July 17, 2018 by mbhmaine

Pause already, darn it!

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h As we walked along the trail, talking, a small pond appeared around the curve.

“Look, there’s a heron!” Kurt said to me, pointing across the water. Then he promptly followed up with, “Oh, we spooked it.”

I looked up quickly and saw large grey-blue wings beating low across the water, and immediately fumbled for my camera. I knew there was no way I was going to capture the picture in time, but hoped perhaps the heron would settle further along the shore. I grabbed the case, opened it and got my camera in my hand. Meanwhile, I glanced up… just in time to see those wings gliding away and out of sight. I stopped and watched the last few seconds, marveling at the size and power of the bird and at the beauty of its flight.

Oh, I should just have watched him fly, I thought.

I had been so busy trying to get the camera out, that I had missed it.

I love taking photographs, but lately it’s occurred to me that sometimes I get so caught up in the photo opportunities, that I forget to simply enjoy what’s around me.

Pause, Molly, I reminded myself.

The next morning I wandered down to the river park early to watch the sunrise. I took a few pictures, and after a while headed over to a spot by the railroad tracks. The tracks cross at the base of a river junction here, and you get a lovely vantage of both rivers. I was hoping to listen to the song sparrow again, as he tends to frequent this spot.

This morning as I climbed up, I heard a curious tapping sound. I walked over the tracks and looked down to the water and shore below. There I saw my new friend, the spotted sandpiper, whom I’d first encountered a few days earlier on the dock at the river park. It was bobbing along with its curious walk, pecking along the tidal shore line. I moved a bit closer to see what it was doing and …

Whoa! What’s that!? There, much closer to the tracks and me, was a… beaver? muskrat? I wasn’t sure which it was, but it was thoroughly enjoying a breakfast of greens. Its thick brown fur lay sleek along its sides and water droplets glistened along its back.

I struggled to remember the differences between muskrats and beavers. Obviously the tail is the easiest one, but this wily creature’s tail was hidden beneath the water. I know beavers are much larger, but how do you compare when you only have one species in front of you? It looked big to me, but…? I thought I remembered reading that muskrats weigh only about 4 pounds and this creature appeared to be many times that weight. I also had learned that when they swim, you can see much more of the muskrat’s back/body than the beaver’s. This one wasn’t swimming, but based on its size, I was pretty sure it was a beaver.

Thrilled, I took a few pictures and then suddenly it stopped eating, apparently just noticing me. It looked at me for a long moment, then turned and slipped into the water. Rats! I still couldn’t see its tail and now it was headed off for parts unknown. I walked along the tracks, hoping to see where it went. Trees and bushes interspersed along the edge of the track, hiding part of its progress.

Moving past a clump of trees, I spied it again. Wait! How much of its back is showing? Can I see its tail? There was a swirl of movement in the water. Wait! What? Two heads?? Whoa! There are two of them! They nudged up into each other gently and headed back into shallow water. Based on the size and their bodies in the water, I was now convinced they were beavers. Two beavers! I was so excited!

DSCN5207 (1).jpg And that’s when I made my mistake. Frustrated by intruding leaves that interfered with my focus, I tried to get closer. Moving slowly, camera in hand, I crept forward, determined to get a fantastic photo. Instead of simply watching and enjoying the wonder of the moment, this unexpected second encounter, I edged back along the tracks. In an instant, I knew I’d spooked them. They splashed off into the water and veered into two separate directions. There was no coming back this time.

I’m still kicking myself about this. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson from my experience with the heron. But no, clearly, I still have a lot to learn about being in the moment and not always looking to get a tangible “prize” to take away with me. Sigh. Obviously, I’m a work in progress.

DSCN5203 (1).jpg I stayed a bit longer and watched a flight of swallows gather in the trees along the river’s banks. The song sparrow added his song to the scene, and a red squirrel and a yellow warbler of some sort stopped by as well. The beavers did not return.

Pause. Look. Listen. Be.

Like I said, a work in progress.

July 10, 2018 by mbhmaine

A Place Time Left Behind

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We’d heard about it for years: Swan Island in Richmond, Maine. An island that once was occupied, but now wasn’t. Antique houses with no residents. Natural beauty. Rich history. Trails and fields. A place accessible only by boat or ferry. Finally, this past Sunday, we traveled there.

Swan Island Map.jpg The island is about 4 miles long and the ferry sets you down at one end of it. We set off to explore, intent on seeing the entire island. The dirt road sloped up from the dock and led us through towering pines and swathes of fern. Hidden birds serenaded us, darting between the trees, until the vista opened to a field full of milkweed. The scent reached us first, heavy and sweet in the warm air. Then, we saw the monarchs, flitting from blossom to blossom.

Walking further uphill, we saw the first house amidst trees. Was there an abandoned air about it, or did I just imagine it?

The Tubbs-Reed House, built just after 1800

We wandered around the base of the home, past overgrown apple trees, peeking in the windows, noticing the huge central fireplace, an old spinning wheel, bed frames. Remnants of long ago lives.

The homes or past home sites are spread along the length of the island. Most of the houses are no longer there, but at each house or site, plaques gave a brief overview of the home and its owners. As we stopped and read, we imagined all the lives lived here, reading between the lines of text. The layers of experiences, the hopes and dreams and the tragedies of each home and its residents, seemed present in the air. The houses aren’t open, except on a few special occasions, but some of them weren’t secured, and we could easily have entered. We didn’t. It wasn’t so much a “following the rules” kind of thing, but I, for one, felt reluctant to stir the dust of these places.

: The Gardiner-Dumaresq House, built between 1758 and 1763 (That’s Kurt, peeking in the windows.)

The island is a peaceful place, though, rich in natural beauty. We walked for hours, enjoying the scenery and the beautiful Maine summer day. We talked about the stories we’d read, wondering about how life once was here. We enjoyed a picnic overlooking a field mosaiced with dozens of shades of green, purples, and pinks. We saw a bald eagle, a great blue heron, turkeys, and a hawk and heard and saw masses of unidentified birds. Assorted butterflies in a rainbow of colors fluttered over the milkweed-laden fields. Red squirrels and chipmunks popped up all over the place, and fish swam in the shallow waters of ponds. Leaving the road, we walked along woodland trails, which periodically cut through sunlit flower-strewn meadows.

The brilliant green just left of center is wild rice, which surrounds the island. Experts believe it was first acquired by the Abenaki in trade as the strain is identical to wild rice found in Minnesota.

Yet, under the beauty, there’s a poignant mood to the island. Somehow without the veil of the present, the past becomes more tangible. The weight of human history lingers. Lives begun and ended. Stories long forgotten. Once beloved homes, now empty houses. Beautiful. Sad. Lost. Melancholy.

My husband put it best. “This is a place that time left behind.”

Note: Swan Island has a fascinating history and you can read more about it here. There are stories of Abenaki princesses, visits from Benedict Arnold and Aaron Burr, drownings, kidnappings, and then the more routine ice harvesting, ship building and farming.

I was particularly fascinated by the tale of one island resident, Frances Noble, who in 1755, at about one year old, was kidnapped by the Indians (along with the rest of her family), and sold to a French couple in Montreal, Canada. She was adopted by them and raised as their daughter. When she was 13 years old, she was found by government agents and though she didn’t want to leave her Canadian parents, was returned to Swan Island. In her absence, her mother had died, and her father was now living in poverty. Frances eventually became a teacher. What a story!

June 26, 2018 by mbhmaine

First Day of Summer Vacation

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h On Saturday morning, I woke early. Summer vacation had begun! It was about 4:30, my regular school-day rising time, and coming downstairs, I glanced outside. The sky glowed with streaks of pink and red.

Ooh. I thought, I could go down to the river and take some pictures.

Now, really, nothing stops me from doing this on a regular Saturday morning during the school year, but the idea of going down spontaneously felt like a bold step out of my routine–A declaration: Summer is here! Delighted with the idea, I quickly made my coffee, poured it into a travel mug, threw on a sweatshirt and headed out.

At the river, the colors weren’t as brilliant as I’d hoped, but it was still lovely and the air pulsed with birdsong. Tendrils of mist drifted across the water’s surface and periodically a fish jumped, sending rippled circles outward.

I walked over to the bridge to get a different vantage and took some more pictures, enjoying the cool, fresh air, and the feeling of unscheduled time stretching before me. After a few minutes, a car pulled into the lot and moments later, an older man walked up, camera in hand. We nodded to each other.

“It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?” I said.

“Oh, yes,” he agreed, smiling.

We chatted casually for about 20 minutes, stopping every so often to take pictures as the light changed. It turns out, perhaps unsurprisingly given the context of our meeting, that we had a lot to talk about. Each of us enjoys rising early and coming down to the water to take pictures, though our spouses think we’re slightly insane. We compared favorite sightings and photos–muskrats and beaver, multiple bald eagles, a cormorant eating a catfish, a heron silhouetted in flight against a pink sky. We shared our favorite local spots for taking pictures. I told him about the Baltimore oriole that had been visiting me this spring, and he told me about watching a fox cross the iced-over river this past winter. He lamented that he hadn’t seen any kingfisher or herons this year. We shared anecdotes about our cats.

“My wife makes my photos up into photo books on Shutterfly,” he told me at one point. “I’ve got one in the car. It just came yesterday…but I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“Oh, I’d love to see it!” I enthused sincerely.

After a few more moments of conversation and picture taking, we returned to the parking lot and he pulled the book from the backseat of his car, handing it to me. The cover photo was a stunning shot, an early morning picture with a silhouette of a scull and several rowers. I opened the book and paged through, and he shared additional information and background stories about the photos. As I expected, natural scenes with birds and animals featured prominently. I admired the photos, asking for help identifying some of the birds that were unknown to me.

“Oh, what a great picture of a cedar waxwing!” I said pointing at one picture. “I haven’t seen one of those in years.”

As we talked I saw a movement in the river.

“Oh, look! It’s a beaver or a muskrat!” I said, pointing.

He turned and together we watched the animal swim across the river, then dive and disappear before we could identify it. A bird fluttered into a bush near us. We both turned again.

“I can’t believe it!” I exclaimed, “I think it’s a cedar waxwing!”

And it certainly was. It didn’t cooperate enough for either of us to capture a good photo, but we delighted in watching it dart in and out of nearby bushes.

“Ok,” I finally said, “I’m going to head home now.”

“Well, I’m going to head up to my favorite spot on the tracks,” he said.

I turned and then moved closer to the water to take yet another picture.

“It’s addictive, Molly!” he said, smiling and shaking his head.

“I know!” I replied. “There’s just always that possibility that something wonderful will happen.”

He nodded and smiled again, and I knew that he knew exactly what I meant.

What a wonderful way to start summer vacation.

I went back early this morning and captured this photo of a cedar waxwing.

May 15, 2018 by mbhmaine

Geese

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h For the past several years the pair of geese have come. When I travel south on Route 295, I see the adults’ long necks and bodies amidst the grasses. I search to see the goslings’ heads. Sometimes I can’t see them, but can detect their wake in the movement of the grass as they trail along behind their parents. As they grow, I delight in watching their little heads bob up and down as they hurry along.

This year I’d seen only one solitary goose, standing sentinel in the grass, looking away from the busy traffic toward the marsh. Where was his mate? Was he watching out, protecting her? Or was he awaiting her arrival? Do partnered geese travel together when they migrate, or do they just meet up to mate and raise their young? Had something happened to her?

I worried for the goose this year. He looked so lonely silhouetted against the bleak marsh. Of course, I really didn’t know if it was the male or the female, but for some reason, I was convinced it was the male. I detoured from my regular route to check in on him from time to time, and found him always still alone. I expressed my concern to my husband, who looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.

Then last week, I drove that way again, and there were two of them. Two adult geese, standing side by side in the grass down the slope from the busy road. Had she been there all along, but hidden on a nest? Were there any babies about? I detected no movement in the grass around them, but my heart lifted that the one goose was no longer alone–or perhaps never had been.

I think I’ll drive that way this morning again. Just to check in.

April 24, 2018 by mbhmaine

Pause

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This April, Renee LaTulippe of No Water River is hosting a wonderful month of poet visits and writing prompts. I’ve been lurking mainly, but a prompt from Margarita Engle caught my eye. She asked poets to write about making a choice, either simple or complex. Here’s one I made recently on the way home from work.

Pause

Driving home last night
I chose to pause
to pull over on the berm
then sit and watch as
four slender deer
foraged in the misty fields
while cars whizzed by
buffeting me with their wake

Last night
I chose to linger
while deer peacefully grazed
stepping through
tendrils of languid fog
that drifted and twined about them
concealing
revealing
as the world rushed by
and dusk descended.

April 10, 2018 by mbhmaine

Giant’s Stairs

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Some whimsical soul in the past saw a giant’s staircase in the slabs and boulders along this stretch of Maine coastline, and the name has stuck: Giant’s Stairs. Today, the water crashes against the upheaved rocks, flying into the air in wild abandon. Common eiders bob in the surf. When the males dive, you can see the glimmer of their white plumage flash below the surface. Again and again, my eye follows their ghostly descent until they vanish, only to pop up moments later nearby. Amidst the rocks, snails skim in shallow tidal pools and a piece of kelp casts its shadow. Soft silvered rock glows in the afternoon sun. Flecks of mica sparkle and stripes of quartz erupt in brilliant, hard white fissures.

This landscape tells a story of powerful forces at work, but speaks a language that is foreign to me. Almost like hieroglyphics. Each shape and bubble, each boulder and slab tells of force and movement, of time and wind and weather. I need my own Rosetta Stone to make sense of this world– Something that would explain the layers, the shapes, the cataclysm that shifted horizontal shelves of rock until they were rotated and running in ridges perpendicular to their original orientation. Even without fully understanding, I’m captivated by the story.

Giant’s Stairs on a previous visit — You can see the descending slabs that inspired its name.

April 3, 2018 by mbhmaine

Beach Perspective

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I love to wander at the beach and take pictures. This weekend we arrived for an afternoon stroll, not anticipating the strong winds. They sent dry sand skimming over the tidal flats, ruffled feathers on the seagulls and whipped up white caps. Clearly there had also been extensive storms since we’d last wandered here, as the driftwood was piled high along the shores, and sand crumbled from raw slices cut into the dunes. I hadn’t been walking outside or taking pictures much lately, and was delighted to be doing both.

The bleached wood and sea-worn shapes of driftwood fascinate me, and I took picture after picture. While I was framing the above picture, a woman walked around the point and into the scene. See her? That pink blob on the left? I was slightly irritated, as I definitely prefer my landscapes people-free. I reminded myself that her distant figure might provide scale or perspective and could actually add to the photo. Still, I was impatient for her to move along.

As she approached, we both called out, “Hello.” Then to my surprise, she moved up the beach toward me.

“If you like to take pictures, you should try this,” she said, her hand outstretched. In it was a smooth glass ball.

“A crystal ball?” I asked, laughing.

“Yeah,” she said, “Try taking a picture through it.”

She placed the heavy ball in my hand and we walked back toward the driftwood I’d been photographing. Once there, I held the ball awkwardly, unsure how to proceed.

“Just set it down somewhere and try,” she said. She took the ball from my hand and set it into various nooks, trying to find a stable perch.

“There!” she said. “Try that.”

I crouched down and looked through the ball. Within its smooth walls, was a miniature world, inverted. I took pictures from a few angles, delighted with the experience.

“Oh, you could play with this all day!” I exclaimed.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing,” she said wryly. “I’ve spent half the day down here taking pictures.”

“Thank you so much!” I said, handing her back the heavy globe. She slipped it into her pocket.

“No problem,” she replied. “Have fun.”

She continued her walk down the beach, a lone figure silhouetted against the surf and sand.

Yes, I thought, she definitely had added a different perspective to the scene.

March 31, 2018 by mbhmaine

SOLC 2018–Day 31: Pet Peeves of Aging

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March 2018 SOLC–Day 31
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

The challenge ends today. I’m another month older, and hopefully another month wiser. This morning after a glance in the mirror at my sleep-creased face, I started thinking about getting older. Mostly I’m ok with it (I mean the alternatives aren’t great!), but there are a few areas that bug me.

1. Hair. I’m fine with gray hair, but who decided that renegade hairs should start appearing in odd places and grow exponentially? Even when vigilant about checking, I can find a robust black hair a half inch long protruding from my face or neck. It’s appalling! I can’t help but wonder how many other people have seen that hair and thought, “Gee, I wonder why she doesn’t pluck that?” I’ve already warned my children that I’m going to draw them a map of all the likely spots for those hairs, and when I’m in the nursing home, unaware, it will be their job to pluck them.

2. My skin. Why didn’t I appreciate my skin when it was flexible and smooth? Now I have thigh skin that cascades over my knees and after four babies, the skin on my stomach resembles that of a sharpei. Sigh. Dimples and dents have replaced peaches and cream.

3. Grooves. I can handle wrinkles–those character lines that fan out from my eyes or bracket my smile. But who decided to put a canyon between my eyebrows? Actually, it’s two canyons! Do I really frown that much or constantly furrow my brow? I think I’m generally a happy person, but these deep, abiding frown lines make me doubt myself. And what’s up with that new charming horizontal line between my upper lip and nose?

4. Changes in Memory. I swear I spend half my time continuing to walk down hallways or into rooms hoping that I’ll see something that will jar the memory of my original intent. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes it doesn’t. And don’t even get me started on word retrieval! Thank God I now have a trove of slices that can remind me what happened during this past month.

Writing about memory, reminded me of an aging-related poem I wrote a few years ago. Ending with that seems like the perfect segue from this month’s challenge to Poetry April.

Happy Writing and thanks to all for a most memorable month!

The Battle

There once was a hair on my chin
undetected when first it grew in
I noticed it there
Adrift in the air
And yanked it out with great chagrin.

Another one grew on my cheek.
(It happened in less than a week!)
I pulled that one too
without great ado
But with a full bellicose shriek.

It’s said that in some far-flung places
Facial hair adorns women’s faces
But I can’t sport a ‘stache
with elan or panache
I vow to remove any traces.

My tweezers now flash through the air
Extracting each invading hair
There is not a thing cute
’bout my face so hirsute
I battle with growing despair.

Each day my reflection as mirrored
Shows renegade hairs have appeared
My expression is grim
As I tweeze and I trim
Not resigned to displaying a beard.

I continue the gods to implore
to vanquish these whiskers galore
They’re more apt to dispatch
A peach-fuzzy soul patch
I win battles but never the war.

October 17, 2017 by mbhmaine

Deer Hunting

11454297503_e27946e4ff_h I got home from school and really did not want to run. I was frazzled and fried and wanted nothing more than to crash on the couch and stare at a wall for an hour or two. Preferably with a glass of Cabernet in my hand. However, I also felt the need to run some of the stress of the day out of my system, and I knew I needed to establish my new afternoon running routine. So, aware of sunset’s early arrival, after dragging my feet for a moment (or two or three), off I went.

The light was already starting to dim and infuse with that evening glow when I headed out. That quality of light always reminds me of deer hunting, and as I ran, my thoughts time-traveled back decades to childhood visits with my grandparents in Ligonier, Pennsylvania. At least once or twice during our frequent stays, my grandmother would suggest, “Let’s go deer hunting tonight!” When the shadows lengthened and daylight began to fade, we’d all pile into the big station wagon, and Ganny would head out to drive the local winding roads. Whenever we approached a likely field, she’d slow down. Our bodies would twist and turn as we peered around each other and through the windows, eager to spot the first deer.

“Do you see anything?”

“Is that one over there?”

“Oh! Look! Look! Over there! What’s that?”

My brother, Jamie, usually spotted them first. “There’s one!”

We’d all look where he pointed, straining to see. Then, as if by magic, their shapes would slowly emerge from the dim light. Long legs, flickering tails, small spotted pelts.

“Oh, there are three of them! Right by the trees!”

“No, there’s another. That’s four!”

“Do you see the babies?!”

My grandmother would put her blinker on and pull further over to the side of the road, and we’d watch and count while evening pooled about us. Sometimes the deer stopped grazing and looked at us. Sometimes they’d take flight, a sudden whirl of long legs and white tail banners. Sometimes more deer would emerge from the shadowed trees to join them in the fields. After watching for a while, we’d head on to the next likely spot and repeat the process. On a good evening we’d spot dozens of deer.

When we finally arrived back at the house, we’d jump out of the car and race each other inside, trying to be first to get to the study to announce the evening’s deer count to my grandfather.

As I ran, late on this beautiful fall afternoon, I lingered in those treasured memories of my grandparents and those cocooned car moments with my family– remembering the excitement, the camaraderie and the simple joy of that time. Lost in these memories, I ran around a bend. As the road opened up before me, I saw, by the side of the road, a large deer. “Oh…” the soft sound escaped my lips and my feet slowed. The deer turned its head toward me, standing still, its large ears cupped forward. Our eyes met. A second passed. And then another. Then, with a swift movement, the deer turned and raced across the road, bounding over the second lane with a graceful leap and a flash of white tail.

I continued running along the road, hugging the moment to myself. Then a heartbeat later, another deer emerged from the woods, following in the first one’s path. My face burst into a huge grin. Another soft “Oh…” escaped. Then a third deer emerged. Followed quickly by a fourth. And finally a fifth. Each bounded across the road and disappeared into the woods. Suddenly, while the grin was still wide on my face, my eyes filled with stinging tears, and a sob caught in my throat. It felt as though an arrow had pierced through time, linking together those Ligonier moments and this one, reconnecting me to the girl I was then, to my grandparents, to my family, to my childhood. To long ago days when counting deer from within the warm confines of the car was a thrill. I felt the blessing and the loss simultaneously. I continued running, deeply moved, and the passage of the years and the chaos of the day faded temporarily into insignificance.

Wiping a tear from my cheek, I whispered aloud, to no one in particular, “Thank you.”

Nix the comfort zone

Pushing my limits…writing, reading, photography, running, life…

Category Archives: Slice of Life

Pause already, darn it!

A Place Time Left Behind

First Day of Summer Vacation

Geese

Pause

Giant’s Stairs

Beach Perspective

SOLC 2018–Day 31: Pet Peeves of Aging

Deer Hunting