Anticipation



In our front yard maple leaves unfurl in a backdrop of blue sky.

Planning a vacation to any destination can be just as sweet an experience as actually being there.

It is the anticipation of the journey that brings great joy.

When you have a summer home, you feel a heightened awareness in springtime and a delightful urge to relocate yourself.

Throughout the long winter months, I am landlocked and content to occasionally visit the seashore.

But come May I can no longer endure the long-distance relationship, and thoughts of my seaside home consume me. I listen to weekend weather reports with new interest.

During the weekly trip to the supermarket, I toss barbecue sauce, magazines, suntan lotion and bug spray into the grocery cart.

While at the library, I lose track of time, reading book jackets of contemporary fiction and checking out a stack of books.

I reread favorite parts of my annotated copy of Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden,” “The Country of the Pointed Firs” by Sarah Orne Jewett, “Gift of the Sea” by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, and “Charlotte Fairlie” by D.E. Stevenson.

I start making lists of things to do.

I let everyone know that I will be unavailable on weekends for the next three months.

Then one May morning dawns that justifies the advance preparation. I open the trunk of the car and pile in all those books and magazines, bags of groceries, sweatshirts, t-shirts, shorts and swimsuits; and I finally satisfy the longing.

The wait is usually over on Mother’s Day when traditionally we open the summer house. But this year unexpected delays postponed the ritual.

God willing, we will officially open the Fogland season on Memorial Day weekend.

In the meantime, I turn to the pages of one of my favorite books:

“They set out to walk through the little village to the harbor,” wrote Stevenson in “Charlotte Fairlie.” “It was bright and breezy. The sea was very blue with crisp white caps upon the waves; the sky was paler blue and cloudless. The land was green; the beach was of pure white sand with piles of bright yellow seaweed. Far in the distance there were purple hills, their outlines softened by haze. All the colors were clean – like the colors in a brand new paint box – and the sunshine was so strong that the very air seemed to glitter. Charlotte took deep breaths of air and smelt the faint tang of the seaweed drying in the sunshine – that unforgettable smell…”

Driving to endanger: A young mother's escapade

This happened a long time ago, but it seems like yesterday...

A 1971 canary-yellow Mustang coupe and my husband’s prized possession, the sports car was fast and sleek, with its eight-cylinder 302-horsepower engine, tapered body and black sports slats that angled the low rear window. A shiny chrome horse at a full gallop detailed the grill. Black vinyl bucket seats, a two-spoke steering wheel and black dash panel with an electric clock made up the interior.

Three years of savings were handed over to buy the car, but my husband got his money’s worth. Behind the wheel he felt 17 again; he revved up the engine, angled the mirrors and peeled out of the parking space with smoking tires.

Every day my husband drove our other car, a metallic-blue Ford Econoline van, to the factory, picking up passengers-for-pay along the way; and I was stuck with the sports car.

A new mother, each time I left the house I had to squeeze into the tight confines of the back seat to strap my daughter into her baby carrier. I did contortions to secure the black straps of the belt to the seat. When I went grocery shopping, I had to jam the bags into the pint-size trunk, wedge diapers and bags on both sides of my daughter in the back seat and secure one bag in the bucket seat on the passenger side.

I stayed home a lot.

One morning I decided to bolt to destination unknown. I knew it was dangerous, but I easily strapped the baby carrier to the front passenger seat. I cranked the engine and cruised down the main city thoroughfare toward the highway. This was what this car was made for. The dazzling yellow vehicle attracted admirers like bees to sunflowers, and I basked in their gaze at every stoplight.

Bearing onto a side street, I waited in traffic, braking constantly on the steep hill that led down to the highway extension. On my right was a housing project, and I noticed a young man running directly at my car.

Grabbing the latch of the passenger door, he pulled with all his might on the handle. The lock held, and my daughter continued to sleep peacefully on the seat. He ran around the car and tugged at my door with equal force to no avail, and he grew angrier.

I screamed at him, blew the horn, willed the cars to move out of my way; but I was hemmed in. That’s when he jumped on the back of the low sports car, hanging on to those damned black slats for balance.

The cars ahead of me began to inch forward, and without thinking, I hit the accelerator and quickly slammed the brakes. He tumbled off the roof of my car in slow motion, landing on his feet. I stomped on the accelerator, and the engine roared. The Mustang careened down the street, and I watched him in the side-view mirror disappear from sight.

That night I pleaded with my husband to trade in the sports car for a larger family-sized vehicle. Over and over I listed all the inconveniences I endured, including the ill-fitting baby seat, lack of grocery space and the obvious fact that the neon yellow, ground-hugging sports car had attracted an insane carjacker. But he wouldn’t listen. I was still stuck with the sports car.

I stayed home a lot.

Then one day backing up and having great difficulty as usual seeing out of the black-slatted rear window, I heard the sound of crunching metal as the front grill of a Cadillac became permanently affixed to my bumper.

My husband bought me a dark green SUV.

I went out a lot.

A fish out of water

 

I have something in common with blueback herring: We have a natural urge to migrate to Tiverton in May.

Since childhood, I have always measured time by the herring run at the Nonquit Fish Ladder.

Scores of New England fish species spend their lives moving between salt and fresh waters.

Anadromous fishes, like the blueback herring, are notable for their mass journeys between marine and fresh water environments, living the greater part of their lives in salt water but spawning in fresh water.

Reaching a maximum size of about 16 inches, they are believed to live up to eight years. They also are capable of migrating long distances of over 1,200 miles.

But pollution, river damming and especially overfishing have drastically reduced their populations, and they are a U.S. National Marine Fisheries Service “Species of Concern.”

The Nonquit Fish Ladder is now closed; and I have to rely on my memories of the springtime ritual to recreate the local herring run.

In early May I drive to the summer house, turning onto Pond Bridge Road and inhaling the familiar earthy scent of freshly tilled soil and sea.

As I approach the Nonquit Pond Dam, I am sandwiched between the sparkling fresh water of the reservoir, the brackish water of the salt marshes and the ocean waters beyond.

Completed in 1943, the dam is 200-feet wide and 8-feet high.

Getting out of the car, I join the other fish-watchers who have come to the shallows where the great schools of migrating blueback herring may be seen.

Arriving in early May, schools of silvery herring go up the Nonquit Fish Ladder, jumping and splashing at the base of the dam on the final leg of their journey to spawn in the pond.

Climbing on the dam, fishermen cast their lines into the water at its base. Most of the buckets are already full of the morning catch.

But just as the fish are nearing their destination, so am I.

Returning to the car, I drive up the hill past the llamas in their paddock and round the hairpin turn that leads to Fogland State Beach.

Taking a left onto High Hill Road, I come to the end of my journey and gaze at the private beach that my family has held deeded beach rights to since 1969.

I am no longer a fish out of water. I am home.

Spring fling

Flinging open the windows, I let in the warm late-April sunshine that illuminates every single speck of winter dust; and that’s when the frenzy begins.

The cold, erratic weather this season delayed spring cleaning, but before I know it I am immersed in the annual ritual.

“I must confess that I find housework very tiresome in spring. So much suddenly seems to need doing,” said Gladys Taber, who wrote about life at Stillmeadow, her seventeenth-century Connecticut farmhouse. “The light is brighter now, and lasts longer, and it shows up everything! You can’t do it all at once – curtains, rugs, woodwork, attic and cellar.”

But I try.

I dust, wash windows and vacuum, but while I’m cleaning every nook and cranny of the dining room furniture, I glance at the stove and think how nice it would be to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies.

I abandon the Swiffer, grab the cookie sheet and preheat the oven; and before long the cookies are baking in the oven.

Now where was I?

I pull the sheets off the bed and carry the laundry downstairs. I put the summer comforter in the washing machine.

The front doorbell rings. I run upstairs and accept a delivery, but before she leaves, I make a dash for the kitchen counter and return with a warm cookie.

Now what was I doing?

I begin cleaning the kitchen. Then I head downstairs to move the comforter to the dryer.

While I wash the cookie sheet, I stare out the open window and watch a black-capped chickadee nibbling at the feeder.

Then the dryer buzzer rings, and I rush downstairs to get the comforter and make up the bed with new linens.

Munching on a cookie by the picture window, I see the gorgeous purple azaleas in the front garden.

“It’s little I care what path I take / And where it leads it’s little I care / But out of this house, lest my heart break, / I must go, and off somewhere,” wrote Edna St. Vincent Millay, a Maine native.

I bolt.

“Before she has her floor swept / Or her dishes done, / Any day you’ll find her / A-sunning in the sun!” said the poet.  

Life after the Boston bombings

Seven years ago, I was on a weeklong fellowship for religion journalists at Brandeis University in Waltham.

One of the guest speakers was a journalist whose beat was Homeland Security.

After the lectures, the college hosted a reception; and I had the opportunity to speak to him.

“Do you think we are safe from future terrorist attacks?” I asked him.

“Let me put it this way,” he said. “We have stopped every terrorist attack since 9/11. But the odds are that we can’t be right 100 percent of the time.”

His words ring in my ears as I walk along the beach, seeking comfort in this place I have fled to since childhood.

Agitated, I stumble over rocks and slide into gullies, footprints of a violent New England winter.

Under overcast skies, the Sakonnet barely ripples at low tide, looking more like a pond than a saltwater river stretching to the Atlantic.

Outside of an occasional cry of a gull, the beach is quiet; but I can still hear the bombs, shattering our world.

Alone on the beach, I have no false sense of security as I contemplate my bearings, about an hour south of Boston and fifteen minutes from UMass Dartmouth.

I pray for the victims and for us to have the courage to carry on.

“Even though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me,” says Psalm 23.

Back at home, my husband and I await the start of the Red Sox game.

I smile at the “Boston Strong” signs and marvel at the resilience of these folks who have come out of hiding, having spent yesterday in lockdown.

The opening ceremony yanks at my heartstrings, and I cry for the victims – the dead and the injured – and for the rest of us who have lost our innocence and peace of mind.

I wipe away tears as I join in the singing of “The Star Spangled Banner.”

The game begins and Big Papi is back, a tower of strength on the field and off.

For a few minutes we forget. It is just another day at Fenway, and Red Sox Nation is cheering for the home team.

Wearing a Red Sox cap, Neil Diamond, “The Jazz Singer” himself, steps onto the field and begins singing “Sweet Caroline.”

The Sox win their seventh game in a row.

Sweet!

Rising tide

The view of the salt marsh from our backyard.

A cold, gray, dreary April morning, we drive to the summer house and notice that we have a new neighbor.

But thank God, the nearby cottages are still occupied by our friends from years past.

No, this stealthy neighbor is slowly moving in and changing the geography of our coastline.

Last fall, Hurricane Sandy caused major overnight modifications to this salt marsh, flooding the nearby wetlands.

However, we thought the brackish water would creep back into the shallow inlets and during ebb tide flush out of the salt wedge estuary.

But it hasn’t.

When we were children, my brother and I carried our nets, fishing line, bait and pail to this salt marsh, which was inhabited by blue crabs.

Tying a fish from our morning catch onto one end of the fishing line, we flung the bait into the center of the channel.

It was a waiting game. Sometimes we left without even one tug on our line. But when the crabs were hungry, they grabbed the fish with their large pincers and started devouring their catch.

The tug was ever so slight at first; then the tension on the line increased as the crab tried to swim away with the fish.

Pulling the line in slowly, we placed the net over the water just behind the crab; and the crustacean was in the net with one swoop.

We also headed down to the estuary to dig for clams.

Turning over large stones that had been covered with water a few hours earlier, we looked for telltale holes in the muddy soil. We then began scooping the wet earth with quahog shells, searching for the prize.

Sometimes there were slim pickings in the clam cove, but other times the soft-shelled clams were in hiding together, nestled in a community a foot deep. They would squirt at us as we tossed them into the pail.

Later, my brother and I took turns dragging the heavy pail all the way home.

Today, I stand in our backyard and gaze at the untilled farmland leading to the salt marsh. Instead of the distant tributaries that have been there since childhood, I see a river that could shortly encroach on my next door neighbor’s property.

The sand on this coastal flood plain is shifting, and it is highly probably that someday the land will be taken back by its original owner.

But on the bright side, if there is a bumper crop of blue crabs this year, it will be a cinch to carry the pail home.

In search of Atlantis

The crocuses are in full bloom along Pond Bridge Road in Tiverton, dotting the countryside that leads to the beach.

Leafless trees and New England stone walls are the backdrop to a riot of purple flowers that seem to have magically appeared overnight.

But magic is what Fogland is all about.

Our summer place sits on a peninsula that juts out into the sea, with the Sakonnet River on two sides and the saltmarsh on the third. A small parcel of farmland anchors us to earth on the fourth side.

When I look out toward the Atlantic and the fog is a palpable thing, I imagine that this is an island, which for me is not a stretch.

When you spend your days sitting on a rock and staring at the sea for hours, you daydream and tend to imagine things.

I come from a long line of island dwellers; all of my forebears were inhabitants of the Azores.

In antiquity, Greek philosopher Plato described a large island in the Western Ocean (the ocean west of the known world or the Atlantic) that was home to a utopian commonwealth, which he called Atlantis.

The place is probably fictional, but there is the possibility that he had access to records that no longer exist.

Throughout the centuries the Atlantis tradition of a highly developed civilization has survived with various islands or island groups in the Atlantic identified as possible locations, most notably the Azores.

The idea also has been kept alive by many writers, including Francis Bacon and Voltaire.

Last fall, I took a philosophy class at Wellesley College; and one of the supplemental readings was “The New Atlantis” by Bacon.

I remember reading the small, unfinished work about the highly advanced scientific society, sitting in the Science Building Library on a dark afternoon, while rain splatted the metal roof and plate glass windows.

Published in 1624, Bacon tells the story of a mythical island, where “generosity and enlightenment, dignity and splendor, piety and public spirit” are the qualities of the people who live there.

It is a place where faith and reason coexist seamlessly.

“We have certain hymns and services, which we say daily, of Lord and thanks to God for His marvelous works; and some forms of prayer, imploring His aid and blessing for the illumination of our labors, and the turning of them into good and holy uses,” Bacon wrote.

I share Bacon’s vision of “one nation under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all”—but like the island of Atlantis, it is difficult to find.