could take a moment to see and be surprised.
The comic, "Mutts" depicts a cat sitting in an easy chair with the television remote and he comments, "I finally get the remote and there's nothing on." It's easy to identify with this frustrated feline because, despite the promise of channel proliferation, cable television often fails to live up to expectations. Talk about life imitating art.
But there's more to this scene than the obvious truth. It depicts the fear that can keep a person's feet in cement overshoes, figuratively speaking. "What if I put all my efforts into ________ (you fill in the blank) and then have nothing to show for it? What if I get to the end of the road only to find it's a dead end?" Probably everyone who has gone after a dream has heard this from someone.
There was a person in my deep dark past (why is the past always deep and dark?) who used to say, "Better take what you can get because you might not get what you want." I believed that for many years until one day I realized, if you take what you can get, you may become so preoccupied with it that you never recognize what you want when it comes along.
In the wonderful film, Treasure Planet, the character of pirate Long John Silver says, "You give up a lot, chasin' a dream." For him, it meant a foot, arm, and an eye. The other side of it is, you gain a lot, too. And in his case, it was redemption. Maybe that's what waits for everyone at the end of the rainbow: a chance to redeem the past by valuing something greater than ourselves. I don't know for sure: I'm musing this morning. But I love redemption stories because they reinforce my belief that hope should be nurtured, not taken away.
I live near the end of a dead end street and I marvel at the cars that pass in the summer with the apparent expectation that the road goes somewhere, after all. People drive by and a few moments later, drive past again, going the other way. I've jokingly said we ought to put up a sign that reads, "Dead End: Did You Think We Were Kidding?" But it's not really a dead end. It takes you to my house and two others beyond. For those who live there, the road leads home.
Maybe that's the point of taking the path that seems daring or even dangerous to the risk-avoidant. They only see the potential "dead end" sign, but for those who see things differently, the path of a dream leads to that one best place in all the universe: it leads home.
My apologies for not writing the past few days -- one of the liabilities of being a student, there are such things as exams and I find the older I get, the more intent I am on passing them. As a result, some things go by the wayside during the days before an exam. Nothing important really: eating, sleeping, bathing, or truly listening to my wife when she's talking to me instead of thinking about how to tell angina from a heart attack by an electrocardiogram. Life as usual, right?
Anyway, that's my excuse, for better or worse, but it's the truth in any case. As it turns out, though, I'm taking a moment to write today because exams have been postponed due to an impending snow storm. Twelve to eighteen inches out here in the country and that, on top of the good foot that's left over from previous storms. I understand we've already had nearly five feet of snow this year and the season is far from over. Still, I wouldn't change it. Snow in Maine is picturesque and evocative -- that is, as long as the power stays on and you don't have to travel.
It occurs to me that I must be learning to delay gratification as an older student. When I was younger, a snow day meant sleeping late. Now, it means a chance to hit the books for a few more hours and I'm grateful even if the price is a close encounter with the snow shovel. To borrow a line from Dances With Wolves, it's a "good trade."
It was thirty below zero yesterday morning when the phone rang. "How cold is it up there?" asked the caller.
Assuming it was someone I knew but too sleepy to recognize, I said, "Colder than I've ever been!" The conversation went on for several sentences before I finally realized it was a wrong number. "The folks you want to speak to don't live here," I informed him, "but we're sure having a good conversation about the weather." To my surprise, we continued to chat for a few minutes and he explained he was a Maine farmer who spent his winters in Florida.
What I find interesting about all of this is, there we were, strangers talking on the phone like we were neighbors. He thought he was calling friends and instead he got me. I thought he was someone I knew and as it turns out, we've never met. Despite our absence of acquaintance, we enjoyed a few moments of company.
As I hung up, I chuckled to myself and thought, rural life and farmers. The fact that I lacked the giveaway southern Maine accent and therefore, am obviously "from away," as they say up here, didn't matter. He was a farmer, and I live on a farm; that, coupled with a chance wrong number, brought us together.
You just never know how things are going to turn out. He'll return in the spring and I may discover we actually are neighbors. But whether that happens or not, yesterday's call reminded me that we aren't all that different -- people, I mean. The potential connections between us can be surprising.
Oh, I forgot to tell you how the conversation ended. "I'm on my way to Florida where it's warm," he said.
"Sounds like a good idea," I replied, "have a good trip."
"Yep, well, I'll be seeing ya." And maybe he will.
There is a tiny sliver of new moon easing its way through the burnished orange and purple clouds of sunset tonight. Today has been one of those Maine days that make you forget it's winter. Sunshine, blue skies, and enough warmth to even melt some of the snow. Not that it's going to last; snow is predicted tonight, Wednesday, and then the weekend. Winter doesn't flirt with you up here; when it comes on, it's with a full court press. At least that's the way the past two years have been. The year before, it was cold but at least we knew there was still such a thing as soil most of the time.
The "thaw" allowed me to spend part of the afternoon picking up wood. Central Maine Power dropped by before Christmas to trim an ailing tree that leaned threateningly near the electric lines and left quite a bit for me to turn into firewood. More than I'd expected, actually, and it quickly turned into a job. You see, the fellows came late in the day and before they knew it, they were working in near darkness. The small pieces were turned to fodder in the chipper but the rest was left behind.
I thought about this while hauling wood into the barn, one cartload at a time. Despite the mess of twigs and chips on the edge of the yard, I ended up with nearly a cord of wood that will season well by next fall. I didn't have to tramp into the forest with a chain saw; all I had to do was pick it up and stack it.
Ordinarily, power companies don't make it a point to cut firewood for their customers, but this time, someone thought more about doing good than about following procedure. It's not a big thing, I suppose, but it was considerate. I know it's a cliche, but that doesn't make it any less true: little things really do mean a lot.
I remember the time I learned about the magical combination of cranberries and turkey. I was 13 and my uncle (my father's youngest brother) and I spent Thanksgiving with my father's eldest brother and his family on their ranch in Oklahoma. It was a Thanksgiving of firsts. My first trip to the ranch, my first time roping cattle, and the first time I actually liked cranberries. I'd never cared much for them before: they were tart and I liked sweet. My aunt, however, made cranberry sauce that was both tart and sweet. Scooped over turkey and, well, one bite and I was hooked.
I came home and informed my mother that my taste for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner had undergone a transformation and I explained the recipe. For years afterward, she faithfully reproduced it and you might think the story ends right there. But it doesn't.
In 1997, my mother passed away and left me the recipe. In previous years, I'd tried to the best I could to mimic her creation, but there was always something missing. Now, of course, I get it right and that, along with pumpkin pie, are my contributions to the festivities.
While the cranberries are just as they should be, there are still other things that I miss. Both my parents are gone now, and the rest of my family is in Colorado, Oklahoma, and elsewhere. Dear friends are in Texas and California, and most of my medical school pals are scattered over the country. Many are nearby in New England but others as far away as Oregon.
So, Christmas is quiet this year, and my wife, the dog and cat and I are celebrating in an old house that seems as though it was built just for the Holidays. We exchanged gifts, made turkey with all the trimmings, watched favorite movies, and called our absent friends. Thanks to Mr. Bell and the wonders of email, they're only moments away. It's been a good day.
When you get round to reading this, I wonder if you might take a moment and leave a comment or two about how you spent the day, what's present, who's not, and what made you glad at heart.
It snowed in Maine last night. But it's not the first of the season; last week about twelve flakes fell around my dog and I while we were taking our afternoon walk. Actually, there may have been more than twelve -- I wasn't counting -- but there weren't many more. It was like a postcard reminding me the bulk of the mail was yet to come.
I remember postcards. For a penny you could send a note across the country. Then it was a nickel, a dime, and eventually it cost as much to send a postcard as a letter and what was the point? The whole idea of the postcard was a letter in brief, a portent of more to come.
I still get them, only not from friends traveling through Europe or Africa saying, "We finally found the pyramids -- wish you were here!" Mine come from the local auto dealership reminding me I still have time for a year-end trade or an insurance agent urging me to revise my policy to include earthquake coverage. When was the last time Maine had an earthquake? Probably about the time of the last ice age -- I'd better get busy.
Like the rest of the world I've come to rely on email, but I think I miss the postcard. I still click on the email icon with a sense of anticipation, but its not the same as those days when, like Charlie Brown opening the mailbox and calling, "Hello in there," I never knew what I might find. Maybe pictures of a giant rabbit in a cowboy hat or the Grand Canyon or the Tower of London and the ever welcome phrase, "Wish you were here."
