Cemeteries

I love cemeteries.  I suppose I don’t want to know the psychological reason why I love them, but I don’t care - I just do.  Perhaps it is because I grew up across the street from one, and used to play there as a kid.  Sliding down the hills, soaring over low headstones, and steering between others on my Flexible Flyer was especially delicious, and daring - the highlight of my winter.  I can still taste the snow, and feel the cold dampness in my hands.  And then there was the big rock wall that begged to be climbed, and what an accomplishment it was to reach the top of that! It was one of the hallmarks of our youth, to say you were finally big enough to conquer the wall.  Heady stuff for a six year old.

It seemed so large then, a huge hill for sliding, a high rock wall for climbing.  Revisiting there a short while ago, I saw that the hill was just barely that, and the rock wall was only slightly taller than I am now. This can’t be the same place, I thought. How time and memory distort.

I think of cemeteries as parks, with lots of obstacles.  Some cemeteries are real small, some overly large, but most are just about right.  They are perfectly suited for a walk, or a run. Bikes are welcome. They are built for contemplation. They demand reflection.  Dogs love them. 

Every stone you pass heralds a life lived. I can’t help but look at a name that catches my attention and wonder – what was their story?  Who were they, really? You see, for every single tablet or edifice, there is a tale that in some fashion waits in vain to be told. Those who rest there pine eternally for someone to take their name, that one thing that binds them to history, and fill in the vast empty between “born” and “died.”  Everyone, at some level, wants to be known.

Looking at the stones, as numerous as stars, you become aware of one of life’s truths.  They are all there now, all together.  Cowards and heroes, lawyers and thieves (but I repeat myself), friends and lovers, infants and aged, rich and poor, poets and players, they’re all there now, and in most instances, you can’t tell one from another.  The boneyard makes an equal of us all.

And a cemetery at night is still one of the scariest places on earth - at any age. 

As you may have guessed, this is not the first time we’ll talk about cemeteries.  My next post will share with you my first “official” tour of Oakwood Cemetery.  And once read, you will properly guess that Oakwood will be visited yet again. 

  

Mark Twain Quote:   “Death is the starlit strip between the companionship of yesterday and the reunion of tomorrow.”

Larry the Lobster

As long as we’re in a Cape Cod state of mind, we must talk about one of the most important attractions the Cape has to offer - I speak now of lobster! 

Specifically, I’m referring to the lobster roll, but you can, depending on your preference, just as easily say:  lobster dinner, lobster breakfast, lobster anything.

Other than Maine itself, I suspect Cape Cod is the most popular place in the universe for eating lobster. I remember one year I vowed to eat lobster every day I was at the Cape, and easily was able to do that, at any meal I wished.  And no, I never tired of it.  Lobster omelets are especially good!

When kids were little and the Cape was their yearly treat, they used to make lobster  “things” out of the shells…like dolls I suppose. This was usually done at the Lobster Boat restaurant.   One such creation we christened: “Larry the Lobster.”  Larry looked like he could actually walk away. I don’t know how they did it.   Nothing like breaking the kids in right - they learned their priorities early.

It is hard for me to believe that lobsters were not always so popular, or even highly thought of as food.  It wasn’t until the mid 19^th century that New Yorkers and Bostonians (now there is an eclectic mix) developed a taste for them.

Prior to that, lobster was considered a mark of poverty or as food for indentured servants or lower members of society in Maine, Mass., and the Maritimes.  Servants specified in employment contracts they would not eat lobster more than twice a week (fools).  Lobster originally was deemed worthy only as fertilizer or fish bait.  Perhaps this because of their inherent nature as a bottom feeder, but geez, didn’t anyone just taste them - little butter and a glass of wine? OK, that option was not available then to every person, but it would have changed their minds!

But back to present day.  My theoretical favorite lobster roll consists of lumps and lumps of lobster meat in a large hot dog roll (toasted w/butter would be nice), with a side of mayo -  simple, elegant, delicious.  I’ve had them with the meat cold and warm…love them both.

My personal quest in life is to find the perfect lobster roll.  It is one of the few things one could never tire of doing. I’ve had them from Maine to Florida, and even on the Mass Pike (yup, at a rest stop, at a “chain” restaurant).   It remains a never to be fulfilled quest, for I am always thinking – there’s a better one out there, somewhere!

So far, the most unique, and for its own reasons, best lobster roll I have encountered can be found at Chapin’s restaurant on Cape Cod.  They have 2 locations:  85 Taunton Ave in Dennis (close to Mayflower Beach) and 228 Lower County Road in Dennis Port.  Casual, inexpensive, a bit noisy, with very good food, it is a perfect Cape stop. 

They have this lobster “roll” that is different than any I have seen.  Words fall short, but a picture, well a picture is what a picture does (sorry Forrest).   Luckily, I always have camera at the ready, and food is definitely on my list of must subjects, right up there with Mark Twain’s house, Mt. Rushmore, and the Grand Canyon. 

Larry the Lobster - in a roll

Now folks, there is a bun underneath all that lobster.  The chips and slaw are just dressing for the photo, and they only get eaten if there’s any room left. 

So, if you find yourself near the Cape this summer, make this one of your “must” stops, and you’d better order the lobster roll.  Or, if you’re really lazy, you can order just a bowl of hot, buttered lobster meat – heavenly!

Mark Twain Quote:  “Do not tell fish stories where the people know you; but particularly, don’t tell them where they know the fish.”

The Cape

It is, really, nothing more than a very large pile of sand, resting on the remnants of the last great ice age. It was thrown hard against the rocky New England coast, placed there by the wind, the currents, the tides, the storms, and by the hand of God.

Its form eventually came to resemble the position the human arm assumes when flexed to display the muscles, complete with  clenched fist and contorted wrist.  It has, they tell us, enjoyed this orientation for about 18,000 years.

Nauset Beach - on a slow day

Those same voices also tell us that in some thousands of years hence, this huge sand hill will cease to exist despite any human effort to alter the inevitable whim of nature.  The same powerful forces that created it, will one day take it away, completely.

Everyone has, or should have, their own “special place” -  a place of serenity and beauty, possessing rejuvenating powers.  It is that place you can actually go to – to renew the self.  This place I have described, this special place - my special place - is Cape Cod.

This portrait, however, utterly neglects what the essence of the Cape is in our lives today.  For in the vast “in between,” it is gloriously ours, to visit, explore, use, enjoy, and to fall in love with.  There is nothing the human spirit requires that cannot be furnished by the Cape.

Pochet Inlet, looking to Nauset Beach and the Atlantic Ocean

Above and beyond the “things” one can do or see at the Cape, there resides the essence of the Cape. It is about how it makes you feel - how it nourishes the psyche, and makes you whole again.  It is the aura, the mystique, that possesses you the moment you actually cross the Bourne (or Sagamore) bridge, and put toes to sand.  The bridge is your portal.  It is not unlike the passage through Platform 9-3/4 at King’s Cross Station.  Once done, you are transported and transformed.  You are now in your magical space, your very own alter world.

Wonderfully, there are indeed times when what you “do” and what you “feel” actually meet.  Watch the sun rise. Take your sandals off, and walk the National Seashore - for miles and miles.  Breathe deeply the air. Allow it to take away the troubles your body holds prisoner.  Let the wind take your kite far away, and send with it all the worries of your heart.   Eat lobster, in any form you love it - with wine of course.  Stay with the sun as it ever so slowly slides beneath the waves, with the promise to return again. 

 "plein air" artist at Wychmere Harbor

A friend of mine has a special place she calls her own.  It is the Outer Banks of North Carolina, and to get there, she must cross her bridge, one she calls “the best bridge ever.” That bridge is named Emerald Isle, a name perfectly suited to its purpose -  and once there, she too is transformed.  Once there, she is whole again, and alive.  As she so eloquently says in five words what I have tried to convey with many, “I could live there forever.”  Amen!

So, if you don’t have a special place, find one -  mountain or sea, desert or city, lake or countryside.  You will not be complete without it. 

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PS..a rather unique feature of the Cape I must mention…just to give you an idea of how different, quirky, and special it really is.  Rt. 28 runs from the start of the Cape to Orleans.  It is labeled Rt. 28 North or Rt. 28 South.  And yet, you can be driving on Rt. 28 north and your car compass will show you are heading west.  You can be on Rt. 28 south and your compass will tell you that you are heading north.  And this is before you have had any wine at all.

Mark Twain Quote:  “Men and women – even man and wife are foreigners.  Each has reserves that the other cannot enter into, nor understand.”

Two A Day

We just talked about something as complex as love, so I’m guessing we can now talk freely about most anything.  Well, how about a subject that is an intimate part of the everyday life of every person you know.  Intrigued? Read on.

Bathing. Specifically, showers.  Now, admittedly, we usually don’t go around talking, emailing, facebooking (ugh), or even tweeting (tweet: I’m in the shower, with one other - now there’s a tweet I’d love to see) about our personal daily bathing habits.  It’s just not a topic for lunch, or tea, or even happy hour.  But over the years, as a small part of larger conversations, we usually can pick up on tidbits here and there.  In the alleged words of the late Alphonse Capone:  a word here, a word there, pretty soon you’ve got a whole sentence.

The “whole sentence” I’ve heard applies to a majority of us, perhaps even a vast majority.  And that is this:  we humans take, at best, one shower a day, and that is usually a morning shower.   Well, I’ll start the conversation, as I step out of the shower and become the first to bring this essential part of our lives to the kitchen table. 

As for me, I take two showers a day.  Allow me to explain why, and just maybe, you will see showers in a different light.  Even if you’re not looking for an explanation, or you’re suddenly thinking this is a good time to change the cat’s litter box, hear me out. 

We all need a shower in the morning, just to wash the cobwebs out and to feel fresh for the coming day. Now, I’m not talking about a 10 minute soak here, a two or three minute session should be just fine.  Cate Blanchett takes a 3 minute shower, to conserve water.  If that is good enough for her, it's good enough for all of us.  If you can't wash yourself in 3 mintues, you must have been a sloth in a former life.  Anything beyond 3 minutes deserves a bath - and that is a subject for an entirely different blog post!  Wash n’ go….start your day!  Don’t forget the hair.  Did you know that over a century ago, Mark Twain usually washed his hair each day, at a time when people did not bathe every day, or perhaps even every week.  And they called them the good old days.  

The most important shower of the day does not come at sunrise; it occurs at sunset.  The evening shower is an indispensable part of my day.  In some ways, it is more important than the morning shower, and if I had to choose only one shower each day, it would be at night.  Why?

Just think of what your day was like -- all the things you did, all the places you went, all the physical and emotional trials your body, mind, and spirit went through.  Did you frame a house, weed a garden, or something in between?  Was there a stressful meeting, a personal relationship crisis or change, did you get laid off?  Did you just miss getting in a  serious accident, or get caught up in a family feud?  Were you subjected to using less than ideal public facilities (you know what I mean)?  By day’s end, every part of your being has been affected in some way by the events of the day.  That physical and emotional baggage must be shed for you to return to normal.

Showers cleanse and heal on many levels.  The evening shower, also only a 2-3 minute rinse, literally washes away the cares of the day.  It takes away the grime you can see, as well as the poisons you cannot see.  It relaxes, soothes, and puts body, mind, and spirit in a tranquil state.  You feel clean, refreshed, and most importantly, calmed.  It is a perfect segue to a peaceful night’s sleep.

Don’t believe me yet?  Listen (now, think bath = shower here, these pearls were written a long time ago) to these folks:

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them – Sylvia Plath.

Sorrow can be alleviated by good sleep, a bath and a glass of wine – Thomas Aquinas

Bath twice a day to be really clean, once a day to be passably clean, and once a week to avoid being a public menace – Anthony Burgess

Now, you don’t want to be just “passably” clean do you?  I mean really, who could possibly accept that.  So, jump in, the water’s fine!

Mark Twain Quote:  “I don’t like this thing of being striped naked & washed.  I like to be stripped & warmed at the stove-that is real bully-but I do despise this washing business.  I believe it to be a gratuitous & unnecessary piece of meanness. I never see them wash the cat.”

Love

A recent spate of traveling, coupled with a severe case of writing block, has resulted in a serious lapse in attending to this fledgling blog. Wallowing in little circles, I could not escape the whirlpool.  Then, a friend of mine, bless her heart, suggested I write about love - the many forms of it - parent/child, man/woman, siblings/ best forever friends…that sort of thing.

Love?  Perhaps she could have thought of something easier to write about, like nuclear physics, or the origins of our universe.  But love it is. A blog, by definition, is designed for short (or relatively so) treatments of “stuff.”  Love covers a bit more ground than that.  Google it, and you’ll find over 8.2 BILLION hits. Want to get lost in the forest very quickly -  try to write about love.

Emotion or virtue, noun or verb, love has confounded us through the ages…it has lifted poets to immortality and vexed novelists at every turn of the page.  It has driven man to war, yet inspired his most noble deeds. The treatment and discussion of love is virtually endless, probably the closest thing to infinity we on earth can imagine.

So, how can the subject of love fit into a little blog?  How can we even come close to making sense of this mystery that carries so much breadth and depth?  I believe love, no matter how we encounter it in the moment, has an essence that can be unveiled.  And if we can only distill, just a bit, this thing called love, the search is made easier.  For you see, in simplicity there is understanding.  In the understanding comes awareness, and from that awareness flows the ability, however brief or clouded, to see love’s essence.

Love.  Eloquently honored  with 3 words or 3,000.  Love, with so many levels, and yet, only one -- 

that I love thee, more than me.

Mark Twain quote:  “Love is not a product of reasonings and statistics.  It just comes – none knows whence – and cannot explain itself.”

The Greatest Game

Arnold Palmer once described the game of golf thusly:  “Golf is deceptively simple and endlessly complicated.  It satisfies the soul and frustrates the intellect.  It is at the same time rewarding and maddening – it is without a doubt the greatest game mankind has ever invented.”

A pretty bold statement this, from the pen of Arnold, the undisputed “King” of this magnificent sport that people either seem to love (to the point of obsession) or hate (Twain called it … well, you’ll see).

I happen to be in the fold of those who love the game.  I’ve been playing it for years, and am convinced that there are enough facets to this diamond of a sport to make it the sole object of a blog, which is why we will probably visit the world of golf more than once here.

So let’s take a very quick peek at one little corner in this vast universe.

The Masters.  Played on a golf course make in heaven, this tournament is the first of the four “major” (others: U.S. Open, the Open championship, PGA) golf tournaments played each year.  All the others rotate year to year among an informal list of excellent venues.  Only the Masters is played on the same course (Augusta National), year in and year out, since its inception in 1934.  It is located on the site of a former nursery farm, which set the stage for the stunning portrait this piece of land has become.  It is a cathedral of beauty. You could hate golf, but if you love flowers and elegant landscaping, you would find blissful happiness for a day simply walking around this unique property.  But bring your hiking shoes, for this is a very hilly walk indeed!

Unlike any other golf tournament, the Masters moves to a beat of its own. At Augusta, there are simply certain rules, which are not negotiable.  Take it or leave it.  The “Lords of Augusta,” as they are known, run the golf tournament ….their way!

They strictly limit the number of persons who can attend.  There is a waiting list for badges (tickets), and it is far easier to get Green Bay Packer season tickets than it is to score a pass for Augusta National.   You can bring only a very limited number of things onto the course….an armless folding chair and a water bottle (with label taken off), are notable examples. No food. No cameras (except for practice rounds).  NO cell phones or other such devices are allowed, period.  No exceptions. 

And there is a certain civility inherently demanded, which I thought would be impossible at a major tournament like this.  The “patrons”  (do NOT, under any circumstances, refer to the attendees as the “gallery”) conduct themselves with quiet dignity as they move about the course…no shouting, loud talking, running, or other displays.  The nuns at this parochial school are very strict!

The thing I found most inspiring (and amusing) was the view that I encountered near the clubhouse very early in the morning. There were literally hundreds of chairs lined up 10+ rows deep all around the 18^th green….and they were all empty!  It is like they were placed there for some future concert or play.

You see, when the “patrons” first arrive they place their chairs (you can buy them there as well) around their favorite green or other vantage point. The patrons then roam around the course and watch the tournament from various vantage points, have lunch (very inexpensive) at one of the vendors, enjoy a beer (also very inexpensive), marvel at the beauty before them, only to return hours later (to see their favorite players walk up the 18^th fairway) and find their chair a) still there, and b) unoccupied!  Try that at a golf tournament around New York say, and you would witness a much different result.   

As you know by now, I’ve had the honor of attending the Masters tournament.  I spent a day at Augusta National a few years ago.  My son accompanied me, and through his connections, we were also able to tour the historic clubhouse with the son of Bob Golby, the Masters winner in 1968.   What struck me about the clubhouse was how worn and outdated it looked inside, and how small it was. They certainly don’t spend their seemingly endless source of funds on decorating.  But they do spend an enormous amount on the upkeep of the course itself.  There are NO weeds on the premises.  Not one, single, solitary, lonely weed.  Then there are the flowers.  Even the attached pictures can not do justice to what is presented to your eyes when you first observe Augusta National, which is why, standing on the second floor veranda at the clubhouse, looking out over the magnificent panorama, was a priceless moment in time.

The Masters experience was one of the most enjoyable days of my life.  People have all kinds of opinions as to the running of the golf tournament, and to the operation of the Club itself,  and some are certainly valid, but one thing is undeniable:  the folks who rule the Masters put on the best golf tournament in the world. 

Mark Twain Quote:  “Golf is a good walk spoiled.”

Travel Writer?

Note to self……travel and blogging mix poorly.  Sounds counterintuitive, but tis true.  I’ve been all over the place the last few weeks, from Worcester in the east to Chicago in the west, and except for a few ideas that flashed into my head (only to sneak away), I haven’t been able to actually sit and write a post. 

Thanks to those 15 or so people who decided to visit one Thursday evening two weeks ago…..stay tuned! I am now back and believe it or not, have about 4-5 posts in draft, so shortly one of them will make it out of the drawer, hopefully by Thursday!

Mark Twain Quote:  “I have found out there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.”