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)
I have a friend who is adept at writing random thoughts on her blog, The Blog of an Everyday Tourist, and it's a technique I've never employed. But this morning a couple of things are on my mind and so, here goes. The first is about a concert I saw late last night on PBS. Jacob Dylan and the Gold Mountain Rebels at the Desmond Tutu Center in New York. The youngest son of the Dylan, this guy has got talent. I'm not sure I can characterize his music: folk, alternative rock, and sometimes plain old rock and roll. Now and then there's the echo of his father's offbeat approach to rhyme, but he's taken his upbringing in his own direction.
Listening to this younger Dylan, his voice is like a confluence of Bruce Springsteen and himself, with his father's highlights thrown in for good measure. The mix of his own acoustic guitar with electric lead, bass, and drums as backup creates a sound that is appealing and engaging. After the first few measures I was intrigued, drawn in, and now here I am, writing about it. On August 15, he's in Freeport, Maine for an L.L. Bean summer concert and I hope I'm not on-call at the hospital because I'd like to attend. His website is jacobdylan.com and you can listen for yourself. I don't think you'll be disappointed.
The second thing that's on my mind this morning came to me while pouring a second cup of coffee. It's unmistakable how couples resemble one another the longer they are together. You're at a party and meet a husband and wife who've been married 50 years. They not only look like one another, they behave like one another: they use similar metaphors and verbal twists. Maybe it comes from being together day in and day out, but their individuality is altered over time and begins to reflect the character of the partnership.
So, here's my question: how many people actually think about their potential life partners and say to themselves, "In fifty (or however many) years, I want to look like them?" I'm not sure I've ever seen a question like this in all the how-to-find-and-love-your-one-and-only books. I think I can say with confidence I've never heard a marital therapist suggest it as criteria for a successful relationship. As a matter of fact, I've never even thought about it myself quite like this.
For all the infinite reasons we hook up, pair up, link up, fall in love, maybe become engaged and marry, it occurs to me that it might be a good idea to take a long look at this someone and ask ourselves, what is it about them that makes me want to look and act like them when I'm old and grey. Because it's going to happen. Barring unforeseen circumstances, someday people are going to notice that we resemble our partners.
In some cases, asking the question might just be the reality check one needs to turn around and run the other way. Or it could just as easily lead to confirmation. I know, how many people are even remotely inclined to think this way when they're "in love?" Ironically, that's just the time when we need to think about it. Anyway, it's a random thought and one that I sincerely hope results in a dialogue. Let me know what you think. Am I just caffeine-deprived or have I really hit on something?
Personality is big these days. Witness the proliferation of online matchmaker sites that base compatibility on, among other things, an evaluation of personality traits. Over the years a number of ways of examining personality have surfaced, some more user-friendly than others. Leary's Interpersonal Theory and the Five Factor Model, for example, really require specialized training to use effectively. Others like the Keirsey Temperament Sorter are available "over the counter," in popular formats.
The Enneagram is one model that I've used over and over and have come to genuinely appreciate. It is based on the idea that we all have certain character flaws, some of which are predictable and can be attributed to personality type. What I mean is, we all have ways of dealing with other persons that are more or less functional. What is a strength in one context, taken to extreme in another can be damaging. The Enneagram associates these flaws with character structure which is then divided into nine subtypes.
It is a fairly nuanced approach that allows for the kind of overlap that some systems neglect. In addition, it has a strong interpersonal element which makes it especially useful for understanding how we get ourselves in situations that we'd have liked to avoid. It also shows how personality traits can function rather like "drives" that strongly motivate frequently unconscious behaviors.
There are a number of books available that discuss the Enneagram from various perspectives. The one I have used most often is Richard Rohr's Discovering the Enneagram. While Rohr's book has a decided spiritual emphasis which may appeal to some and not others, overall I think it's a very fair-minded discussion of the basic principles of the Enneagram. In any case, if you're interested in learning a bit more about yourself, this certainly a great place to start.
(Creative Commons image by Grace Commons 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?
There are some things that shouldn't be missed. The running of the 2009 Kentucky Derby is one of them. If you didn't see it live, do as I did and go to kentuckyderby.com and view the recording. You're going to see a horse come from so far behind the rest of the field the camera couldn't include him in its view. He was so far back that for the first half of the race, the announcer only mentioned him once and, even then, almost as an afterthought. His trainer drove him the 23 hours to the track.
This isn't the story of a horse that was expected to win. This is about a horse that would finish the race as he began: in last place. But somewhere along the backstretch, something began to happen. The Horse from Nowhere started gaining ground. As the field rounded the final turn, the announcer excitedly described the leaders, first one then another, and only as horse and rider suddenly emerged along the rail did he shout, "Mine That Bird come now to take the lead..."
The odds were 50:1. Who in their right mind would risk $1000.00 to win $100,000.00 on a relatively unproven horse? To all appearances, he didn't have a chance. Not a snowball's chance. It would have made as much sense to take that thousand dollars and use it to light a post-race cigar. But not only did Mine That Bird win, he won by the greatest margin of victory since 1946.
It might have been the track -- it was wet and he might be a "mudder," to put it in racing jargon. The kind of track that slows other horses is just right for him. The longer races of the Triple Crown may be his undoing. Then again, it just might be that Mine That Bird is a horse with more talent and nerve than anyone imagined and the Kentucky Derby is just the beginning. I hope so. I hope he proves that you can come from nowhere and beat the odds. I hope he shows us all that achievement isn't about expectations or reputation: it's about drive and desire.
It's about heart.
(Creative Commons image of Mine That Bird by Jerry W. Lewis via Flickr)
This morning I was sitting in front of the tube with a cup of coffee, trying to wake up, when I happened upon the 1939 John Ford film, Drums Along the Mohawk, with Henry Fonda and Claudette Colbert. The setting is upstate New York in 1776. Fonda marries Colbert and they travel by covered wagon to his farm near the Mohawk River. As the story unfolds, Colbert alternates between hysterics and courage, growing into her full self on the Revolutionary frontier. Fonda is a farmer who becomes a hero (naturally) in a battle with the British. Despite the predictability it's a fun film, especially if you like the classics.
At one point, all of the neighbors gather to help Fonda clear the trees from a plot of ground and I couldn't help but imagine that must have been what it was like here, just about 230 years ago, with the founders of this Maine farm. I may be wrong, but I doubt the hayfield was open ground ringed by trees as it is today. My guess is, they cleared it tree by tree, pulling stumps one by one with a team of horses or oxen. Hollywood may have gotten this one right.
I like history and the Revolutionary period in America is one of my favorite subjects. A wise relative, most likely my childless maternal aunt, gave me a copy of the Golden Book of the American Revolution when I was about seven and I've been hooked ever since. She used to call me "Sport," and she was the kind of aunt every boy should have.
Film is a chronicle of American History. Now, it can be argued that it's really a chronicle of the filmmaker's view of American History and that's true. But filmmakers are products of their time and they can demonstrate prevailing trends in thought and perspective. In 1939 Germany was driving into Poland and America generally wished to avoid becoming embroiled in another European war. It was the same year James Stewart as Mr. Smith, went to Washington, John Wayne galloped across Monument Valley in Stagecoach, and Clark Gable's Rhett Butler uttered the first swear word on film, telling Scarlet, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." And, of course, Dorothy visited the Land of Oz. We were looking back and our eyes were fixed on home.
Maybe our tastes have become more sophisticated and technology more tantalizing with the advent of CGI, but those older films show us something about the way we were (no pun intended, for fans of Robert Redford and Barbara Streisand). Tempting as it may be to find the newest release on Redbox, a little time spent on Turner Classic Movies instead can be an eye-opener. Since you've already paid for cable, why not?
Photograph by the author, copyright 2013, all rights reserved.
I had an interesting experience today. During an orientation meeting for planning third-year hospital rotations, I was asked whether I had any hobbies. Now, ordinarily, that might seem like a completely harmless question and under any other circumstances, I would have been able to come up with at least a few. But today, with the pressure of end-of-term exams looming, the idea of having a hobby struck me as almost humorous.
As anyone who is either a medical student or late-life graduate student knows, having free-time activities is important for maintaining some semblance of sanity. At the same time, the idea of having anything that even looks like "free-time" is more of a fantasy than reality. The truth is, taking time for a hobby feels more like stealing because there is always more studying to do.
So, here I am, a time thief, writing instead of studying. Parents face a similar dilemma because, once they're returned home from work, their evenings are absorbed by after school activities, homework, laundry, and bed-time stories. Not that anyone begrudges our children for this, but it's still one of the facts of life. And once the kids are old enough to drive themselves, we wax lyrical about the days when they weren't. Or maybe we become wistful now and again.
I don't have a solution, really. I just know that stolen moments with a novel in the bathroom are better than none at all. And if I study more effectively because I've spent some precious time writing, then it pays off in the end. Anyway, that's what I tell myself. I hope I'm right.
