The orchard, named with the generic German for “fruit tree”, appropriately belongs to a German schoolteacher friend who is a botanical hobbyist. For some years we’ve had free rein of the dropped apples that cannot be used for cider. All we have to do it get them.
One year the Dreamer and I did the gathering alone. Another year the Dragon joined the husband and me, in a cold wet rainstorm, and we gathered. One year it was just I and Grand 2, a toddler who sat in her stroller watching me with big eyes. Last year we hit an unseasonably warm September day, complete with yellow jackets, and the Dreamer’s two little girls, Grands 2 & 3, were not impressed. Today dawned with total autumn clarity and the promise of midday warmth.
The Driver alone has never done the orchard. This year she asked that we wait till she arrived from the other side of the world. We arrive in three minivans: one grandmother, the Dreamer and Grands 2&3, her sister-in-law with little cousins, the Driver with Grand 4, and a random Chinese college student, friend to the Driver and studying nearby.
We opt to only send one van, laden with empty boxes, through the mudslide beside the barn that leads to the orchard, walking the rest of the crew with stroller, car seat, and a large red wagon. Ah, the bagay of little people.
Arriving in the sunny rows we scout the land for trees with apples still hanging. Since the orchard is officially closed for the season, we can pick as well as gather drops.
We spread out with boxes and begin the tedious work of gathering, the high grass wet with lingering frost. Over the years I’ve learned to find a tree with a few apples left on it and look down. Below there may be fifty pristine apples not yet touched by the deer, the squirrels.
Grand 2 and her younger cousin discover slugs and have a wonderful time smearing them into wet apples. Grand 3, walking confidently this year, attempts to keep pace with each adult in turn, managing to navigate the tall grass quite well by self, thank you. Young cousin, not quite as steady, takes several face falls before he gets the knack. Grand 4 lies on his back watching the cloudless blue of a Michigan sky – a blue his side of the world doesn’t produce. The youngest little cousin, less than two months, is oblivious. The Chinese student is reveling in Americana that has previously only existed in books.
After weeks filled with people, I find the empty orchard pure mind therapy.
The sun slowly warms us and coats are left in the van, then fleeces and sweaters. The boxes begin to fill with gold, red, maroon, striated, and green. We take turns hauling the boxes back to ground zero with the red wagon. The snack bag gets raided for granola bars. One little hand gets nipped in the van door with much howling.
After noon, the sun still high overhead, we load the last of many boxes into the van and haul out to the other cars left by the barn. The orchard has been conquered again and the smell of apples and autumn and crisp air wafts over us all the way home, past farms and through golden woods.
Tomorrow we reassemble and tackle the day-long applesauce making tradition. Home is a good place as October fades into oblivion.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Walking the boards
The boardwalk starts in Atlantic City and runs all the way to Margate. Or, the other way around, depending on your orientation. Today we begin at the edge of Margate and walk to Atlantic City -- and back.
October brings slate gray skies with slicks of sunlight on the water. The surf is rough and rain occasionally spatters us. Tiny sandpipers scurry in front of the froth and the water ebbs and flows with the incoming tide. The beach is deserted in October except for an occasional jogger.
The college kids want to walk to Atlantic City and we set out in the stiff wind. I’ve opted for a scarf and earmuffs though it’s not extremely cold. By the end of the afternoon I will be glad for this choices.
We string out along the boardwalk, conversations gathering into twos and threes and then rubber banding into different groups. We’re here to talk and interact so a walk to Atlantic City (and back) gives great opportunity for extended discussion.
Ventnor is residential, a jumbled mix of old colonial clapboards houses and modern stucco wide-windowed mansions hugging the beach. We walk past neatly trimmed lawns, landscaped and hedged, still blooming in the autumn warmth.
By the time we reach Atlantic City our feet are beginning to feel like lead so we head into the Steel Pier mall and hang out for the fountain/light show and a cup of coffee at Starbucks. Rain is falling in earnest and we linger till the drops cease beating on the windows of the coffee shop. The casinos are bleak and dreary on this rainy Saturday afternoon.
The walk back seemed impossible when we stopped, but coffee fueled, we’re refreshed enough to set off again. Before we leave Atlantic City, there’s a stop for funnel cakes, an absolute necessity of a walk on the boards. The wind that was in our faces has turned, and again it’s at in our faces. Earmuffs feel good. The sun dances and hides. Gulls scream overhead. The salt smell is pungent.
Our home destination is a good three miles or more back the boardwalk, but again, the students string out into conversation groups and the time passes quickly. Rain hits us almost to Ventnor and we increase our speed. Rather footsore we finally reach our street and head back to the houses off the beach. Sated with wind and wet, we burst into the living room of the largest house to the smell of dinner and the warmth of home.
The boardwalk has been conquered again – Atlantic City and back, miles of walking. But the larger goal has been accomplished too. Substantive conversations about life and living.
October brings slate gray skies with slicks of sunlight on the water. The surf is rough and rain occasionally spatters us. Tiny sandpipers scurry in front of the froth and the water ebbs and flows with the incoming tide. The beach is deserted in October except for an occasional jogger.
The college kids want to walk to Atlantic City and we set out in the stiff wind. I’ve opted for a scarf and earmuffs though it’s not extremely cold. By the end of the afternoon I will be glad for this choices.
We string out along the boardwalk, conversations gathering into twos and threes and then rubber banding into different groups. We’re here to talk and interact so a walk to Atlantic City (and back) gives great opportunity for extended discussion.
Ventnor is residential, a jumbled mix of old colonial clapboards houses and modern stucco wide-windowed mansions hugging the beach. We walk past neatly trimmed lawns, landscaped and hedged, still blooming in the autumn warmth.
By the time we reach Atlantic City our feet are beginning to feel like lead so we head into the Steel Pier mall and hang out for the fountain/light show and a cup of coffee at Starbucks. Rain is falling in earnest and we linger till the drops cease beating on the windows of the coffee shop. The casinos are bleak and dreary on this rainy Saturday afternoon.
The walk back seemed impossible when we stopped, but coffee fueled, we’re refreshed enough to set off again. Before we leave Atlantic City, there’s a stop for funnel cakes, an absolute necessity of a walk on the boards. The wind that was in our faces has turned, and again it’s at in our faces. Earmuffs feel good. The sun dances and hides. Gulls scream overhead. The salt smell is pungent.
Our home destination is a good three miles or more back the boardwalk, but again, the students string out into conversation groups and the time passes quickly. Rain hits us almost to Ventnor and we increase our speed. Rather footsore we finally reach our street and head back to the houses off the beach. Sated with wind and wet, we burst into the living room of the largest house to the smell of dinner and the warmth of home.
The boardwalk has been conquered again – Atlantic City and back, miles of walking. But the larger goal has been accomplished too. Substantive conversations about life and living.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Crossing the pond in the rain
“I read your post on crossing the pond, and I cried,” says the Driver.
The Driver is the middle of my three daughters: the Dreamer, the Driver, and the Dragon. The Driver is setting out on a journey of her own, a painful journey. She was part of that particular pond crossing, in the dark, in the cold, in the rain, but now she’s got a much longer journey.
Sometimes life stinks. For the Driver, she’s in one of those times.
She’s been living in a great city on the other side of the world, a place she and her husband love. But his job evaporated recently and that was painful. It stunk. Weeks passed and he had another job offer. It was in a different place and still necessitated a move, but it was an exciting job, and still on the side of the world where they would like to raise their family.
Then over this last weekend, that job went south. A classic east-west conflict, a conflict of culture and worldview, is at the root of the loss. Planning ahead versus damage control at the end. Again, life stinks.
And so, the Driver and her family are out in the middle of the pond and can’t see where the boat is going. The fog is thick. It’s cold and uncomfortable. There’s nothing I can do because I’m neither in the boat or at the tiller. I’m simply watching from the shore.
So what does a shore-watcher do? Watch and pray from the distance, even through the fog. Send messages of hope out across the water like flashes of light from shore. Pray some more. Trust the Man-at-the-tiller to get them across the pond.
I head home soon. I’ll light a fire in the woodstove and put a pot of hot soup on the hob. When the Driver and family finally get across the pond, they will need a place to get warm.
The Driver is the middle of my three daughters: the Dreamer, the Driver, and the Dragon. The Driver is setting out on a journey of her own, a painful journey. She was part of that particular pond crossing, in the dark, in the cold, in the rain, but now she’s got a much longer journey.
Sometimes life stinks. For the Driver, she’s in one of those times.
She’s been living in a great city on the other side of the world, a place she and her husband love. But his job evaporated recently and that was painful. It stunk. Weeks passed and he had another job offer. It was in a different place and still necessitated a move, but it was an exciting job, and still on the side of the world where they would like to raise their family.
Then over this last weekend, that job went south. A classic east-west conflict, a conflict of culture and worldview, is at the root of the loss. Planning ahead versus damage control at the end. Again, life stinks.
And so, the Driver and her family are out in the middle of the pond and can’t see where the boat is going. The fog is thick. It’s cold and uncomfortable. There’s nothing I can do because I’m neither in the boat or at the tiller. I’m simply watching from the shore.
So what does a shore-watcher do? Watch and pray from the distance, even through the fog. Send messages of hope out across the water like flashes of light from shore. Pray some more. Trust the Man-at-the-tiller to get them across the pond.
I head home soon. I’ll light a fire in the woodstove and put a pot of hot soup on the hob. When the Driver and family finally get across the pond, they will need a place to get warm.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Time and again
Returning to the church of my childhood is a step into history with an ellipsis. The building stands on the same site and from the outside, looks the same. But a fire some time ago gutted the inside, and what is now there is similar, but oh so different from the past.
I reach to open doors and realize when the door is opened, that my mind has expected one scene, and another is in front of me. There are walls where none existed before and open space where there were walls. In my mind’s eye, when I am far away, it all blurs together, but today, walking into the building, the present blends into the past.
The auditorium is the most deceptive. After the fire the congregation chose to rebuild the church to replicate the original, but with subtle modernity. The platform is far larger, the organ gone. The pews have padding and are neatly tapered on the aisles so as not to catch your sleeves when you sit down. There are handicap insets halfway down for wheelchairs. One side of windows has become a smooth wall as a notch between an old and new building was finally blended into a hall. Curiously, the communion table is identical to the original, though it must be new.
The people also jolt me. The few who are the same are not at all the same. That older man handing out bulletins should be a young father, not a fragile grandfather. The family at the front seem to have a teenager where I am expecting a little child. The young father across the room, his wavy hair pulled back from his face, flashes back an image of a curly headed toddler in the nursery.
Down the row is a mother of college and high school students. Where is the bright eyed little girl who sang in my children’s choir? Behind me is a tall balding man, grey at the temples, who – ah yes, I remember, and beside him, I catch a glint in his wife’s eyes that rolls the age off both of them. In my mind, we step back decades to carve a camp out of a woods, setting up tents in an October downpour.
The music is totally different, yet familiar. The people are largely new, but local to the neighborhood. Here and there I see the next generation, or even the third generation of old member.
What is dramatically the same is the message. Truth, plain and simple, preached with love and compassion, straight from scripture.
So much is changed, and yet not at all. People age, buildings change and morph in to new usage, music and preaching style move with culture . In contrast, the message of scripture remains the same.
Only the person who listens changes.
2 Corinthians 5:17 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!
I reach to open doors and realize when the door is opened, that my mind has expected one scene, and another is in front of me. There are walls where none existed before and open space where there were walls. In my mind’s eye, when I am far away, it all blurs together, but today, walking into the building, the present blends into the past.
The auditorium is the most deceptive. After the fire the congregation chose to rebuild the church to replicate the original, but with subtle modernity. The platform is far larger, the organ gone. The pews have padding and are neatly tapered on the aisles so as not to catch your sleeves when you sit down. There are handicap insets halfway down for wheelchairs. One side of windows has become a smooth wall as a notch between an old and new building was finally blended into a hall. Curiously, the communion table is identical to the original, though it must be new.
The people also jolt me. The few who are the same are not at all the same. That older man handing out bulletins should be a young father, not a fragile grandfather. The family at the front seem to have a teenager where I am expecting a little child. The young father across the room, his wavy hair pulled back from his face, flashes back an image of a curly headed toddler in the nursery.
Down the row is a mother of college and high school students. Where is the bright eyed little girl who sang in my children’s choir? Behind me is a tall balding man, grey at the temples, who – ah yes, I remember, and beside him, I catch a glint in his wife’s eyes that rolls the age off both of them. In my mind, we step back decades to carve a camp out of a woods, setting up tents in an October downpour.
The music is totally different, yet familiar. The people are largely new, but local to the neighborhood. Here and there I see the next generation, or even the third generation of old member.
What is dramatically the same is the message. Truth, plain and simple, preached with love and compassion, straight from scripture.
So much is changed, and yet not at all. People age, buildings change and morph in to new usage, music and preaching style move with culture . In contrast, the message of scripture remains the same.
Only the person who listens changes.
2 Corinthians 5:17 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
The wilderness
Coming over the final hill, even after 50 years, still brings an aching sense of amazement and joy as the huge lake stretches to the horizon, ringed by mountains. The beauty of the land almost overpowers the senses.
This is a frontier town, full of crusty characters that either choose not to leave or deliberately chose to come to this end of the road. No one accidentally lives here. “Boon” was born here and his grandmother came as a widow, the first white woman in the region. He’s pushing over the hill to 90 but has a host of projects lined up to keep him busy all winter.
Sunday afternoon finds us at the “new camp” – a mere 50+ years old cabin on the remote pond, but distinguished from the old camp on the island that is closer to 100 years old. With no time to go out to the island, I have to stand and look across the water, traveling the channel in my mind. The woods behind me shimmer gold in the afternoon sun. Elephant mountain is painted with red and yellow on the other side of the lake. Deep woods line the shores.
Crazy, the vintage loon, pops up for a look-see as I step on the dock. “He should have gone by now,” Boon says, “But he’s teaching a young one how to take off and the young one’s a bit slow on the uptake.” Boon knows this loon well, as he does every rock and tree on the lake. Standing there beside him I remember the many times he’s taken me across the water and back. Ten years ago it was stormy and cold, even in August:
The One at the rudder
After 30 years, the trip into the darkness still brings a wave of fear. Some nights it is clear as day with moon or starshine. Once, though, the fog was so thick we dragged our fingers in the water to be sure we were moving.
Tonight it is rain, cold, dark as pitch. The rain that blew up suddenly drives under our borrowed slickers. We huddle together for slim warmth from the overwhelming cold and wet. We set off for land from the island and can barely see the guide notches of the mountains across the lake. The familiar wave of fear comes up. Can we navigate through the huge rocks to shore?
At first the only light is what we have left behind. The comfortable glow of the gas lamps in the island camp tempts us back. To sit by the fire another hour, talking, singing, remembering a hundred similar nights. But go we must.
My mind races ahead, aching for a glimpse of light on the shore, but my heart leans in trust on the man at the rudder. "Boon" his mother called him, dredging a Burmese term from her childhood. "Favorite uncle." Did she know, 75 years ago, she was a prophet? I fear because I know the way, but not the rocks. Boon knows both.
Just when it seems we'll never make it, we round the point of the island and catch the gleam of the lamp on shore.
So now we journey across the wide lake. The rain is still driving and cold. Comfort is far away. The dark surrounds us, the rocks as treacherous as ever. The trip is painfully slow with a little motor and Boon's heavy old handmade boat. Boon is old too, but every rock is etched deep in his mind. If I will just sit back and trust him, I know he will get me there. He's done it before; he'll do it tonight.
Like life. It's not the boat, though it is sturdy. Not the storm, though it's heavy. Not the darkness, though I fear it. And it is not whether or not I am comfortable with the ride. All that matters is knowing there is light at the end and trusting the One at the rudder, who's made the journey more times than memory can count.
This is a frontier town, full of crusty characters that either choose not to leave or deliberately chose to come to this end of the road. No one accidentally lives here. “Boon” was born here and his grandmother came as a widow, the first white woman in the region. He’s pushing over the hill to 90 but has a host of projects lined up to keep him busy all winter.
Sunday afternoon finds us at the “new camp” – a mere 50+ years old cabin on the remote pond, but distinguished from the old camp on the island that is closer to 100 years old. With no time to go out to the island, I have to stand and look across the water, traveling the channel in my mind. The woods behind me shimmer gold in the afternoon sun. Elephant mountain is painted with red and yellow on the other side of the lake. Deep woods line the shores.
Crazy, the vintage loon, pops up for a look-see as I step on the dock. “He should have gone by now,” Boon says, “But he’s teaching a young one how to take off and the young one’s a bit slow on the uptake.” Boon knows this loon well, as he does every rock and tree on the lake. Standing there beside him I remember the many times he’s taken me across the water and back. Ten years ago it was stormy and cold, even in August:
The One at the rudder
After 30 years, the trip into the darkness still brings a wave of fear. Some nights it is clear as day with moon or starshine. Once, though, the fog was so thick we dragged our fingers in the water to be sure we were moving.
Tonight it is rain, cold, dark as pitch. The rain that blew up suddenly drives under our borrowed slickers. We huddle together for slim warmth from the overwhelming cold and wet. We set off for land from the island and can barely see the guide notches of the mountains across the lake. The familiar wave of fear comes up. Can we navigate through the huge rocks to shore?
At first the only light is what we have left behind. The comfortable glow of the gas lamps in the island camp tempts us back. To sit by the fire another hour, talking, singing, remembering a hundred similar nights. But go we must.
My mind races ahead, aching for a glimpse of light on the shore, but my heart leans in trust on the man at the rudder. "Boon" his mother called him, dredging a Burmese term from her childhood. "Favorite uncle." Did she know, 75 years ago, she was a prophet? I fear because I know the way, but not the rocks. Boon knows both.
Just when it seems we'll never make it, we round the point of the island and catch the gleam of the lamp on shore.
So now we journey across the wide lake. The rain is still driving and cold. Comfort is far away. The dark surrounds us, the rocks as treacherous as ever. The trip is painfully slow with a little motor and Boon's heavy old handmade boat. Boon is old too, but every rock is etched deep in his mind. If I will just sit back and trust him, I know he will get me there. He's done it before; he'll do it tonight.
Like life. It's not the boat, though it is sturdy. Not the storm, though it's heavy. Not the darkness, though I fear it. And it is not whether or not I am comfortable with the ride. All that matters is knowing there is light at the end and trusting the One at the rudder, who's made the journey more times than memory can count.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thinking global on the hill
A week in the rarified air of the seminary on the hill brings an opportunity to think. The company of academics in the field of theology and mission stimulates discussion. Lessons of the week are simple, but refreshing.
One: international teams working cross culturally are more effective than teams born and built together in a home country that arrive with walls already built that are higher than the oldest mission compound.
Two: singing melody is fairly easy but learning to play the harmony line in another culture takes far more time and effort.
Three: short-term mission is not an end in itself. If it doesn’t lead to and link with long term local involvement, don’t waste the money.
Four: churches that endure, fellowships that last, assemblies that will bridge the culture, are those that intentionally reflect the world in which they are established.
Five: effective servants are able to handle change. Peter’s world was rocked with a canvas sheet of items he abhorred (Acts 10) but by being willing to accept huge cultural change, God was able to use him to change the world. For every servant, there are change points in life. If we hang on to the past, we will not make it into the future. What we give us is insignificant in light of what we gain.
Six: western minds are good at strategic thinking; non-western minds are better at patience and long obedience in a faithful direction. Both are important. Neither rules alone.
We leave the hill refreshed in mind and spirit.
One: international teams working cross culturally are more effective than teams born and built together in a home country that arrive with walls already built that are higher than the oldest mission compound.
Two: singing melody is fairly easy but learning to play the harmony line in another culture takes far more time and effort.
Three: short-term mission is not an end in itself. If it doesn’t lead to and link with long term local involvement, don’t waste the money.
Four: churches that endure, fellowships that last, assemblies that will bridge the culture, are those that intentionally reflect the world in which they are established.
Five: effective servants are able to handle change. Peter’s world was rocked with a canvas sheet of items he abhorred (Acts 10) but by being willing to accept huge cultural change, God was able to use him to change the world. For every servant, there are change points in life. If we hang on to the past, we will not make it into the future. What we give us is insignificant in light of what we gain.
Six: western minds are good at strategic thinking; non-western minds are better at patience and long obedience in a faithful direction. Both are important. Neither rules alone.
We leave the hill refreshed in mind and spirit.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The fisherman
The fisherman
The fisherman stands in the Gloucester harbor, bronzed green in the late day sun. In his hands he grasps a pilot wheel. He looks out over the water,as if searching the horizon for the ships that have gone out from this place and never returned.
Below the fisherman are inscribed the words from Psalm 107, “they that go down to the sea in ships…”
Around the base of the large statue are bronze plaques recording the names of men lost at sea in the last 200 years. Well over 5000 names line the wide plaques, separated neatly into years of loss.
We are late in the autumn afternoon, eager to find some fresh seafood in town, and yet wanting to refresh our minds of this familiar seawalk. The young man with us has not seen this before. As my husband wields his camera, Eric slowly walks from plaque to plaque. In silence, we each take in the enormity of the cost this little town has paid to ply the water.
Some years have over a hundred names, times when whole ships were lost with all hands on board. The toll is particularly heavy in the late 1800s when occasionally steam ships plowed down the fishing trade.
More recent decades have far fewer names, a commentary both on water safety and on the downturn of the fishing trade in general in the northeast. Even the year of “the perfect storm” has a relatively small list.
Gulls sweep overhead calling to each other out over the water. We watch the bay in its blue brilliance as the day fades. Quietly we turn back to the car and head into town. Over seafood we chat about coursework and family and employment. Leaving town at dusk we climb the bridge over the inland causeway and head back to the land and the sunset over the forested hills.
The smell of the sea lingers hauntingly in our minds, ever a reminder that though we love it, the ocean is a force we will never control.
“Others went out on the sea in ships; they were merchants on the mighty waters. They saw the works of the LORD, his wonderful deeds in the deep. For he spoke and stirred up a tempest that lifted high the waves.” Psalm 107: 23-25
The fisherman stands in the Gloucester harbor, bronzed green in the late day sun. In his hands he grasps a pilot wheel. He looks out over the water,as if searching the horizon for the ships that have gone out from this place and never returned.
Below the fisherman are inscribed the words from Psalm 107, “they that go down to the sea in ships…”
Around the base of the large statue are bronze plaques recording the names of men lost at sea in the last 200 years. Well over 5000 names line the wide plaques, separated neatly into years of loss.
We are late in the autumn afternoon, eager to find some fresh seafood in town, and yet wanting to refresh our minds of this familiar seawalk. The young man with us has not seen this before. As my husband wields his camera, Eric slowly walks from plaque to plaque. In silence, we each take in the enormity of the cost this little town has paid to ply the water.
Some years have over a hundred names, times when whole ships were lost with all hands on board. The toll is particularly heavy in the late 1800s when occasionally steam ships plowed down the fishing trade.
More recent decades have far fewer names, a commentary both on water safety and on the downturn of the fishing trade in general in the northeast. Even the year of “the perfect storm” has a relatively small list.
Gulls sweep overhead calling to each other out over the water. We watch the bay in its blue brilliance as the day fades. Quietly we turn back to the car and head into town. Over seafood we chat about coursework and family and employment. Leaving town at dusk we climb the bridge over the inland causeway and head back to the land and the sunset over the forested hills.
The smell of the sea lingers hauntingly in our minds, ever a reminder that though we love it, the ocean is a force we will never control.
“Others went out on the sea in ships; they were merchants on the mighty waters. They saw the works of the LORD, his wonderful deeds in the deep. For he spoke and stirred up a tempest that lifted high the waves.” Psalm 107: 23-25
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Hanging with the B's
The North Shore collects eccentrics. We are staying at the B’s, a lovely older couple from the fellowship. Been here several times before, and it’s a comfortable place to lay our heads at night.Mr. B greets us last night on arrival with “Hey, you need ice cream?” His white shock of hair is always hanging to his eyebrows. His eyes pierce through bushy grey straggles and look right through you.
Mr. B says what he thinks, and thinks what he wants. His accent is as crusty and classic as his face. My husband needs to run to a computer store so I hang with Mr. B and eat ice cream. Mrs. B, still nursing at the indeterminate age of nearly 80, won’t be home for a while.
The first time we stayed here an elderly aunt was living in part of the upstairs. The house is cavernous and it’s easy to lose someone. Auntie, said Mrs. B, is harmless. “Couldn’t let her keep living alone, didn’t want to do the nursing home routine, and here’s she’s safe. But lock your door at night because she wanders and we’re never sure where she’ll end up.” Sure enough, Auntie was a wanderer. Mild and gentle, definitely not quite all there, but as Mrs. B said, harmless.
Auntie has gone to her reward some years now and there’s another shadowy tenant in the upstairs. But he leaves for work at a hospital with the dark of dawn and doesn’t return till late. He’s also mild and gentle but not a door opener.
The B’s share their space generously and without discrimination.The house is only about 30 years old but furnished from the distant past and seems far older. Lovely oriental rugs carpet much of the home and beautiful pieces of antique furniture tuck into the corners, stuffed with glass and china. The house backs into a deep woods while the front opens to morning sunshine. Stone fences line the roads into the neighborhood.
Years ago we stayed with an even more eccentric family – Doc P and his wife. Their house was so large that our kids thought they could get lost just in the second floor. It rambled across a ridge high above one of the little north shore towns. Doc was a psychiatrist and one never knew which patient would catch him on the phone. One night his wife told him, mid-meal, “Take your suicide elsewhere, please. I don’t want her at the table!” Doc’s long gone, but we’ll stop and see his frail, sweet wife this week in her carriage house near the sea.
Tonight we’ll be even later. One of our summer team arrives from Taiwan at 10:15. We’ll pick her up, take her home, and catch up on her journeys. She’s even older than the B’s. The North Shore is peopled with vintage eccentrics.
Must be something about the sea air that engenders longevity.
Mr. B says what he thinks, and thinks what he wants. His accent is as crusty and classic as his face. My husband needs to run to a computer store so I hang with Mr. B and eat ice cream. Mrs. B, still nursing at the indeterminate age of nearly 80, won’t be home for a while.
The first time we stayed here an elderly aunt was living in part of the upstairs. The house is cavernous and it’s easy to lose someone. Auntie, said Mrs. B, is harmless. “Couldn’t let her keep living alone, didn’t want to do the nursing home routine, and here’s she’s safe. But lock your door at night because she wanders and we’re never sure where she’ll end up.” Sure enough, Auntie was a wanderer. Mild and gentle, definitely not quite all there, but as Mrs. B said, harmless.
Auntie has gone to her reward some years now and there’s another shadowy tenant in the upstairs. But he leaves for work at a hospital with the dark of dawn and doesn’t return till late. He’s also mild and gentle but not a door opener.
The B’s share their space generously and without discrimination.The house is only about 30 years old but furnished from the distant past and seems far older. Lovely oriental rugs carpet much of the home and beautiful pieces of antique furniture tuck into the corners, stuffed with glass and china. The house backs into a deep woods while the front opens to morning sunshine. Stone fences line the roads into the neighborhood.
Years ago we stayed with an even more eccentric family – Doc P and his wife. Their house was so large that our kids thought they could get lost just in the second floor. It rambled across a ridge high above one of the little north shore towns. Doc was a psychiatrist and one never knew which patient would catch him on the phone. One night his wife told him, mid-meal, “Take your suicide elsewhere, please. I don’t want her at the table!” Doc’s long gone, but we’ll stop and see his frail, sweet wife this week in her carriage house near the sea.
Tonight we’ll be even later. One of our summer team arrives from Taiwan at 10:15. We’ll pick her up, take her home, and catch up on her journeys. She’s even older than the B’s. The North Shore is peopled with vintage eccentrics.
Must be something about the sea air that engenders longevity.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Afternoon sun
The afternoon sun is slanting into the dining commons. Outside the grass twinkles with fresh rain. Students are wandering by as the day wanes, skateboards a favorite mode of transportation. We've begun the college trek up the east.
Lunch brought us a group of Korean students -- all born and raised outside of Korea in international schools. Fascinating group, highly articulate, passionate about the connections inter-cultural students can have.
Lunch brought us a group of Korean students -- all born and raised outside of Korea in international schools. Fascinating group, highly articulate, passionate about the connections inter-cultural students can have.
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