Just beyond the rocks is my prime snorkeling location.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Uncle Archie
My maternal grandfather was always proud that his family had been in this country almost since the Pilgrims. In fact, they came over from England and settled in the Salem, MA area about 10 years after the landing at Plymouth Rock. A framed certificate hung on his wall proclaiming his membership in the Sons of the American Revolution, through his descent from one Peter Dolliver. He regaled us with stories of life on the frontier during the early Indian wars when one of his forefathers, caught outside in a raid, was brought down on is doorstep when a tomahawk cleaved his skull. The stories often sounded like he was actually there. The stories of this era would always end by him telling us that we were also descended from the last man hanged for horse thievery in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Other stories included an uncle, a Wells Fargo man, who was killed during a train robbery. His widow and child, my grandfather’s cousin, had come back east after the tragic event, but later had returned to Colorado.
His own grandfather, one William Augustus Wright, owned a trading company which probably acted as middlemen, bringing goods from not only the US but the Carribbean to England where he had a partner in one Sir Francis Vernon, whence came my grandfather’s middle name, or so the story goes. My grandfather, Frank Vernon, graduated from the University of Connecticut in 1912, and after refusing a lieutenancy in the Philippine Constabulary, took a job as a civil engineer in Jamaica with the United Fruit Company.
In those days, there were no docking facilities in Kingston, and passengers were brought to shore in rowboats, propelled by native water men. As he and his trunk were safely aboard, the old man, about his father’s age, rowing the boat remarked about my grandfather’s name on his luggage. “That’s my name too,” he said.
“And what would your name be, then?” he asked to be polite.
“William Augustus Wright.”
Strangely, my grandfather’s stories, although he was fascinated with the Civil War, never included any relatives of his own. The family was wealthy enough for any male at the time to avoid service, and perhaps that’s what they did.
These stories left me, at the time, almost resentful that my father’s side of the family seemingly had no one, who participated in the great events of our nation’s history, as his father had arrived here in 1902, and having two children at the time, was exempt from service in World War I.
But then, as he grew older, and I had traveled back to Ireland to meet his family, Grand father Millar told me of his Uncle Archie. Uncle Archie arrived in the US at the time of the Civil War and was either drafted, enlisted or paid as a substitute to enlist in the Union Army, and as my grandfather told it, a cavalry regiment, as he was a superior horseman. Frustratingly, he knew little, if anything about his service, save that at the end of the war, he was suffering severely from rheumatism and being heartily sick of the United States, returned home. All he could remember was peeking into a trunk, when his uncle was an old man, and seeing a sword and a “peaked blue cap.”
Sadly only one of his sisters in Ireland had any first hand recollection of him, the others being too young to remember him when he died. They did remember a long lost sword and produced a picture of a handsome, self assured looking gentleman, and told me that local lore said that he was an avid bird hunter as well as horseman, and that, rather than hunt on foot, using a dog to flush his prey, he would gallop across the fields with the barrel of a shotgun resting between the ears of the horse. The poor animal must have suffered chronic headaches after a day of killing grouse. How much of this is true, I don’t know. What has fascinated me over the years, was that here was a man who returned to his native home after finding that the land of promise was not what he expected or even wanted to be a part of. It has never been part of what we were taught in school.
Other stories included an uncle, a Wells Fargo man, who was killed during a train robbery. His widow and child, my grandfather’s cousin, had come back east after the tragic event, but later had returned to Colorado.
His own grandfather, one William Augustus Wright, owned a trading company which probably acted as middlemen, bringing goods from not only the US but the Carribbean to England where he had a partner in one Sir Francis Vernon, whence came my grandfather’s middle name, or so the story goes. My grandfather, Frank Vernon, graduated from the University of Connecticut in 1912, and after refusing a lieutenancy in the Philippine Constabulary, took a job as a civil engineer in Jamaica with the United Fruit Company.
In those days, there were no docking facilities in Kingston, and passengers were brought to shore in rowboats, propelled by native water men. As he and his trunk were safely aboard, the old man, about his father’s age, rowing the boat remarked about my grandfather’s name on his luggage. “That’s my name too,” he said.
“And what would your name be, then?” he asked to be polite.
“William Augustus Wright.”
Strangely, my grandfather’s stories, although he was fascinated with the Civil War, never included any relatives of his own. The family was wealthy enough for any male at the time to avoid service, and perhaps that’s what they did.
These stories left me, at the time, almost resentful that my father’s side of the family seemingly had no one, who participated in the great events of our nation’s history, as his father had arrived here in 1902, and having two children at the time, was exempt from service in World War I.
But then, as he grew older, and I had traveled back to Ireland to meet his family, Grand father Millar told me of his Uncle Archie. Uncle Archie arrived in the US at the time of the Civil War and was either drafted, enlisted or paid as a substitute to enlist in the Union Army, and as my grandfather told it, a cavalry regiment, as he was a superior horseman. Frustratingly, he knew little, if anything about his service, save that at the end of the war, he was suffering severely from rheumatism and being heartily sick of the United States, returned home. All he could remember was peeking into a trunk, when his uncle was an old man, and seeing a sword and a “peaked blue cap.”
Sadly only one of his sisters in Ireland had any first hand recollection of him, the others being too young to remember him when he died. They did remember a long lost sword and produced a picture of a handsome, self assured looking gentleman, and told me that local lore said that he was an avid bird hunter as well as horseman, and that, rather than hunt on foot, using a dog to flush his prey, he would gallop across the fields with the barrel of a shotgun resting between the ears of the horse. The poor animal must have suffered chronic headaches after a day of killing grouse. How much of this is true, I don’t know. What has fascinated me over the years, was that here was a man who returned to his native home after finding that the land of promise was not what he expected or even wanted to be a part of. It has never been part of what we were taught in school.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Memorial Day 2000
In May, 2000, I was asked to deliver the Memorial Day speech at my town's parade. Harpswell is a small town of about 5,000, and the speech is delivered from the front of the Old Town Meeting House which was constructed in 1758. It is truly a Norman Rockwell event.
I would like to dedicate my remarks today to Sp4 Clark Douglas of Corning, NY; John Michael Rice of Indianapolis, Indiana; and LT. Brian J. O’Callahan of Alexandria, VA, three friends who will always remain young men in my heart, but who so richly deserved to go on to raise families and suffer the indignities of aging.
People began gathering together on this day, on what was known as Decoration Day to honor the fallen of the Civil War, those brave men, who rushed naively to the colors to save the Union and rid our country of the scourge of slavery. Once they had enlisted, most wondered almost immediately what they had gotten themselves into, and once they “saw the elephant,” their term for going into combat for the first time, they realized that dying for one’s country is not particularly glorious, and they never wanted to see it again.
But war did come again, and the armies passed on in time. We now honor the fallen of many wars and conflicts. The grand armies which spread out across the continent in the struggle to save the Union have become ranks of moss covered headstones. The endless lines of marching men, who fought the First World War from Flanders to the Pacific are now by a faint whisper in time, and the great armies which defended our country from the threat of fascism and communism in Korea are now in the winter years of their lives, and their stories are too quickly falling silent. Even the young men from Vietnam, who invaded the evening news, are nearing the autumn of their lives.
The real tragedy of the losses in all these wars is not so much the loss of the individual, who as the armies pass, is relegated to old photograph albums, remembered by a decreasing few, until none remain who knew him at all. The real tragedy is the loss of potential. We know not what great piece of literature bled away, unwritten, in the trenches of France, or what medical discovery was lost with the life of a young soldier on Okinawa or even Stalingrad, or what technological breakthrough was lost in the Mekong Delta. Perhaps an unborn descendent of one of the lost ones would have had the cure for AIDS or the knowledge of controlling fusion. We will never know what might have been.
If the sacrifice of our fallen brothers and sisters is to have any meaning in a world becoming increasingly smaller, we must also remember those others who fell wearing the jackets of field gray, wearing sandals made from old tires or who were incinerated in their tanks on their desperate retreat back to Bagdad, for like our own, they too had their hopes, their dreams, and their potential for good.
Some would say that on a day when we wrap ourselves in our flag, that what I have just said is inappropriate, but it is fitting and proper that we do this. One of the stories of the early celebrations of Decoration Day tells of a cemetery in which were buried both Union and Confederate dead. The graves of the Union soldiers had been covered with flowers by their loved ones, but when the families of the Confederates approached the local commandant to ask if they could place flowers on the graves of their loved ones, permission was denied.
During the night a breeze arose which blew the flowers from the Union graves, and in the morning the previously unadorned Confederate graves were covered with flowers, a tribute, many said from the Union fallen to their Southern brothers in arms.
In remembering all, we can protect the future and thereby honor the sacrifice of our own.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Frauenberg
In the spring of 1967, a group of us Americans studying at the Phillips Unversitaet in Marburg Germany packed up a lunch of hard rolls, salami, cheese and a bottle of South Tyrolean red wine and took ourselves out along the road, out of town to a small rise in the floor of the Lahn River valley, a place called “Frauenberg.”
After a long, never ending German winter, days of incessant drizzle and darkness, it is easy to see why the Germans in the spring would take to the woods and fields in droves. “Wanderlust” is not a German word for nothing. And unlike the coast of Maine, Germany had a real spring: days when the weather was clear as crystal; the air warm and gentle but not hot; the grass the deepest green, like the fields of Ireland.
The Frauenberg, lady’s mountain, or more probably Mountain of Our Lady, was topped by the stone ruins of a medieval cloister, only the remnants of a stone turret. Around and within were lilacs or some bush of similar type, their buds at the bursting point.
We sat on the grass, opened our bag and brought out the food we had brought with us. One of us, probably me, had a jackknife with which to slice the cheese and salami, while my roommate had carried along a corkscrew and a pair of glasses, which we would share, having been close friends for nearly a year, sharing everything from teabags to germs.
We sat and ate, licking the grease from the salami from our lips and fingers, passing the glasses around to swallow down the bread.
Above the sky was an indescribable, rich blue; the grass below an equally lush green. Birds rode in circles on the thermals rising from the ground. Down the valley, far off in the distance were dots where villages and now and then a tractor in the fields were. They sky and the grass became hazy in the distance until they blended into one on the horizon.
It has been 42 years since that day, and it has never left my memory.
After a long, never ending German winter, days of incessant drizzle and darkness, it is easy to see why the Germans in the spring would take to the woods and fields in droves. “Wanderlust” is not a German word for nothing. And unlike the coast of Maine, Germany had a real spring: days when the weather was clear as crystal; the air warm and gentle but not hot; the grass the deepest green, like the fields of Ireland.
The Frauenberg, lady’s mountain, or more probably Mountain of Our Lady, was topped by the stone ruins of a medieval cloister, only the remnants of a stone turret. Around and within were lilacs or some bush of similar type, their buds at the bursting point.
We sat on the grass, opened our bag and brought out the food we had brought with us. One of us, probably me, had a jackknife with which to slice the cheese and salami, while my roommate had carried along a corkscrew and a pair of glasses, which we would share, having been close friends for nearly a year, sharing everything from teabags to germs.
We sat and ate, licking the grease from the salami from our lips and fingers, passing the glasses around to swallow down the bread.
Above the sky was an indescribable, rich blue; the grass below an equally lush green. Birds rode in circles on the thermals rising from the ground. Down the valley, far off in the distance were dots where villages and now and then a tractor in the fields were. They sky and the grass became hazy in the distance until they blended into one on the horizon.
It has been 42 years since that day, and it has never left my memory.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Smelting
Written April 1969 while on leave before going to Vietnam, a strange time for me. Always in the back of my mind was the thought that I might be doing something for the last time, or seeing someone/something for the last time.
The broad Casco Bay narrows itself into one of its small coves bordered by gray, igneous cliffs, crowned with mantles of pine and moss. It is at the quiet end of this inlet, far from the surf and turbulent currents of the great ocean outside, where the sea is docile in the grip of the land, that a small brook chortles its errant way out of the dark woods, across the bucolic tranquility of an open meadow, through an island of aged pines, where, with a final chuckle, it trips over a small fall to lose its identity in the vastness which is the sea.
During that time of year when the earth renews itself, a traveler from the lonely deep returns to the place of its birth with those who came to life with him, intent on starting the cycle again. This is the smelt, who arrives in schools from the salty ocean to find a quiet fresh water stream and there to spawn.
These small green and silver fish, averaging about 8” in length, swim in with the tide during the hours of darkness, deposit their eggs and return to the depths from whence they came as the tide ebbs. To catch these fish, one requires a dip net, a flashlight and patience.
Bob and I set out on this one evening intent upon catching some of these fish, as they afford very good eating. The tide wasn’t due to be high until 11 PM, and the full moon gave promise of an extra flood. We parked our jeep in the field and hiked down into the grove of pines where the brook flows into the cove. All was quiet save for the laughter of the babbling of the brook as it flowed towards its own oblivion and the chorus of peepers.
The moonlight made the cliffs appear as pewter. By the moon we could see the cove open to the bay and the black line of the far shore. There were no lights and no human noise. No boat broke the calm of the silver glass.
Bob perched on a small overhanging rock and every few minutes the beam of his flashlight would play across the water, cutting the dark and making shiny reflections on the opposite cliff. We waited and watched for the arrival of the smelts.
At first there was nothing, only an occasional eel fingerling and the gleam of the mica on the bottom rocks. Then- one, then two and three green fish darted past the ray. We turned the light off and slowly dipped the net into the water, holding it as still as possible. The light went on again, and the water was alive with fish. I gave the net a quick scoop and hauled it dripping from the water into the harsh glare of the light. The twapping sound from the bottom of the net let us know we had caught a few, which we then emptied out into an awaiting pail. I placed the net slowly into the water again, and Bob shined the light over the spot where I had just trapped the smelt. Nothing; only a rock and some seaweed remained.
The beam of light shifted away searching for its elusive prey; the net awaited with hungry, open jaws. Bob spotted them! They had regrouped to run in again. I let the first go by and scooped the net again. A few more fish shared the fate of their ensnared companions.
And so it went on. The fish retreated, we waited, they ran again, and the hungry net struck.
The cold from the water pierced through my rubber boots and my hands were cold from the metal net handle, but I still braced excitedly each time Bob whispered, “Get ready.”
Finally the tide started to ebb, and the fish slowly disappeared. No longer do they run again after every scoop for they have returned to the deep, their task accomplished.
We gathered our equipment, a pail full of fish, which will never return, and headed off for the jeep and home, leaving the peepers to sing of the brook as it chortled away its identity into the retreating sea.
The broad Casco Bay narrows itself into one of its small coves bordered by gray, igneous cliffs, crowned with mantles of pine and moss. It is at the quiet end of this inlet, far from the surf and turbulent currents of the great ocean outside, where the sea is docile in the grip of the land, that a small brook chortles its errant way out of the dark woods, across the bucolic tranquility of an open meadow, through an island of aged pines, where, with a final chuckle, it trips over a small fall to lose its identity in the vastness which is the sea.
During that time of year when the earth renews itself, a traveler from the lonely deep returns to the place of its birth with those who came to life with him, intent on starting the cycle again. This is the smelt, who arrives in schools from the salty ocean to find a quiet fresh water stream and there to spawn.
These small green and silver fish, averaging about 8” in length, swim in with the tide during the hours of darkness, deposit their eggs and return to the depths from whence they came as the tide ebbs. To catch these fish, one requires a dip net, a flashlight and patience.
Bob and I set out on this one evening intent upon catching some of these fish, as they afford very good eating. The tide wasn’t due to be high until 11 PM, and the full moon gave promise of an extra flood. We parked our jeep in the field and hiked down into the grove of pines where the brook flows into the cove. All was quiet save for the laughter of the babbling of the brook as it flowed towards its own oblivion and the chorus of peepers.
The moonlight made the cliffs appear as pewter. By the moon we could see the cove open to the bay and the black line of the far shore. There were no lights and no human noise. No boat broke the calm of the silver glass.
Bob perched on a small overhanging rock and every few minutes the beam of his flashlight would play across the water, cutting the dark and making shiny reflections on the opposite cliff. We waited and watched for the arrival of the smelts.
At first there was nothing, only an occasional eel fingerling and the gleam of the mica on the bottom rocks. Then- one, then two and three green fish darted past the ray. We turned the light off and slowly dipped the net into the water, holding it as still as possible. The light went on again, and the water was alive with fish. I gave the net a quick scoop and hauled it dripping from the water into the harsh glare of the light. The twapping sound from the bottom of the net let us know we had caught a few, which we then emptied out into an awaiting pail. I placed the net slowly into the water again, and Bob shined the light over the spot where I had just trapped the smelt. Nothing; only a rock and some seaweed remained.
The beam of light shifted away searching for its elusive prey; the net awaited with hungry, open jaws. Bob spotted them! They had regrouped to run in again. I let the first go by and scooped the net again. A few more fish shared the fate of their ensnared companions.
And so it went on. The fish retreated, we waited, they ran again, and the hungry net struck.
The cold from the water pierced through my rubber boots and my hands were cold from the metal net handle, but I still braced excitedly each time Bob whispered, “Get ready.”
Finally the tide started to ebb, and the fish slowly disappeared. No longer do they run again after every scoop for they have returned to the deep, their task accomplished.
We gathered our equipment, a pail full of fish, which will never return, and headed off for the jeep and home, leaving the peepers to sing of the brook as it chortled away its identity into the retreating sea.
Friday, May 1, 2009
In Praise of the USO
We just returned from San Angelo, Texas where our daughter graduated from the Air Force’s Intelligence School, and without the jokes about Air Force and intelligence, I must say that it was very difficult and the graduates awarded sufficient graduate credit for half a master’s degree.
When we arrived in Dallas, Laura told us to head on down to the USO. Now, despite over 20 years between active and reserve duty, I had never come across a USO before.
According to my father, it was really big during WWII and nearly every train station where troops would be stopping had one. Our town’s recreation center, where I learned the fine points of basketball and tried to avoid the mother mandated fine points of ballroom dancing, was, during the war, a USO building for the air crews stationed at Brunswick Naval Air Station. A fairly massive Quonset hut-like structure made of brick and wood, it still stands and still hosts activities for members of the community.
But during the Vietnam war, I personally didn’t even know it existed. The airports at that time were filled with young men (mostly) in uniform traveling either to somewhere they really didn’t want to be or coming home on leave from the same. Travel in uniform was mandatory, we had either “military reserved” or “military stand-by” tickets, which required us to do so. This was the way until it was discovered that American servicemen in uniform were easy targets aboard hi-jacked airliners. And while traveling in uniform, one was hardly likely to get a friendly greeting from anyone but a family member at arrival. Older folks were the only ones that were not overtly hostile or at best dismissive of the kid in his new army greens.
I guess the USO was there, and perhaps I just never flew through airports that had one. So when Captain Laura advised us to visit the USO because they had “free food,” I went. It is out of the way, in a quiet corner of terminal B. Upon entry, I was asked, as in most military, or military type places if I had an ID. Even my “gray card” for old timers is honored. Inside was a snack bar with various types of sandwiches, burgers and hot dogs, all frozen, but with a micro-wave available. By the micro was a selection of soups, and next door was a well air-conditioned theater with a big screen TV playing a movie to a bunch of folks awaiting their next flight. The fellow behind the snack bar, a really friendly guy, gave me two turkey sandwiches, bags of chips and sodas, so I could also provide for my wife (Man, the hunter) who was down at the gate guarding our luggage. After putting a generous donation in the box and cranking up the microwave, I went my way back to gate B-29 and the flight to San Angelo.
As I grow older I become less bitter about the way we were treated during the Vietnam era and up to Desert Storm, but there is still a lingering sadness to it. What is great though, is there are folks like those at the USO and even TSA, who thank you for your service when they see the retired ID card. The hurt is also eased by the knowledge that the kids (even full colonels were not in high school when I was pounding the sand!) who are serving in uniform are treated with the respect they deserve and the intelligence which they possess.
If you have an occasion to donate to the USO, I thank you.
When we arrived in Dallas, Laura told us to head on down to the USO. Now, despite over 20 years between active and reserve duty, I had never come across a USO before.
According to my father, it was really big during WWII and nearly every train station where troops would be stopping had one. Our town’s recreation center, where I learned the fine points of basketball and tried to avoid the mother mandated fine points of ballroom dancing, was, during the war, a USO building for the air crews stationed at Brunswick Naval Air Station. A fairly massive Quonset hut-like structure made of brick and wood, it still stands and still hosts activities for members of the community.
But during the Vietnam war, I personally didn’t even know it existed. The airports at that time were filled with young men (mostly) in uniform traveling either to somewhere they really didn’t want to be or coming home on leave from the same. Travel in uniform was mandatory, we had either “military reserved” or “military stand-by” tickets, which required us to do so. This was the way until it was discovered that American servicemen in uniform were easy targets aboard hi-jacked airliners. And while traveling in uniform, one was hardly likely to get a friendly greeting from anyone but a family member at arrival. Older folks were the only ones that were not overtly hostile or at best dismissive of the kid in his new army greens.
I guess the USO was there, and perhaps I just never flew through airports that had one. So when Captain Laura advised us to visit the USO because they had “free food,” I went. It is out of the way, in a quiet corner of terminal B. Upon entry, I was asked, as in most military, or military type places if I had an ID. Even my “gray card” for old timers is honored. Inside was a snack bar with various types of sandwiches, burgers and hot dogs, all frozen, but with a micro-wave available. By the micro was a selection of soups, and next door was a well air-conditioned theater with a big screen TV playing a movie to a bunch of folks awaiting their next flight. The fellow behind the snack bar, a really friendly guy, gave me two turkey sandwiches, bags of chips and sodas, so I could also provide for my wife (Man, the hunter) who was down at the gate guarding our luggage. After putting a generous donation in the box and cranking up the microwave, I went my way back to gate B-29 and the flight to San Angelo.
As I grow older I become less bitter about the way we were treated during the Vietnam era and up to Desert Storm, but there is still a lingering sadness to it. What is great though, is there are folks like those at the USO and even TSA, who thank you for your service when they see the retired ID card. The hurt is also eased by the knowledge that the kids (even full colonels were not in high school when I was pounding the sand!) who are serving in uniform are treated with the respect they deserve and the intelligence which they possess.
If you have an occasion to donate to the USO, I thank you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
