Down at the shore I found a seagull feather stuck upright in the cultch facing, trembling into the southwest wind like a weathervane. The sou’westerly was driving the late autumn gray water up the channel against Wilson Ledge out in the middle of the bay, and the motion of the white caps looked like the white manes of horses racing up towards Brunswick where the ocean ends. And it made me think of how the ancient sea peoples all had beliefs of sea gods and spirits either astride horses or driving them in chariots. Sometimes when the air is more still you can hear the clucking and cooing of distant sea ducks, sounding like human voices. It is easy to see where the myths came from.
But I digress. I can do that, along with starting a sentence with a conjunction, because this is my space, and I am not submitting it for a grade. Besides, my two favorite story tellers, Garrison Keillor and Gary Anderson of the Harpswell Anchor newspaper, do it all the time, much to the enrichment of their tales. Mind you, I have nothing against English teachers. My instructors from junior and senior years in high school, Bob Hart and John Smith, members of the Greatest Generation, were truly inspiring and taught an immature kid how to write and think like an adult, even if he didn’t act like one. (I still don’t!)
But it wasn’t ancient sea myths that caught my attention. It was the fact that as a kid, I would have picked up the feather, tied a ribbon around my head and lit up into the woods to pretend I was an Indian. Now, playing that role was certainly not to denigrate Native Americans. We thought they were really cool. We wanted to be them.
Anyway, that thought led quickly, as my synapses started clicking, to the fact that kids can’t enjoy being kids. Those of my generation remember the excitement of cutting witches, ghosts and jack o’lanterns out of construction paper and plastering our classroom with them. Can’t do that anymore. Inappropriate. It promotes witchcraft. The Germans have a great word for that: Quatsch! It is pronounced, Kvatsch, by the way, and is a polite substitute for “Bull Shit.”
Christmas? The kids can’t even wish each other a merry one. My kids were not allowed to sing Christmas Carols, but they were made to sing Hanukah songs, and the Christmas assembly was watered down to a “winter assembly.” Am I missing something here? As I remember the one Jewish boy in my class, a friend to everyone and all round good guy, had as much fun with it as we did.
Valentines Day? Nope, can’t do that either. We spent days cutting out pink and red hearts, turned doilies into what passed as greetings and had a nice afternoon party. No one was excluded. We all, even us unpopular and ugly ones, looked forward to it. Grade school kids don’t care what you look like. We all got cards punched out of cheap sheets and all ate cake with pink icing, so that our mothers didn’t need to plan for supper that night.
Easter? Forget it. I don’t even need to go there.
The fact is, in our society’s wimpy and pathetic attempts to offend absolutely no one, we have watered everything down to the point where kids of today will have no memories.
I’ve got news: Life has winners and losers. I don’t believe in telling an eight year old he or she is already a loser, but our timid approach to everything is not a learning moment.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Influenza
I think I am the only person of my age who has any memories of the influenza pandemic of 1918. The memories of which I speak, are passed down, for there is no one left alive in my family who was old enough to have actually experienced it first hand. There are, however, vivid reminders of it at my aunt’s house in New Hampshire in the form of a small, white christening dress and a china headed doll, which once belonged to my Aunt Grace.
Grace was the oldest child of my grandparents, a bright, honey haired child, the darling of the neighborhood according to all accounts. In 1918, she and my uncle, who was about four years old and my two grandparents were the beginnings of a family which would, over the years, produce six children. My grandfather was working in Memphis, TN, designing sporting equipment, and my grandmother had returned with the two children to Chicopee, MA to be with her parents while she awaited the arrival of my father, whom she was carrying at the time.
Coincidently, my maternal grandfather was working in Springfield, MA as a civil engineer for the Boston and Maine Railroad.
The epidemic, by all accounts was frightening and ugly, for it cut down children and young adults in their prime, with extreme swiftness. Combat operations in World War I were held up as both sides dealt with devastating casualties, not from bullets but from viruses. It spread with such an alarming speed that it is still not known today, how and why it spread as fast as it did. Many, who would contract the disease, would survive and start to recover only to be stricken with pneumonia, which their weakened bodies could not resist.
Among those stricken were my Aunt Grace and Uncle Jim. My frantic grandmother called the local doctor, who came and made his assessment, “The little girl will be fine, but I’m afraid for the lad.” Grace began to recover but quickly worsened and became a casualty of the great epidemic. My uncle, however, did survive. But in her way, Grace lived on. When I was small, the whole family spoke of her as if she were just someone living too far away to visit, even though Uncle Jim was the only one who had known her. In that doll and small dress, she is still present in the family home.
My other grandfather, in the meantime, fell ill, and while lying abed in the front room of the house he was renting, could see the continuous funeral processions going by his window. Not a comforting sight, I am sure. Every home on his street lost someone.
Now, perhaps to even the score, I have never had the flu at all. In fact, I have only had one flu shot, inflicted on my by the Army in 1968 when there was fear of another big outbreak. In Vietnam, a medic flew out to the field to re-inoculate us against bubonic plague, but not the flu. As a 6th grader (1957-58), the Asian flu swept through emptying out schools. In my class of 25 or so, only Billy Field, who came to school in the winter with no socks, ill fitting hand-me-down shoes and no lunch, and I were the only ones untouched. In the panic of the ‘70’s even though, as a teacher I lived in the bacterial/viral soup that is an old school building, I was unaffected. And, I’m not losing sleep over H1N1. Maybe Aunt Grace is looking out for me. If she is, “Thank you.”
Grace was the oldest child of my grandparents, a bright, honey haired child, the darling of the neighborhood according to all accounts. In 1918, she and my uncle, who was about four years old and my two grandparents were the beginnings of a family which would, over the years, produce six children. My grandfather was working in Memphis, TN, designing sporting equipment, and my grandmother had returned with the two children to Chicopee, MA to be with her parents while she awaited the arrival of my father, whom she was carrying at the time.
Coincidently, my maternal grandfather was working in Springfield, MA as a civil engineer for the Boston and Maine Railroad.
The epidemic, by all accounts was frightening and ugly, for it cut down children and young adults in their prime, with extreme swiftness. Combat operations in World War I were held up as both sides dealt with devastating casualties, not from bullets but from viruses. It spread with such an alarming speed that it is still not known today, how and why it spread as fast as it did. Many, who would contract the disease, would survive and start to recover only to be stricken with pneumonia, which their weakened bodies could not resist.
Among those stricken were my Aunt Grace and Uncle Jim. My frantic grandmother called the local doctor, who came and made his assessment, “The little girl will be fine, but I’m afraid for the lad.” Grace began to recover but quickly worsened and became a casualty of the great epidemic. My uncle, however, did survive. But in her way, Grace lived on. When I was small, the whole family spoke of her as if she were just someone living too far away to visit, even though Uncle Jim was the only one who had known her. In that doll and small dress, she is still present in the family home.
My other grandfather, in the meantime, fell ill, and while lying abed in the front room of the house he was renting, could see the continuous funeral processions going by his window. Not a comforting sight, I am sure. Every home on his street lost someone.
Now, perhaps to even the score, I have never had the flu at all. In fact, I have only had one flu shot, inflicted on my by the Army in 1968 when there was fear of another big outbreak. In Vietnam, a medic flew out to the field to re-inoculate us against bubonic plague, but not the flu. As a 6th grader (1957-58), the Asian flu swept through emptying out schools. In my class of 25 or so, only Billy Field, who came to school in the winter with no socks, ill fitting hand-me-down shoes and no lunch, and I were the only ones untouched. In the panic of the ‘70’s even though, as a teacher I lived in the bacterial/viral soup that is an old school building, I was unaffected. And, I’m not losing sleep over H1N1. Maybe Aunt Grace is looking out for me. If she is, “Thank you.”
Monday, October 12, 2009
Leaf Peepers
I have spent the last two weekends in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, which are well known for the brilliant colors produced by the deciduous trees as one last orgasm before they go into suspended animation for the winter. Maples, poplars, birches and beeches turn from their various hues of green into gold, yellow and bright red. The oaks, meanwhile, less boisterous turn a dignified rust. The mountains, once stripped of their trees for a voracious timber industry have recovered, and are more than eager to show off that they have not been defeated. In the valleys, the small, gravel bottomed rivers are alive with the yellow and red boats the leaves make as they drift away toward the ocean on the gold water.
It is beauty such as this, that people from the world over come to marvel. But do they really see anything? The main highways coming in and out can be bumper to bumper with crawling traffic. But out in the mountains, one can still be very much alone, sometimes within feet of even the inter-state which follows the Pemigewassett River up into the mountains. Why?
The answer is simple: the people who come to see the beauty of nature flock into the several tourist towns along the road to buy trinkets made in the orient and decide which faux Nordic sweater or piece of Scotland they are going to take home with them. I suppose the area needs the business, and retail is what keeps the economy going, but I have never been able to fathom why folks would want to drive into such a special place and just shop. Why not stay home and do it, for God’s sake.
Ah but wait. If those who came for the foliage actually wanted to see it, I would not be able to enjoy the easy solitude of the mountains even on Columbus Day. Keep shopping, people.
It is beauty such as this, that people from the world over come to marvel. But do they really see anything? The main highways coming in and out can be bumper to bumper with crawling traffic. But out in the mountains, one can still be very much alone, sometimes within feet of even the inter-state which follows the Pemigewassett River up into the mountains. Why?
The answer is simple: the people who come to see the beauty of nature flock into the several tourist towns along the road to buy trinkets made in the orient and decide which faux Nordic sweater or piece of Scotland they are going to take home with them. I suppose the area needs the business, and retail is what keeps the economy going, but I have never been able to fathom why folks would want to drive into such a special place and just shop. Why not stay home and do it, for God’s sake.
Ah but wait. If those who came for the foliage actually wanted to see it, I would not be able to enjoy the easy solitude of the mountains even on Columbus Day. Keep shopping, people.
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