Friday, March 22, 2013
Three Score and Two, Brandywine River, Pennsylvania
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
90,000 Hits As of Today!!!
Thanks to everyone worldwide who has visited Looking Toward Portugal since
December 2008. This project has been more successful than I could have
ever imagined when I first started out. I hope you will continue to look in from time to time for
more random notes from the edge of America. Better yet, become a
follower.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Boissevain - A Poem
BOISSEVAIN
(You Probably Thought This Poem Was About You)
Vermont is where philosophy professors go to summer,
where poets and novelists hide in secluded cabins,
cottages, trailers, sequestered in rooms with wood stoves,
scribbling with pencils, tapping typewriters, staring
at the ghosts on their computer screens.
A philosopher poet sneaks into Vermont
from the north, no flatlander seeking respite
from Boston, Hartford, New York. He wanders
down from Montréal, the mean streets of Maisonneuve,
seeking solace in a Church Street bar
far from any other philosophers and poets.
Burlington’s businessmen drinks their beers,
nurse a scotch and water, a dry martini.
Some eye the pretty girl as she tends bar.
The philosophical poet is happy to be here.
“Mademoiselle, un autre biere si vous plait.”
He forgets he can order his beers in English,
flirt with the barmaid who smiles, not telling
him to fuck off in the language of love.
At a corner table a young woman sits alone,
sipping a glass of white wine and reading
a dog-eared volume of Vincent Millay’s poetry.
The poet cleverly inquires why she reads Millay.
She smiles at him; does not tell him to fuck off.
He sits, they eat, drink, and laugh through
the evening, leaving the Church Street bar
in the wee hours, footsteps hushed by the
the wind-driven onslaught of snowflakes hexagonal.
Strange how poetry seems to unlock all doors.
Later the poet stares beyond her darkened window;
the snow a hushed veil of urgent whiteness obscuring
the lake and the vestiges of the Adirondacks beyond.
Farther south the Taconic ridge where Vincent lived
at Steepletop, where she died alone and where
she now lies buried. She did not hide away in Vermont,
choosing Berkshire foothills over Green Mountains.
All the poet sees from this window is the snow ticking
in night shades, no three long mountains and a wood,
no three islands in a bay. There is only darkness.
In the morning the poet heads north and homeward,
along Lake Champlain and beside the Rivière Richelieu,
homeward to the eastern precincts of Montréal.
Who said it is Vermont where professors summer,
where poets and novelists go to find a reasons to write?
The poet can think only of a fleeting winter’s night of passion;
of poor Vincent, her bones in death’s cruel embrace.
In Maisonneuve he sits alone and tries to write a poem about it.
“Mademoiselle, un autre biere si vous plait.”
Monday, March 4, 2013
Tender Mercies: A Lenten Sermon
Tender Mercies
Isaiah 55: 1-6
Luke 13: 1-9
It is nice to be back among all of you this morning, and it is always an honor to have an opportunity to share a few thoughts with you during our Sunday morning worship services. When I entered college I harbored some thoughts of going into the ministry. It is funny how one’s life changes, how we follow new paths and opportunities as we mature and grow in directions we might not have ever considered. So it has been with me. I have never had a problem getting up in front of people and talking. But when I do, I am always confident that I have a good grasp of the facts and figures, the methodology, the results. I do not consider myself a Biblical scholar or a theologian. But I am a Believer. And really, how hard can it be to stand before others and say what you believe. Well, sometimes it is harder than you might think.
A couple weeks ago Sally Ann and I took a long drive down Interstate 95 from our home in Maryland to Gainesville, Florida. A distance of 800 miles covered in twelve hours of constant driving. The sun was rising as we approached the northern fringes of Richmond, and we watched the sun set as we arrived in Gainesville. It is a trip we have taken numerous times over the past four decades and one that I am quite certain I could complete in my sleep . . . while blindfolded. Choosing, however, to keep my eyes open and alert as we sped along our way, I noticed that the farther south we drove, the greener were our surroundings. The trees were beginning to leaf out and the dogwoods and redbuds were in full bloom as we passed through the Carolinas. The azaleas were just beginning to pop out in north central Florida. Not only had we driven south in time and space, we had also driven into a new spring.
This is what we have all come to expect with the advent of spring. A seasonal rebirth evidenced in the greening and flowering of plants and trees. These are symbols of life, of renewal, a new beginning.
The Lenten season is a time for us to look at our own spiritual rebirth. In fact, the word “Lent” is derived from the Old English “lencten,” which means spring time. A new time. A time to look at things from a fresh perspective after emerging out of a lean and hungry season. It is a time of following. The narrative about Jesus’ suffering and death provides a way in which we are able, in an act of disciplined imagination, to situate (or resituate) our lives in a manner by which we honor what God and Jesus have in store for us. We become aware that the story of Jesus - his life, death and resurrection - requires and permits us to create a new version of our own story of life and faith. How blessed can we be? We are very blessed, indeed.
It has been said that the purpose of the first part of Lent is to bring us to “compunction,” a word etymologically related to the verb "to puncture." In reading Scripture we are told that if we seek penance, we are also recognizing that we need to deflate our inflated egos, a challenge to any self-deceit we might harbor concerning the real and honest quality of our lives as disciples of Jesus Christ.
If you really think about it, this penance sought in the Lenten season may actually be more effective, might actually teach us a better lesson, if we fail in our resolutions rather than if we succeed. After all, isn’t the purpose of this penance more than just a confirmation of who we are, or who we think we are? Of what we think we may know and believe? Should it not make us stop and think long and hard about what we need to accomplish and understand in order to receive God’s salvation? Do we truly like what we see when we look into a mirror? Or do we see our flaws, those that are perhaps obvious to all, as well as those you have to look real . . . real close to see? Is the reflection in the mirror what we truly want to see when we take a good, long look at ourselves? Do we know who we are and where we are going? That is the meaning of repentance. At least this is what I believe. We need to look at ourselves in the person of Jesus Christ and have a genuine heart's desire to have his spirit shape our lives.
I am reminded of a story told of an Anglican bishop traveling from London to a rural village to perform a confirmation service. Somehow, during the course of the trip, he managed to misplace his ticket, and appearing somewhat flustered when he was unable to produce it when asked, the conductor smiled and said: "It's quite all right, my lord, of course I know who you are." Still the bishop looked perturbed and replied, "Yes, but don’t you see? Without the ticket, I don't know where I am going." It is not enough for us just to be here; we need to know our purpose; we need to know who we are. We must be able to recognize that face in the mirror. And more importantly, we must be satisfied by what we see. Growth in our lives and in our faith is not so much advancing one’s self as it is becoming oneself. Being who you really are when you take a good look at yourself in the mirror.
Think back on the two readings from Scripture this morning. Reading and listening to the words of Isaiah 55 we see and hear a prophetic song in which God promises mercy, forgiveness, and abundant provisions to those who seek to repent and put their trust in God.
In the second of this morning’s Scripture readings - Luke 13 - we encounter Jesus as he traveled and taught his way from Galilee to Jerusalem. He learned that Pontius Pilate had ordered the killing of a number of Galileans as they were offering sacrifices, their blood being mingled with that of the sacrificial animals. We also learn that eighteen others had died when the Tower of Siloam in Jerusalem fell on them. Jesus asked those gathered around him whether they thought these unfortunate victims were worse sinners or offenders than anyone else living in Galilee or Jerusalem? Jesus told them no. They just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. That said, however, Jesus reminded his followers that this fate awaits all, regardless of their lives, whether they be rich or poor, regardless of their circumstances . . . this fate awaits all who fail to repent and return to God. All will perish.
Jesus then told his followers the story, or the parable, of the fig tree: A vineyard owner has planted a fig tree in his vineyard because it is this land where there is sufficient water and nutrients to nourish the tree. And he knew, if he waited long enough, if he was patient long enough, he would be able to go to his vineyard and gather the figs he expects to find there. But the tree has been barren for three years. There are leaves as the fig nourishes itself in the good ground of the vineyard, but it produces no fruit. The owner asks himself why he should bother with the fig tree if it bears no fruit, if it is only taking up space in the vineyard? He orders the trees cut down and cast away as useless. The gardener who works for the owner . . . obviously a more patient man than the owner . . . cautions against such rash action. Perhaps if the tree was better fertilized, it might finally bear fruit the following year. If not, then it could be cut down.
We need only look back to Psalm 80: 8-16 - here the people of Israel are equated with a grapevine brought out of Egypt. They were allow to grow and to be properly nurtured in the land they returned to. The ground was cleared of all foreign nations and the people of Israel were allowed to put down deep roots overspreading the land. But this was possible only as long as the people were protected and nurtured. When the walls set up to protect them were removed, their enemies returned to this land . . . the fruit was stolen and the vine chopped down and set on fire. When people came to the Jordan River to be baptized, John called them to repentance. His words were harsh and unrelenting: "Even now," he said, "the ax is lying at the root of the trees. Every tree, therefore, that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire." As we read in Mark 11:12–14, three years and more Jesus sought fruit of a fig tree and found none. Having produced all his credentials as Messiah, Jesus made a triumphal entry into Jerusalem with the crowds shouting “Hosanna” as if to glorify him. Yet how soon was it before these same people called for him to be crucified. The next day Jesus saw a fig tree and finding nothing but leaves, He cursed it. The sin . . . the failure of the fig tree in not producing fruit . . . is not that it did something bad. It did nothing at all. It did not produce the desired fruit. It only took up space in the vineyard and consumed water and nutrients which the other more productive plants and trees required.
The lesson here is very simple. Genuine repentance and faith toward Jesus Christ is the only means of escape from perishing. Nothing can be expected from those who fail to repent and turn away from their barren and hypocritical lives. Just like the fig tree that is cut down and cast off, so too those who fail to recognize their shortcomings, failures and weaknesses, who fail to repent and seek God’s forgiveness. The question for God is . . . how long does he wait until repentance comes to a nation, a church, or an individual? Maybe the vineyard is the whole earth. Maybe it's the church. Maybe it's your life and mine.
We can take comfort in God’s tender mercies. God and Jesus are not going to give up on any of us . . . you, me, the church, the whole earth. Read the parable of the fig tree again. There's hope in this parable . . . patience, don't cut the tree down. But there's also urgency . . . give it one more year. Still, Jesus' parable moves in the direction of a promise more than a threat. But don’t let that stop you from doing what you are doing. Or what you know you need to do.
Take a real long look at yourself in the mirror. Look way down deep. That torn place that perhaps fear or ignorance has opened up inside of you is a holy place. Take a good look around while you are there. Pay attention to what you feel. It may hurt you to stay there, and it may hurt you to see what you see, but it is not the kind of hurt that leads to death. It is the kind of hurt that leads to the promise of a new life.
"What have you done?" Jesus asks, "What have you left undone?" Such questions, like the parable and the fate of the fig tree, move us toward repentance, a word that means to turn around, to believe things can be different, to trust that the one who calls us to turn around will be there even when we fail.
What a grace time can be for us....to have space and time to grow, to mature spiritually, to reform our lives, to serve the Lord and remove the obstacles, big and small, between God and ourselves . . . between us and others. Look at what we put Jesus through and still God has not given up on us. We are graced with time, yet we must use it wisely. This Lenten season is the offer of the gardener to the vineyard owner. Patience . . . give it more time.
A merciful God made us with what we need to be better than we are now. We are not seeking to turn to some new way. We seek only to turn (or return) to God whom we have had with us all the way although we might sometimes forget this. God is merciful enough to wait for us to discover that. Repentance is not about the past. It is about the future!!
Jesus told his followers in Luke 21:29-31: "Look at the fig tree, and all the trees. When they are already budding, you see and know for yourselves that summer is now near. So you, likewise, when you see these things happening, know that the kingdom of God is near." Similarly, in Matthew 24:32: "Now learn this parable from the fig tree: When its branch has already become tender and puts forth leaves, you know that summer is near." Jesus is simply using the budding of the fig tree to illustrate a point about his second coming.
We have no idea how soon it will be. The best approach, perhaps, is contained in the apostle Paul's admonition to the Romans to repent and seek God’s salvation, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep; for now our salvation is nearer than perhaps we first believed. If we live as if Christ will come tomorrow, we will always be striving to be prepared for it.
So what about the future? Here it is the first days of March. The spring Sally Ann and I drove into a couple weeks ago as we drove south is now moving this direction. It will be here soon. Already I am beginning to see buds on some of the trees. The daffodils and the crocuses are popping out of the winter soil. There is promise of new life, renewal, a new beginning.
God’s tender mercies will never fail us. With these tender mercies he cares for us and all of his people. Such is the comfort of the word of God to us. Let us look to Jesus Christ as we ask him to help us be the people we truly want to be. And let him help us to treat others as we ourselves wish to be treated, to be shaped by what Paul, to the Galatians, calls “the fruit of the Spirit,” which includes love, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, and a great deal more [Galatians 5:22-23].
Saturday, March 2, 2013
They Say the Wells Are Freezing
Friday, March 1, 2013
Neither A Lion Nor A Lamb
It all depends where you live. Here in Maryland, however, it is difficult to say what March might have in store for us in the way of weather. I am just happy that February is behind us. I have never had much love for this shortest of months. Thankfully I bid it a hasty farewell.
Meteorologists have long considered March 1 the first day of spring. However, the traditional beginning of the spring season, the Vernal Equinox (also known as the March or Northward Equinox), does not usually occur in the northern hemisphere until around March 20. I was born on March 21 and my family and I have always considered myself a “spring baby.”
Just about a month ago, Punxsutawney Phil, that prognosticator of prognosticators, stepped out of his hole on a cold morning in central Pennsylvania and announced to the world (or at least to central Pennsylvania) that he did not see his shadow and that we might expect an early spring. Whether you believe Phil or not, this February has been one of the snowiest in recent memory, especially here in the East. Much of the country still seems to be in the strong grasps of winter as cold fronts and storm systems continue to work their way across the country from west to east. The latest GPS models posted today suggest that a significant winter storm may impact the Mid-Atlantic states sometime in the coming week, although it appears that the Washington metropolitan area will see nothing more than rain, or possible a wintry mix.
The changeable weather brings about a whole different type of “March Madness.” This is the month that college students traditionally head to warmer climes to celebrate their annual spring break from the books. Back in my day students more often than not headed for the Florida beaches. Having attended college in Florida, this was never a big draw for me; I could go to the beach any time I wanted. Now, many head to the beaches of Texas, and to Mexico where the dollar goes just a little further.
Still, there is no doubt that spring is quickly approaching. Driving by the local elementary school I see colored flowers taped to the windows instead of snowflakes. Here in Maryland sailors and boatyard workers will celebrate the “Burning of the Socks.” They only wear socks during the winter months, and with the arrival of warmer temperatures, it will be time to cast the sock aside until the cold returns in late autumn. The days are gradually warming up, and the sap is beginning to rise in the local sugar maples. Soon the buckets will be hanging from the taps and the sugarhouses will be producing this year’s maple syrup and sugar products.
Another sign of approaching spring is the daffodils and crocuses beginning pop out of the dormant winter soil. Think of Act IV, Scene 4 of William Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale. Perdita exclaims:
O Prosperina,
For the flowers now, that frighted thou let’st fall
From Dis’s waggon! daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and takes
The winds of March with beauty . . . .
Should we be aware of the Ides of March and what it signifies? Maybe winter isn’t over yet.
Now I think back to that old saying about the month of March - in like a lion, out like a lamb - although given the strange weather patterns, the opposite might just as well be true. This wisdom, which finds it origins in the positions of the constellations of Leo and Aries during mid-March, is traced back to John Fletcher’s (1579-1629) Wife of a Month (1624/1647). “I would chuse March, for I would come in like a lion . . . But you would go out like a lamb when you went to [a] hanging.” One can also trace it back to the Catalogue of English Proverbs (1670).
Who knows what March will bring? Maybe a little more winter? Maybe an early spring? Patience my friends. It will be what it will be.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
The Most Constant of Friends
~ Charles W. Eliot
This is a revised, updated and somewhat expanded version of two essays which first appeared on my “literary” blogspot - “Epiphanies in the rue Sansregret” - in late 2009 and early 2010.
____________________
The Brazilian novelist and journalist Paulo Coelho (The Alchemist, The Pilgrimage, The Winner Stands Alone, and Aleph) has for many years shown an intensive interest in the Internet and its ability to increase access to literature and other media. In August 2008, he wrote in his blog that “books are trendier than ever - people are reading again, and writing again and why? Internet.” A couple months later he delivered a keynote address, “The Internet’s Impact on Culture,” at the Frankfurt Book Fair. He believed the Internet, as well as the Kindle and the Nook, was making books obsolete.
The December 2009 issue of Playboy magazine featured Coehlo’s essay, “Dust in the Wind,” in which he addressed the question of why he was breaking up his personal library. He confessed that he no longer had many books; years ago he decided to keep only 400 books (give or take a few); books he found himself frequently rereading along with a few that had sentimental value. The remainder he donated to a public library where they might be used and enjoyed by others. “Why should I keep all these books at home? To show friends I am cultured? To decorate the walls?”
When I originally read Coehlo’s essay in late 2009, I looked at my offices both at home and at work, and the walls of books in our bedroom and den, and I began to think that Coelho may have a good point. He originally kept all of his books, thinking that one day he would need to consult one or another. Later, considering that the Internet has become one of the most comprehensive reference libraries in the world, he decided to share his books with others, “trying to obtain a maximum quality with a minimum amount of things.” Coehlo continued to purchase books, but once he finished them, he allowed them to travel “like the mind of the author traveled as he wrote it.” He now believes that “a book has a course of its own and should not be condemned to remain immobilized on a shelf.”
I must confess that I love books. I always have. So it has been difficult for me to imagine ever giving them up, even after I have read them. That said, I have begun to understand why Coelho decided to simplify his life. There comes a time when one must face the consequences of a lifetime of buying and saving books.
In late 2009 my former office at the Department of Justice in Washington, DC had floor to ceiling bookcases covering two entire walls, and other books were piled here and there wherever space was available. Every time my wife visited she would look at all of these books, shake her head, and inquire where I intended to put them once I retired. A levitate question although at the time I had no concrete plans to retire. So, in my mind anyway, it was a moot point. My response was quick and to the point. “I haven’t got the faintest idea.” On top of all this, new books seemed to appear almost daily as out of thin air. Another one for this pile or that.
At home our den and bedroom have floor to ceiling bookcases packed tight with our favorite books, and there is frequently an overflow of books stacked up next to each side of our bed, and by the couch in the den. Add to this bookcases in the basement along with the many boxes of books packed up in storage. Most of these date back to college and graduate school, and although I have no suitable place to display them, I have always held fast to the notion that one day that space will somehow miraculously materialize.
The fate of the books in my office? I was faced with the dilemma sooner than I expected, and in March 2010 I did, in fact, retire and the hens came home to roost. I finally had to decide what I was going to do with all of those books. My wife and I braved a winter storm, driving into downtown DC to begin packing up my office, including these three plus decades of accumulated books. There were books that had sentimental value, and others I knew I would need at some point in the future. Like Coehlo, I would want to keep these. Would I be able to keep this number to 400? Only time would tell. We crated up over three dozen boxes, most of them books, which we brought home. Several other boxes of books moved from my office to the section’s library where my colleagues would continue to use them. Finally, we packed up more boxes which I loaded into our car, navigating a snow-packed Pennsylvania Avenue to a small bookstore on Capitol Hill. While the owner unpacked each box for inspection, his wife invited me into an adjoining room where she offered me a piping hot cup of coffee as I told her how I had come to accumulate so many books. They both understood how difficult it was for me to part with them, and they were generous, buying about half of what I brought in. The rest I donated to the store for its “books cheap” program to benefit the local neighborhood association . . . the idea being to find them a good home. Sounded good to me; Coehlo would have been proud. I made my way back through the snow to my office with a few bucks in my pocket, enough to buy a nice dinner for us when we finished our packing at the end of the day.
I cannot see myself ever not buying a new book. But Coelho may have found an equitable solution to this dilemma. Perhaps it is time to let some of these older books travel seeking their own course. Do I really need to decorate my walls with books, many of which I will never open again, to show that I am an intellectual and cultured individual? I still prefer to pick up a book when I am doing research. But I definitely like the idea of sharing books with others, especially those I no longer have need of. And, to be honest, I just don’t have anywhere to put them.
For the past three years those dozens of boxes of books brought home from my office have sat squeezed into the basement wherever there is space. And just like when she used to visit my office, my wife looks at them and asks me what I plan to do with them. Well, there is still no room for them here at home and so I am going to have to start making some of the hard decisions I have been putting off until another time. That time has finally arrived.
I have moved the car out into the driveway and have now unpacked all the books which lie stacked on two long tables in the garage. The sorting process has begun and I am trying to decide which books I am going to keep for whatever reason. Some I just cannot part with and so I will find room for these. I put a few interesting history books into a box which I gave to my son’s father-in-law who shares my interest in various historical topics. He was very happy to have them. When you give someone a book, you are giving them the most imaginative of gifts, because you are taking a personal interest in what interests them.
But what to do with the stacks of books for which I have no room? It is time to find them a new home. Perhaps I will be able to sell a few more, but when it all sorts out, I will probably do the same thing Coehlo did . . . donate them to a library which will share them with others. Perhaps I could get more money, if I continued to shop them around to various book stores, but frankly, I am not interested in the money. If I was, I would have acted long before now. I will be happy just to find a proper new home for my most constant of friends.
Thomas Jefferson, in his aging years at Monticello, offered to sell his private library to the US government in Washington to help rebuild the Library of Congress collections that were lost when the British sacked and burned he capital in September 1814. His library had grown so large that he could no longer accommodate it, nor did he have the time, energy nor the inclination to read all that he had collected over the years. Not only would these books be welcomed in Washington, but the monies from the sale would go far to help offset the growing debts of Jefferson’s estate. In April 1815, several wagons containing almost 7000 volumes made their way to Washington and John Adams, Jefferson’s longtime friend and confident (and sometimes bitter nemesis) applauded the gesture as an “immortal honor.” Jefferson, finding it impossible to survive without his books, began to establish a new library at Monticello.
The bookish Adams could well understand his friend’s plight as his own personal library at Peacefield, his farm in Quincy, Massachusetts, numbered well over 3000 volumes. And still he wished to continue to increase his collection, as he once confessed to Jefferson. “What would I give to possess in one immense mass, one stupendous draught, all the legends, true and false.” This collection was deeded to the town of Quincy in 1826, two years before Adam’s death, and was eventually incorporated into the Boston Public Library, in 1894. Adam’s son, John Quincy Adams, who served as the sixth President of the United States, eventually authorized the construction of a Gothic Revival stone library adjacent to the Peacefield residence which was completed in 1873, a quarter of a century after his death. Today it houses over 14,000 volumes belonging to him and other members of the Adams family.
So perhaps my donation of my personal library will serve as my own “immortal honor”? Had I the means, I would certainly follow in the footsteps of John Quincy Adam and build a library to house all of my most constant friends. Instead, I plan to send them forth as my personal emissaries. Let them enlighten others as they have enlightened me.
Friday, February 22, 2013
A Seafood Extravaganza - Part 2
The rest of my seafood extravaganza was not to be!
I departed Gainesville as planned on a very cold yet sunny day. The temperature was hovering just above the freezing mark and there was frost on the ground as I began my northward journey up Florida Route 24 and US 301, through the speedtrap hamlets of Waldo and Lawtey. I passed several strawberry fields in Alachua and Bradford counties on my way to Jacksonville, most of which were encrusted with ice. I thought to myself . . . there is something dreadfully wrong with this picture. Just a week before I had passed this way on my southbound journey and the temperatures were hovering around 80F at sunset. The week I spent in Florida most days were lucky to climb into the 60s, if that.
But I had other things on my mind. I was up- and outward bound with the idea of dining on some fresh Georgia seafood by lunchtime. A little over two hours after departing Gainesville, I was crossing the St. Marys River and passing from Florida into Georgia. The St. Marys region is the gateway to Cumberland Island, Georgia's largest and southernmost barrier island which is home to pristine maritime forests and marshes and undeveloped beaches and almost ten thousand acres of Congressionally designated wilderness area (one of the few things I can thank Congress for these days). Unfortunately for me, Cumberland Island is only accessible by ferry and my timetable did not allow me to return to the island I first visited forty years ago this month, around the same time the island, which was once owned by the Carnegie family, was deeded to the US government and designated by Congress as a National Seashore managed by the National Park Service. I am sorry I did not have a chance to return and see what it looks like today.
I continued up Interstate 95 to Brunswick with the intention of visiting Jekyll and St. Simon islands, two more of Georgia’s famed barrier islands, which I also first visited forty years ago. This is a region of unsullied marshlands and small islands known as hammocks, extending out to the barrier islands and populated with birds, fish and other marine life.
The southernmost island of Georgia’s Golden Isles is Jekyll Island which was originally purchased in 1886 by a group of wealthy families as a private retreat. By 1900, The Jekyll Island Club included representatives of the Rockefeller, Morgan, Crane and Gould families which at the time represented almost 20% of the world’s wealth. The Club closed in 1942 and Jekyll Island was purchased by the State of Georgia in 1947 and is presently managed by the Jekyll Island Authority. When I first came here in the late winter of 1972, I don’t recall it being very developed . . . it was well-known for beaches and its wide variety of seashells and sand dollars. So I thought it would be fun to have a look around the place and perhaps sample the local seafood. I followed the causeway out to the island until I arrived at the entrance gate where I would be charged what I considered to be an exorbitant rate to just drive around the island. On top of that there was a $6 daily parking surcharge. It seems to me the State of Georgia wanted the Rockefellers and the Morgans to return.
I took the first available u-turn and backtracked along the South Brunswick River to the Sydney Lanier Bridge, Georgia’s longest (7780 feet) and tallest (486 feet) cable-stayed suspension bridge providing easy access to Brunswick and St. Simon Island. It is named in honor of the Macon-born poet (1842-1881) who wrote the “Marshes of Glynn” (1878), an evocative long poem featured in "Hymns of the Marshes," an unfinished set of lyrical nature poems about the beautiful marshlands of this region. After crossing the bridge I actually crossed over the Marshes of Glynn on the Torras Causeway (there are designated “Terrapin Crossings” during the May-July migration) to St. Simon Island, the largest of the Golden Isles. Here I drove though the winding Spanish moss-draped roadways into the village at the southern end of the island surrounding the 1872 lighthouse still in operation. The original lighthouse, constructed in 1810, was destroyed by Confederates in 1862 to prevent its use by Federal forces.
I parked here and wandered around the lighthouse and the village pier which afforded me a broad panorama of the Brunswick River estuary. I browsed through the shops and galleries along Mallery Street, the skies remaining sunny yet the temperature hovering only in the mid 50s with a crisp breeze coming off the water.
I finally settled into a local eatery for a platter of large succulent oysters. Hoping they were local, but learning they were from Galveston, Texas, they were too good to pass up. I followed this with a generous portion of local wild Georgia white shrimp wrapped in Southern-cured bacon served with various dipping sauces and all washed down with a delicious toasted lager.
After lunch I resumed my northward journey, returning to the mainland and following US Route 17 to Darien, on the banks of the Altamaha River. I poked around the waterfront shrimping operations and Fort King George, which is Georgia's oldest fort constructed in 1721 and at the time the southern-most outpost of the British Empire in North America. The fort was abandoned in 1727 following attacks from the Spanish. The town, establish in 1736, is the second oldest in the state. Darien and McIntosh County registered some of the highest oyster harvests in the world in the late 19th and early 20 centuries, rivaling even the Chesapeake Bay, yet the industry went into a long decline after 1910 as a result of over harvesting (which perhaps explains why I could not find local oysters during my recent lunch stop). As the oysterbeds declined, a new commercial wild shrimp fishery developed, and by the early 1960s, Darien and McIntosh County had the largest shrimping fleet along the Georgia coast. Yet today, Georgia's shrimping industry struggles to survive against foreign competition, a story you hear up and down the Atlantic Seaboard.
From Darien I took scenic Georgia Route 99, the old Ridge Road, running along the edges of the coastal marshes between the mainland and Sapelo Island, one of the northernmost of the Golden Isles of Georgia which for many years was the private fiefdom of the RJ Reynolds family and is now the home of the Sapelo Island National Estuarine Research Reserve. I eventually wound my way back to I-95 and from that point it was a short hop up to Savannah which was my day’s destination.
I settled into my motel looking toward to an evening exploring the older precincts of the city bordering the Savannah River. I was particular excited with the prospects having never really visited the city after closely bypassing it all these many years. Two years ago we were suppose to spend a few days here while I was attending a literary conference, but our plans changed suddenly when we had car problems on the way down and we never made it. I had dinner reservations at a fantastic place recommended by a friend and I thought this would be a perfect end to a most pleasant day. Alas, it was not to be. I began feeling ill - it turned out to be a touch of the flu - and it only got worse as the dinner hour approached. To make a long story short, I canceled the reservation and spent a long and most unpleasant evening in my hotel room. There is nothing worst than falling ill on the road.
The next morning it was only worse. There was no way I was going to make it to Charleston and to the Outer Banks as planned. Instead, I steeled myself and set out on a nine-hour, 600 mile trip up I-95. I figured, if I am going to be sick, I would rather do it at home. To make matters worse, it rained almost steady all the way home.
Now I sit here drinking tea and eating nothing more adventurous than chicken and beef broth and pots of tea. No more oysters, crab, shrimp and other bounties of the sea for me. That will have to await another time and opportunity.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
A Seafood Extravaganza - Part 1
I am just about one week into what is turning out to be a very rewarding road trip. We departed our Maryland home in the predawn darkness this past Tuesday morning. The temperature was in the high 20s and the sun only began to peek over the eastern horizon as we approached the northern fringe of Richmond Virginia. Thirteen hours after our departure, and 800 miles later, we arrived in Gainesville, Florida just as the sun was dropping below the western horizon. The temperature stood at 80F. I have driven this route so may times over the past 37 years I think I can do it in my sleep while blindfolded. And the farther south we drove, the greener were our surroundings. The trees were beginning to leaf out and the dogwoods and redbuds were in full bloom, and the azaleas are just beginning to pop out here in north central Florida. Not only had we driven south, we had driven into spring. Or so we thought.
The day after we arrived the skies were overcast and the temperature began to drop into the 60s and eventually into the 50s. After sitting in the car all day on the trip down, this was a day to relax and unwind. I am reading Orhan Pamuk’s sophomore novel, Silent House, which was originally published in Turkey on 1983 but only recently released in an English translation. I also brought along some writing projects and notes which require some attention even when I am away from home. So this was my original plan when we left home; a quiet and pleasant venue where I might catch up on my reading and writing.
Our first day here in Gainesville I snuck off to my favorite sushi place for a relaxed lunch of über-fresh sashimi and tuna maki rolls served with wasabi seaweed and miso soup and Kirin beer on draft. Little did I know that I was setting the theme for this trip. There is also another restaurant in town that serves some of the best sushi-grade ahi tuna encrusted with white and black sesame seeds and topped with roasted red peppers, green onions and a garlic ginger soy wasabi sauce. It is almost worth the drive down here! So I figured this visit could evolve into a regular seafood extravaganza, if I planned it right.
The next day we drove over to Cedar Key, on the Gulf of Mexico. I had been there a couple years ago and fell in love with the sweet-tasting littleneck clams from the local aquiculture beds surrounding the island. I could almost taste them on the hour or so drive to Cedar Key. Unfortunately the weather was not the best with overcast skies, unseasonably cool temperatures, and a few drops of rain. Still we were able to enjoy our walk along the ramshackle streets and waterfront that strikes me as a smaller and certainly more sedate version of Key West. As bent as I was on eating clams, my mind and tastes suddenly shifted gears as we rolled into town past several signs hawking stone crab claws. They are only available during a short season and are often hard to find in markets and restaurants even then. And when you do find them, they can be prohibitively expensive. Having just arrived in Florida I had not realize that they might be available now. Soon I was belly up to a table in a local clam bar where I slurped down the local oysters (the main diet of stone crab and therefore, in my mind, more appropriate than clams) and feasted on a pound of steamed and cracked stone crab claws served with the traditional horseradish mustard. And all washed down with pints of a local microbrew. Not only is the claw meat exquisite, but the fact that only the claws are harvested while the crab is returned to the water where they regenerate in new (and equally tasty) claws. A truly sustainable seafood! So the seafood extravaganza was well underway!
One of the main reasons I came to Florida at this time was that I was scheduled to delivered a talk at my alma mater, Florida Southern College. This necessitated a trip from Gainesville down to Lakeland where we also had an opportunity to visit with old friends and college chums. Afterwards we took a side-trip over to the Gulf coast and Tarpon Springs where I visited with my mom, who is also down in Florida for a few days visiting friends and old neighbors, and where we all went to dinner at one of my favorite seafood joints in that area. I feasted on Greek-style steamed shrimp (marinated in extra virgin cold-pressed olive oil and lemon juice before steaming) and served with a horiatiki [village] salad consisting of cucumbers, tomatoes, pepperocinis, red onions, green peppers, kalamata olives, thick slabs of feta cheese, sprinkled with lemon juice and drenched in an oregano and garlic-infused red wine vinegar dressing. OMG! Can one ever get enough of this wonderful seafood?
This afternoon we drove out to Cross Creek, made famous in the books of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, which is situated less than twenty miles southeast of here. My first blog posting back in December 2008 was the result of a visit to the Rawlings farm and orange groves at Cross Creek - http://lookingtowardportugal.blogspot.com/2008/12/down-on-creek-notes-from-florida.html
I returned there a couple of years ago after which I wrote inter alia about a meal I enjoyed at The Yearling restaurant just up the road from the Rawlings farm -
http://lookingtowardportugal.blogspot.com/2011/04/cracker-chidlings-dispatches-from.html
I was disappointed last time I was there as there was no cooter (soft-shell freshwater turtle) available; almost all of it was being sent to Japan. So this afternoon the great cooter quest began anew. Besides this delicacy, I was once again looking forward to digging into a platter of cracker swamp food. Disappointment, however, reigned supreme when I did not find cooter on the menu (although the restaurant’s motto still remains “Eat Mo Cooter!” It is once again protected as an endangered species by US Fish and Wildlife. And well it should be, I guess (it is probably endangered because it tastes so damn good!). This disappointment did not stop me from savoring a plate full of succulent frog legs, soft-shell crab and catfish and the ubiquitous hushpuppy. Hmmmmm, boy howdy! The "seafood" extravaganza continues!
When I planned for this now almost annual late winter sojourn in Florida, my original intention was to spend the next few weeks here in Gainesville, returning home in early March. This is a trip I have made over the past three years; an opportunity to escape the cold and damp of a Maryland February. Instead, I reconsidered my original options and current timetables and strategies, and changed my mind. Instead of remaining here, I am departing tomorrow morning after less than a week in the Sunshine State. I have decided, however, to forego one more breakneck trip home and take a few days to explore coastal Georgia and the Carolinas, areas that we by-pass virtually without notice each time we scurry up and down Interstate 95 between Washington, DC to Florida.
Tomorrow will be an easy day as I am only driving as far as Savannah. An early start to the day will afford me an opportunity to sample the wild Georgia shrimp as I make my way north from Jacksonville via Brunswick, Jekyll and St. Simon islands and the low country between there and Savannah. And tomorrow night I will be dining on more delicious seafood as the extravaganza continues. More reports to follow.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
A Joyful Noise: Two Sermons - Part 2
Some Body That We Used to Know?
1 Corinthians 12:12-31
I must admit that I feel humbled standing before you this morning. Pastor Jill has asked me to fill in for her at the last minute when today’s guest pastor was forced to cancel unexpectedly. I will freely admit that I am not a pastor, nor am I a Biblical scholar or a theologian of note. I am one of you, standing here before you asking, I hope, the same questions you are and looking for the same answers. We are one and the same, united in the body of Christ. So I want to share a few thoughts with you this morning and I thank you for your patience and indulgence.
If you are at all plugged into the current pop music scene, then you are more than likely familiar with the phenomenal success of the Belgian-Australian singer Gotye and his hit song “Somebody That I Used to Know.” If you have heard it, you will remember it; it is one of those catchy tunes that burrows into your skull and you just can’t seem to shake it. I liked it the first time I heard it, and this is good, because it a hard one to forget and I find myself singing it under by breath as I go about my daily routine. He is singing about a single person, a somebody that he use to know that has left him alone and feeling rough, mistreated and unwanted.
The title of this morning’s sermon, a reworking of the song’s title, is not referring to a single individual, but rather the collective body, a sum of its individual parts. If we look back at today’s Scripture reading - 1 Corinthians 12:12-31 - we can see that this is the foundation of Paul's argument to affirm, against the arrogance and self-centeredness of many of the Corinthians, that all members of the body are needed and that despite whether the weaker members are convinced of their place, or whether the stronger members are not convinced of the weaker person's place in the body, God is the One who has placed all the members in the body and who works with them so that there might be no obvious divisions. God condemns division.
As it was for the Corinthian and others to whom Paul brought the good news, so too it is for all of us. We - all of us - are a single body in Christ and the survival of that body is dependent on each one of us bringing our individual gifts and talents into play so that the body, the community, can survive and be whole. It makes no difference what color our skin might be, what nation we come from, what language we speak, the manner in which we worship and pray, who we choose to love, or whether we are rich or poor. We are all equal in the eyes of God. And God want us to be together, to stay together, to work and play together. The body, Paul tells us, cannot survive and function properly unless all its members exist in harmony and fulfill their roles properly. And for this to succeed, no single member can assume the body can survive and function without it. Although there in no sin in cherishing our individuality and our unique talents and gifts, God wants us each to apply these talents and gifts so that all of us can reap what we sow together. We need each other, plain and simple. We sometime forget this - we forget the body that we use to know, when we become wrapped up in our own lives and forget about others, just as the Corinthians did.
And we often tend to forget that those less fortunate, those with lesser talents and gifts, still contribute to the survival and wellness of the body. Each and every one of us has a mutual relation and subserviency, and each has his or her proper place and use in the grander scheme of things.
Those of us who appear weaker, or are made to feel weaker by others, are indispensable Paul tells us; the weak and the dispossessed, those who are looked down upon by others, should be treated with greater honor and respect. God, by calling on us to function as one body, is leveling the playing field so that there should be no dissension among us. We must care for others just as we need to be cared for. If one of us suffers, we all must suffer. If one of us is looked down upon as inferior as a result of ignorance and prejudice, then we are all likewise diminished. The body becomes unhealthy and is unable to live up to its full potential. On the other hand, if each one of us is honored and respected for our individual talents and gifts, regardless of what they may be or how they may be judged, then we are the mutual beneficiaries of this honor and respect. Then we will properly know our place and what is expected of us. We are the body of Christ just as God intended for us to be. As this was the message Paul brought to the Corinthians, so too he told the church in Rome - “ For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you. Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.” [Romans 12: 3-5]
This, in a sense, is what the Body of Christ and community of faith is – God’s hands delivering the promise of good news to all who come in need. Afraid? We may ask those around us. Come here to find courage. Lonely? Come join our community. Ill? Come here – or better, let us come to you – to care for you. Isolated? We will visit you. Discouraged? Let us gather together and encourage one another.
This is a valuable lesson that we can apply to our daily lives. Individuals and families function within the context of a community, which in turn functions within a larger society, nation, and world. The individual's and family's well-being is bound up with the community's well-being, and likewise its well-being is inseparable from the peace and prosperity of the society, the nation, and ultimately, the world. Religious precepts undergird community by teaching the virtues of cooperation, friendship, justice, and public-mindedness. These create the spirit of unity by which community can thrive and prosper. Unity is first of all a gift of grace--a manifestation of the oneness and the reconciliation of those who would otherwise be enemies.
Like many of you, I’m sure, I listened with great interest, and with hope in my heart, to the President’s second inaugural address on Monday. He also reminded us of the importance of unity and working together so that we may enjoy those freedoms afforded those of us who are lucky to live in this country. He recalled those words penned by our Founding Fathers - “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men (and women, although it took many long years for them to be properly recognized) are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Yet he reminded us that although we have been endowed with these rights as a gift from God, they must be secured by God’s people on earth. We must work together to insure that we all equally benefit from these rights. In order to move forward, we must move forward together. To retain fidelity to these rights and the principles which guide us in the preservation of our individual freedoms, ultimately require collective action. We cannot meet the myriad challenges of today’s world by acting alone. No single person, or group of persons, has the answers to meet all of these challenges. Each one of us must cultivate his or her own gifts and talents. Now, more than ever, we must do these things together as one nation, one people. We are equal, not just in the eyes of God, but also in our own, and each and every one of us, regardless of our skin, our creed, our beliefs, deserves these God-given rights and the dignity to exercise them for the commonweal. This is how we will preserve the planet, commanded to our care by God.
There is no harm in reminding ourselves of our duties as individuals. The body of Christ is a body we have come to know, yet unless we take care to work together with a common effort and purpose to guarantee that all of us benefit equally, we will never fully know and understand it and our place in it.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
A Joyful Noise: Two Sermons - Part 1
Gone Fishin'
Luke 5: 1-11
Sally Ann and I have been members of Twinbrook Baptist Church for almost a year now, joining in early June of last year just before we departed for our summer hiatus in Maine. We can’t tell you how much it has meant to us to be a part of the Twinbrook family and we thank you all for welcoming us among you. When it was announced that I would be speaking this morning, a number of you came up with words of encouragement, and I was even asked if there might be a little fire and brimstone in my message. I am afraid that is not my nature and so I can only hope you won’t disappointed in what I have to share with you today. It was also hinted that I keep it short and sweet; to paint pictures with a few well chosen words. Some wondered if I could talk for 15-20 minutes. That has never been a problem; you only have to ask Sally Ann about that. She’ll tell you the truth of the matter. Brevity has not been one of my better qualities when it comes to speaking. So I am happy to see everyone here this morning. I will keep it short and to the point . . . I promise.
Just a week ago I participated in what has become an annual rite of spring. Gathering with good friends on Tilghman Island, on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, we set off before dawn for a day on the Chesapeake Bay in search of trophy rockfish. It is a time to celebrate friendship and camaraderie on the fantail of a 46-foot fishing boat as we trolled our lines over fishing grounds that have been good to us in years past. We have always caught fish. Always . . . but not this year. The season was right, the weather was right, there was plenty of baitfish, but the usual plentiful rockfish were nowhere to be found. Perhaps early onset of warm weather this spring upset their biorhythms. Who knows? But such is the nature of fishing. Sometimes they are there; other times they are not.
I am reminded of Isaiah 19:5-8. Israel was confronting an invasion by the Assyrians, and there were proclamations calling for the destruction of Assyria, Babylon, and Egypt. There was change; the ebb and flow of history. It is written that the waters from the sea will fail, and the rivers will be fouled, wasted and dried up. And the fishermen - those who cast hooks and spread nets - will languish and lament. By the very nature of their work, fishermen have learned to expect disappointment for there is always famine between times of rich harvest.
During his early ministry, which was then centered in and around Capernaum, Jesus was walking one morning along the shores of the Sea of Galilee when he chanced upon two fishermen, Simon Peter and his brother Andrew, cleaning and drying their nets after a fruitless night of fishing, busy at their task and unaware of the multitude who had gathered along the shoreline to hear Jesus speak. They were accomplished fishermen and the fact that they had not caught a single fish was not due to their lack of ability or industriousness. Sometime the fish just aren’t where and when they are suppose to be. Jesus certainly sensed Simon’s and Andrew’s disappointment and recruited the two men to row him a short distance from shore so that he might better address the crowd who had gathered to hear his message. After addressing the crowd and while still standing in the boat, Jesus bid Simon Peter to lower his nets into the water, which he did although he had yet to catch a fish. However, when he gathered his nets back into the boat they were filled to capacity causing them to begin breaking under the sheer weight of the catch. A neighboring fishing boat manned by two brothers, James and John, came to the aid of Simon and Andrew and they also gathered so many fish that both boats began to sink. The four fishermen are amazed and astonished by the sea’s bounty. Who was this man who could command fish to appear where there were previously none? Jesus told them to fear not, for henceforth they would become fishers of men, and the four men left their boats and nets behind and walked in the footsteps of Jesus as his first disciples.
In this manner, Jesus eventually gathered around him twelve faithful disciples, literally “those who learn,” whom he charged to go forth as apostles, as teachers, and bring God’s word and promise of a new kingdom on earth to all people, to force out evil spirits and to heal the sick. Jesus also warned his new disciples that their task would not be an easy one for there would be those who would threaten them and attempt to silence them. Keep the faith, he told them, for God would guide them, give them wisdom, and tell them what to say.
Jesus’ invitation to the disciples was a simple one: “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will fish for people.” Yet, it was an invitation that would alter their lives forever. Jesus took these simple Galilean fishermen and transformed them into the apostles that would tell the world of the coming of the Kingdom of God. He would teach them that every life matters to God regardless of whether a person is rich or poor, sick or healthy, a believer or a skeptic. They all matter, and Jesus loved them all and hoped to win them all over to that promise of a better world ahead. Jesus told his disciples to go into the world, to make certain their nets were tight and firm, and then to cast them wide and deep. If they did, they would be amazed at the bounty they would gather in.
If you think about it, all of us here at Twinbrook Baptist Church, as we practice our own discipleship as individuals as well as members of this congregation, can take a lesson from Jesus’ message to his earliest disciples, especially during this time of transition when we look at the life of our church and its congregation and wonder what the future holds for us. We are all fishers of men (and women). The lives we lead, and our dedication to the future of this church, are our small yet important contributions to spreading the good news. We, too, are in the business of casting our nets in everything we do and say, and everywhere we go. Just as Christ and his disciples shared their message everywhere they went, so, too, we go about our daily lives trying to follow His lead. He used every situation as an opportunity to talk to someone about the promise of a better life to come. And isn’t that what we are trying to do as members of Twinbrook Baptist Church?
And we are not alone in this effort. We have each other and we are working hard together to find a future course for our church. No one person, no small group of people, can alone do the heavy lifting that is required of us as we cast our nets wide and deep. For there is a rich bounty to be gathered in. It is no use to believe that one person, or a small group of people, can haul a net full of fish on board.. They are not going to be able to do it any more than Simon Peter and the early disciples were able to land their catch single-handedly. And even when they worked together, there was the threat that their boats might sink from the weight of their catch.
Last weekend, as my friends and I trolled our dozen and a half lines at a variety of depths and back and forth across the fishing grounds of the Chesapeake Bay, we knew that we were covering every conceivable place where the fish might be. If there were fish down there, we were going to catch them. Maybe we did not catch them that day, but it was not for a lack of ability or hard work. There is an inherent truth in what we were doing. Fishing boats manned by a decent sized crew are always going to catch more than a person fishing off the end of the pier.
This same truth holds when it comes to the matter of growing our church by living the life God has taught us to lead. We have to heed the words Jesus spoke to his disciples. We are going to go where the fish are. We are going to have to go outside the walls of Twinbrook Baptist Church, we are going to have to go into our community, into our neighborhoods, with our nets mended, strong and ready. God will guide our steps to those places where the fish are biting! He will send us to the right places if we will follow Him and fish how and where He tells us to! There is a possibility He will send us to fish in a place we feel might not be the best place to cast our nets. But we have to cover every conceivable spot where the fish might be, and there we must cast our nets wide and deep. At that moment, we face a decision. Will we follow Jesus and fish where He says, or will we do it our way and come up empty? There is so much to be learned from the lessons of the past.
Let me repeat something I said earlier. “By the very nature of their work, fishermen have learned to expect disappointment for there is always famine between time of rich harvest.” Our Twinbrook family has been dealing with disappointment in our recent history. Yet amid the disappointment there is always a reason, many reasons, to hope. There has been a great deal of soul searching going on and a variety of options have been brought to the table and discussed openly and honestly. But the simple truth of it is - just standing around the tackle shop talking about fish doesn’t put any fish in the boat. There is that old saying. It’s time to fish or cut bait. Friends, it is time to go fishin’! Our patience and our determination will eventually overcome any disappointments in the past. Our nets will soon be full and we will be amazed and give thanks.
Monday, January 28, 2013
A Novel Approach - The Next Big Thing
I was recently contacted by my friend Bernadette Geyer, whose new book of poems, The Scabbard of Her Throat, will be published this year by The Word Works [http://bernadettegeyer.blogspot.com], and tagged to participate in the blog interview, The Next Big Thing. The format is simple; answer ten questions about a just recently completed or current writing project. I have chosen the draft manuscript of my first novel.
Ten Interview Questions for the “Next Big Thing”:
1. What is your working title of your book (or story)?
An Unheard Whisper. The title is taken from 1 Kings 19:12. “And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper.”
2. Where did the idea come from for the book?
I took a spur of the moment road trip to Halifax, Nova Scotia during the summer of 2011 at which time I came up with the germ of an idea for a novel. I returned to Halifax in early 2012 when I explored the possibilities further and began to map out in my mind where I wanted the story to go. For the past year I have been outlining the chapters and drafting character studies and narrative summaries. Now I am writing and hope to finish this year.
3. What genre does your book fall under?
It is a novel - a Bildungsroman - constructed of several books. I would consider it more literary than popular fiction.
4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
There are a great many characters in the novel covering a period of time from 1914 through 2001. Much of the narrative is set in the late 1990s in Europe, Canada and New England. I see the main characters from this period being played by Matt Damon as Geoffrey Kingston, Jennifer Lawrence as Susanna Emerson, Shawna Waldron (she played the daughter in The American President [1995]) as Kelly O’Shaunessy, and Anthony Hopkins as Professor Duncan Massey. There are a series of flashbacks to World War I and the great Halifax Explosion of December 6, 1917 and its aftermath. These are peopled with a rich variety of characters, and my wife insists that one of them should be played by George Clooney.
5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
The main story line revolves around Geoffrey Kingston, a historian attempting to write a book about the Halifax Explosion of 1917.
6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I hope to publish through an established publishing house or small press.
7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
I am currently deep in that process.
8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Hugh MacLennan’s Barometer Rising (1941), Robert MacNeil’s The Burden of Desire (1992), and Jennie Marsland’s Shattered (2011). All three of these novels, written by Canadian authors, use the Halifax explosion as a focal point of the narrative although their individual denouements are widely varied. As far as I know, I am the first to construct a novel on the subject from a mostly American perspective.
9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?
My visits to Halifax, Nova Scotia over the past year and a half (and another one in the planning stages) and my readings on the Halifax explosion and its place in modern Canadian history and culture.
10. What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?
They might find the balancing of foreshadowing and flashbacks interesting as they both lend verisimilitude to the suffering of the people of Canada, and especially Halifax, during World War I.
I, in turn, have tagged Miles David Moore [http://www.scene4.com/milesdavidmoore] who will post next week.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
A Few Notes From the Panic Hole
__________
“I have never seen a grander or more beautiful sight than the northern woods in winter.” These are the words of a young Theodore Roosevelt describing his regular sojourns to a wilderness camp in northern Maine’s Aroostook County. I could not agree more.
For the past several years, as I have written here in earlier postings, I have been making regular trips to northern New England during the height of winter. Trekking the ridges and hollows hard on the border with Québec has proven a palliative and it has helped me put my life in perspective on more than one occasion. These environs have become my “panic hole” which, as defined by Gerald Vizenor, is a physical or mental locus offering respite from the real or imagined pressures and stresses of daily life and the responsibilities that go with it. That sounds about right. It was on one such trip three years ago that I headed into the snowy back country to consider retirement and what the rest of my life might hold for me. The mind cleanses itself with each inhalation of the crisp, cold mountain air. When asked why he liked the desert, T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia) supposedly replied: “It’s clean.” The same can be said for the Great North Woods of New Hampshire.
I watched the countryside gradually turn white as I flew north from Baltimore to Manchester, and from there I continued above the White Mountain notches into the north country at the roof tree of New Hampshire. There is one constant here in late January . . . the days are short. The sun does not inch above Mount Magalloway and the eastern ridge lines until around 7:30am, and from there it makes a slow arc above the southern horizon and sets around 4:30pm below the western height of land that marks the US-Canadian frontier.
One afternoon I trekked along the margins of the Third Connecticut Lake less than a mile below the Canadian frontier. I was looking for animal tracks and hoping I might be lucky enough to come across a shed, a moose or deer antler no longer required by its former proprietor. It is not all downhill skiing or snowmobiling up here where speed seems to be the common denominator. I prefer snow-trekking, the slow and often painstaking movement across deep snow and ice. Slow is good. You can see what there is to see in the winter landscape while enjoying a silence interrupted only by the sound of wind blowing through bare, creaking branches. I first snowshoed on my grandparent’s Michigan farm when I was a kid. Back then it was the old wooden frames and webbing made of deer hide. Now snowshoes are constructed of tempered steel, aluminum, and plastic and are much easier to navigate. My wife and I first tried these new-stye snowshoes a few years ago in western Montana and I was sold.
I chanced upon several whitetail deer on the trail. I approached from upwind and got fairly close before we made eye contact. The snow was over two feet deep in most places, and drifting even deeper, so there was no clear path of escape. We stood there . . . motionless for a minute or so, watching each other. Soon it tired of this and it sprang quickly and quietly into the snowy puckerbrush.
I did not have anything as momentous as possible retirement to ponder on this visit to one of my favorite places on earth. It was just a pleasant opportunity to be far away from another human soul and alone with my thoughts as the vast expanse of ice stretched out before me with miles of unbroken and snow laden forests beyond. Teddy was right. It doesn’t get much grander than this!
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Happy New Year!
Saturday, December 29, 2012
I Want My Maypo!
It is a snowy day here in Maryland, our first real snowfall of the season (although it did not last very long). A good time to enjoy a piping hot cup of coffee and a bowl of warm oatmeal with a few dried cranberries tossed in for a splash of color. While doing so I thought back to my youth (and we are going back quite a ways here) . Some of you will have no idea what I am talking about, but I think there will be a few of you for whom this traipse down memory lane will be a pleasant read.
It was late autumn of 1956 and I was living on my grandparent’s southwestern Michigan farm and attending the local one-room Acorn School, in Almena (which I have written about previously). My regular breakfast in those days was hot oatmeal much like what I enjoyed this morning although I tended to eat it plain without any additional healthy blandishments. Another one of my regular activities in those days was watching Saturday morning cartoons on the old black and white television in the parlor (on those days I often enjoyed my oatmeal in front of the TV). And this is where the story begins.
One of the popular and frequent commercials back then was for Maypo, a maple flavored oatmeal cereal originally developed in 1953 by the Maltex Corporation, in Burlington, Vermont, shortly before the company was sold to Heublein, Inc. of Farmington, Connecticut. By today’s standards of animation, it was a pretty cheezy 60-second spot. It features a tyke with tousled hair and big ears decked out in a cowboy outfit (boots, six-shooters, gloves, neck bandana, and a floppy hat as big as he was pulled down over his eyes) being beckoned to the breakfast table - “Come and get it!” - the same way my grandmother got me to settle down at the big dining room table on the farm. The boy scrambles to the table and climbs up on his stool. In a baby-like voice he asks “Do you have a surprise for me?” to which a now visible man (presumably the boy’s father) is stirring a bowl situated next to a box of Maypo. He announces this new cereal and tries to get the boy to take a spoonful while asking him to remove his hat. He refuses to do both and the man snatches away the hat to which the boy crosses his arms and demands, “I want my cowboy hat.” He is promised it after breakfast but he wants it now! The man asks the boy if he likes maple-flavored candy, which gets his attention until he stares into the bowl to find only oatmeal. The man then tries the old “airplane flying into the hangar” ploy only to have the hangar door shut just before the plane, aka the spoonful of Maypo, arrives. The lightbulb comes on and the man puts on the boy’s hat and tell him cowboys like Maypo as he places the spoon in his mouth. His eyes light up after which the boy finally takes a taste from his bowl and realizes he likes it after all. By this time the man is devouring the cereal to which the boy, soon to be dubbed “Marky Maypo,” announces “I want my Maypo.” A new cultural icon is born. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXnSe7MYPGM
Marky went on to star in another commercial, this time a dyed-in-the-wool Maypo convert who tries to get his Uncle Ralph, sleeping on a sofa, to try the cereal by mixing it in his homburg. This commercial also ends with the now familiar cry, “I want my Maypo!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=SBvoWr2kUUY&feature=endscreen
After watching that original commercial numerous times on Saturday mornings, I decided I wanted my Maypo, too. Enough of that bland, flavorless gruel I had always enjoyed before. Maple flavored oatmeal seemed just the thing. I wanted my Maypo! I prevailed on my grandmother and so the next time she visited the Spartan market in Paw Paw she picked up a box and thereafter, when she called out for me to “come and get it,” I was treated to a bowl of hot Maypo. Still no fruit, but the maple flavor was a nice touch. No plane into the hangar was necessary. Maybe cowboys do like it. It really didn’t matter to me. I liked it.
So I was thinking about this earlier today and I was curious whether Maypo was a thing of the past or not. I quickly discovered that Hueblein, Inc., which manufactured Maypo at a cereal mill in Highspire, Pennsylvania, was acquired by the Uhlmann Company, of Kansas City, in the mid-1960s, and following additional acquisitions, the Maypo brand name today belongs to Homestat Farms, Ltd., in Dublin, Ohio, and production continues at the Highspire mill. And little Marky is still around, too, still wanting his Maypo.
I also learned that John Hubley (1914-1977), the originator of the Marky Maypo character who also designed the commercials, was a former Walt Disney animator who worked on such Disney staples as Fantasia, Dumbo, Pinocchio, and Bambi, before leaving the company in 1941. He later joined other former Disney artists to form United Productions of America, in Los Angles, which played a major role in the evolution of animated productions with characters such as Mr. McGoo. He continued at UPA until he as fired in the early 1950s when Walt Disney denounced him and others as communists to Joe McCarthy’s House Un-American Activities Committee. Hubley continued as a freelance artist and animator until he was approached by the Heublein company to develop an animated commercial for its recently acquired Maypo brand, which was not selling well.
What he produced was a commercial with minimalist animation and a voice over created by recording his own four year old son Mark. From the outset neither Heublein nor Hubley realized what a hit Marky Maypo would become, or how well Maypo would sell as a result. This relationship eventually deteriorated over the company’s desire to cash in on the popularity of Marky through a number of commercial merchandising ventures (banks, dolls, etc.) while Hubley tried to retain his artistic integrity. They eventually parted ways and there were no more Hubley-inspired commercials. By that time I had moved on to other things and I no longer wanted my Maypo.
In fact, I haven’t thought about the cereal for years; I didn’t even know whether it was still on the market. But this morning, as I sat down to my breakfast oatmeal, I fondly recalled those simpler times when I was a kid. For me, Maypo is not just a maple-flavored cereal I use to eat when I was younger. It is a benchmark for the good old days when kids did not have to worry about being murdered in their classroom, or all the other things that are forcing them to grow up much too fast. Childhood was and should be a time of innocence and free from the fears that now continually encroach on all of our lives. At least this is what I was thinking when I was eating my breakfast this morning. OK . . . I’ll admit it. I want my Maypo! I think we all want our Maypo.
Friday, December 28, 2012
80,000 Hits So Far!
Thanks to everyone worldwide who has visited Looking Toward Portugal since December 2008.
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