a memory of swimming

We drove north on Rt. 225. I could see sacred Taos Mountain on the right and dry farmland on the left. At the sign for Arroyo Hondo, Paula took a sharp left turn onto a gravel road. Dust billowed out behind us. I was in the backseat. I saw things I would never have noticed if I were driving.

Last summer, my writing class went swimming in the Rio Grande.

The road got steeper as she navigated the sharp switch backs with no guard rails to keep us from careening into the canyon below. I wondered if it was worth it. This long descent to where? Finally we spotted the metal bridge. We crossed it and pulled over. Writers climbed out of cars squinting in the strong New Mexico sun. We were wearing sunglasses, hats, bathing suits, river shoes and clutching colorful towels. We stumbled around stunned by the heat, unsure where to go.

Natalie, our teacher, was bossy. “Hurry up! Are you coming? Put on sunscreen! leave your sunglasses here...” Those of us who planned to swim, followed her as she headed for a well trodden path up the side of the river. A long time resident of Taos, she knew the way, had been here often. The path was dusty, spiny plants grew along the edge. We clambered over rocks, reaching out a hand to help each other as Natalie forged ahead, not looking back. Canyon walls reached up above us on both sides of the river. It was 2:00. Finally we got to a small sandy beach.

We stood and contemplated the slow moving river. “Feet first!” called Natalie as she strode into the river. We followed her like little ducklings. The water was cold at first and then delicious. The perfect thing to offset the heat of an August day.

Imagine me, an east coast girl swimming in the Rio Grande. It was exhilarating. I drifted down the river for awhile and then turned and tried to swim upstream against the current, then turned and let it take me. I dove down and swam underwater; a fish. Finally I just floated on my back, arms spread wide and let the river carry me as I gazed up at the deep blue New Mexico sky. Natalie was right, it was best going feet first.

A house I have known

The house at 14 Allerton Street was on the edge of Pill Hill in Brookline. It was called Pill Hill because so many doctors lived in the neighborhood. No wonder. The Deaconess, Baptist, Children’s, Beth Israel, Brigham and Women’s hospitals and The Lahey Clinic were all a few miles away.

I didn’t like it there at first. As far as I was concerned, we had moved to the city. Fire engines from the station at the bottom of the hill roared up High Street with sirens blaring. Police cars sped by on their way to Jamaica Pond. It was noisy. We moved there when I was twelve after all my siblings had grown up and left home. We moved for my father’s work, a job he couldn’t pass up.

I missed the open spaces of Summit, New Jersey. The reservation behind our house stretched back for miles. Even the name, reservation, made me think of the Watchung Indians that once inhabited the area. Were there still a few left camping out by Surprise Lake? Despite the neat suburban street out front, it felt wild and mysterious beyond the outer stone wall behind our house. We lived next to an area called Elephant’s Grave. One morning, my mother announced that there was a bear in the back yard. I ran to the window to see it. No such luck, it was April Fool’s Day and she had gotten me again. But it seemed likely considering the wild world back there.

In Summit I walked to school with friends. From Oak Ridge, we’d walk down Magnolia, across Mountain, down Laurel along Memorial Field. After crossing a brook we’d cut through a hole in the fence and enter the playground of the Brayton School. In Brookline, I took the MBTA to school. One stop from Brookline Village to Longwood. We had to walk the long way to school. We weren’t allowed to cut through the Fenway, too dangerous.

At the end of the day I’d stagger up steep High Street to our house on Pill Hill. Eventually I met a friend to walk home with. The walk seemed less arduous, the sirens not so loud. Boys and latin vocabulary dominated our conversations.

It wasn’t the house’s fault that I didn’t like living there at first. It just didn’t have any history. It felt strange to inhabit a place that hadn’t known me my whole life.

Full Moon

In Mexico, people say there’s a rabbit in the full moon, curled in a half circle. I try to see it as the full moon rises over the pine trees. Here in New England we look for the face of a man in the moon. I like the idea of a rabbit and so I squint to see it there.

Most of all I love moon shadows. The yard is lit up as if it were the middle of the day. There is an eery yellow cast over everything. I don’t need a flashlight when I take Calley for her evening walk.

I wonder what wild animals do on a full moon night, woken from their sleep by the light of the great white orb. I imagine a party in a clearing. Rabbits dancing, porcupines watching, racoons at the refreshment table eating with their dainty paws. Mice hide in the shadows, never trusting. Deer watch ready to flip their white tails and bound away. The owl oversees it all. No wonder the mice are nervous.

Full moon night. There’s magic in the shadows. A world I will never see.

writing

Writing is like breathing.

I believe that.

I believe we all come into life as writers.

We are born with a gift for language

and it comes to us within months as we begin to name the world.

We all have a sense of ownership, a sense of satisfaction

as we name objects that we find.

Words give us power.

~ Julia Cameron

My fall writing classes start today. I will read this quote.

I will bring a vase of zinnias for the table and ideas on writing and

we will write in ten minute increments.

I have the great pleasure, honor really, of hearing reflections

and stories

from my students who have all lived full lives

and are willing to take the

plunge and write about them.

Joys, sorrows, disappointments, humor

they are all there

on the page.

art is food

A year ago we went to the home of The Bread and Puppet Theater in Glover, Vermont. It is a barn filled with the props, art work and larger than life size puppets that have been in parades and shows for decades. So many great themes are portrayed in this medium that I won't go into here. I love the art work. It is bold and simple; wood cuts on paper or printed on sheets and used as banners. Bread and Puppet is about "cheap art" meaning art that is available to everyone.

Cheap Art Philosophy

The Cheap Art movement was launched in 1982 by the Bread and Puppet Theater in direct response to the business of art and its growing appropriation by the corporate sector.

With this fact taken into account art becomes:

“political whether you like it or not…”

Cheap Art hopes to reestablish the appreciation of artistic creation by making it available to a wider audience and inspire anyone to revel in an art making process that is not subject to academic approval or curatorial acceptance.

Why? “Because art is food…”, reads the Why Cheap Art manifesto. Cheap Art ranges in price from 5 cents to 50 dollars. Anyone can participate!

alps

I have been having computer problems which is why this site has been stuck on a lake in western Maine for so long. Finally I have a new hard drive and am zipping around the internet with ease. Things had gotten so slow that I had to wait for a full word to appear on the screen before I typed the next word. So I am giddy with this new speed. It was challenging having my computer gone for three days. Really tough.

My photos are still stored in an external hard drive and not accessible YET. I prefer to let a genius at the Apple Store help me with that rather than risk losing anything. So as I cruised on facebook, I came across these photos of Eliza on the Tour de Mt. Blanc this summer. She is standing with her co-leader Marc. The photo was taken by one of the twelve high school students she was leading on this trip for Overland.

If we're lucky, she may post some more. And what about you, Carrie? Want to share any photos from the summer?

Richardson Lake

After climbing Old Speck (see earlier entry) we camped on Richardson Lake, a remote lake in western Maine, for two nights. We were grateful for the level ground. Calley particularly settled right in as you can see. David does all the cooking when we camp, which is one of the reasons I like it. The weather was hot and the swimming was great. We watched the stars come out as the sky darkened and pretty soon the milky way stretched across the sky. The big dipper was low on the horizon. Around 10:30 the moon rose.

Best of all, it was completely quiet except for the loons' call.

The last time we camped we had little girls with us so you can see how long it has been! Maybe sixteen years since we paddled out to Spirit Island on Lake Mooselookmeguntic with Carrie and Eliza. In those days we were loaded down with marshmallows, Herseys chocolate bars and graham crackers for s'mores. There's nothing like the last coals in a fire to roast the perfect marshmallow! This time we used the coals to boil water for peppermint tea. S'mores without children just aren't fun. I did bring some really good chocolate though, better than Herseys. We try to keep up the standards.

dry, dry, dry

What a hot, dry summer it has been here in New England and around the country. I was away for a few weeks of it. There have been high temperatures and little rain. We can't water everything so it has been sad to see some of our trees and plants die or become stressed with burned leaf tips. The grass is parched, and plants that thrived this time last year in an end of summer burst (daisies) are barely making it.

We have watered the vegetable garden. It is doing well, producing cherry tomatoes by the ton, peppers, cucumbers, and zinnias among other things. So there is hope. And we did get rain last night. Not a hurricane but a little rain. Everything perked up a bit after that shower.

September 2, 1939

Thanks to my brother John, for sending me this photo of our mother, Martha Lamb McLean, on her wedding day; September 2, 1939.

Old Speck

I can't speak of the third highest mountain in Maine with much affection. Sure the view was amazing at the top. From the fire tower there was a 360 degree view that made me feel like I was on top of the world. But it was a hard climb. A giant's staircase of huge boulders with a 2,685' elevation rise.

Problem is, we are used to climbing mountains to find an AMC hut at the top where we are fed and entertained and refreshed for the hike down the next day or even better, for a ridge walk to another point of interest with no loss of elevation. But to summit a peak and head back down, now that is tiring.

Even Calley was tired and that is saying something when that hound dog starts to flag. She even got to rest while we climbed the fire tower.

Facts. Old Speck elevation: 4185 feet. Elevation gain: 2685 feet (that's what we did). Hours we hiked: 7 and a quarter. Miles covered: 8 or 9.

I must say, it was a perfect day weather-wise. It was sunny and cool with a slight breeze. Not like today with 98 degree temperatures and a hurricane on the way. Old Speck might seem like nothing compared to what Old Earl can dish up! I am never one to underestimate the power of mother nature!