Fogland seascapes at season's end

Wearing a warm wool coat, I stand in the middle of the salt marsh.

A perfect horseshoe-shaped pool brushes the shore.

Some fleeting storm clouds shroud the sun, casting dark shadows.

An oyster boat is the sole craft in the harbor.

The oyster fisherman prepares his boat for winter.

A sand dune covered in fall foliage sits at water's edge.

Bobbing on the surf are these ducks in a row.

Longing for children, the playground yearns for spring.

Sea grasses wave in the wind.

A hardy soul braces the cold in his open boat.

A fall flower garden, yellow petals dance in sandy soil.

Tiverton by sea: A photo essay

Every summer I reread "The Country of the Pointed Firs" by Sarah Orne Jewett. The first chapter, "The Return," best explains what it means to return to a much-loved place like our summer home at Fogland. She writes:

"There was something about the coast town ... which made it seem more attractive than other maritime villages ... Perhaps it was the simple fact of acquaintance with that neighborhood which made it so attaching, and gave such interest to the rocky shore ... and the few houses which seemed to be securely wedged and tree-nailed in among the ledges... These houses made the most of the seaward view ... the small-paned high windows in the peaks of their steep gables were like knowing eyes that watched the harbor and the far sea-line beyond, or looked northward all along the shore ... When one really knows a village like this and its surroundings, it is like becoming acquainted with a single person. The process of falling in love at first sight is as final as it is swift in such a case, but the growth of true friendship may be a lifelong affair."

A woman reels in a fish as we approach Nanaquaket Bridge.

Navigating the currents near Old Stone Bridge, we follow the boat "Relentless."

The view seaside of the Fogland State Beach ramp.

Passing alongside a moored fishing boat near Nanaquaket.

Chugging past Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, I remember the day I interviewed a former pastor of the congregation. As he stood at the lectern, he began reciting "The Lord's Prayer," and I joined in: "Our Father who art in Heaven hallowed be Thy name... We were two worshippers, a Protestant and a Catholic, praising God with one strong voice.

A striking sailboat with red sails skims the Sakonnet.

After a three-hour tour, we return to the slip at Standish Boatyard.

September song

A rainy Saturday morning during the last week of summer offers ample time to ponder.

September is one of the loveliest months of the year at our Fogland summer house by the sea, but it heralds a time of radical change.

Nineteenth-century New England poet Thomas Bailey Aldrich wrote:

“The summer comes and the summer goes; / Wild-flowers are fringing the dusty lanes, / The swallows go darting through fragrant rains, / Then, all of a sudden – it snows.”

The light is crystal clear most September mornings, instead of muted by August’s early morning haze and blankets of fog. The wind is still warm, but there is a nip in the air.

I walk the beach in late afternoon wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. There are occasional swimmers and sunbathers, but most folks are content to just sightsee or search for sea glass at low tide.

Sailboats and powerboats dot the Sakonnet, skimming the waters and dodging windsurfers, buoys and lobster pots. A fleet of fishing boats is anchored in the bay.

This is my husband’s favorite fishing season. There is a plentiful supply of scup waiting to bite on clam necks, sandworms and squid; and bluefish race up and down the coast, chasing schools of prey. No bait required – casting or trolling with a lure will hook this silvery fish that can range up to 40 inches in length and weigh up to 20 pounds.

Dashing wildly within the schools of prey, the bluefish bite, cripple and kill the small fish that do not get eaten. Charting the course from above, flocks of seagulls follow the trail and splurge on leftovers.

From my perch on a boulder, I watch the fishermen in their powerboats crank up their engines in hot pursuit of the blues; while on shore, the anglers run up and down the beach following the path of screeching gulls and jumping fish.

Back at the summer place, I no longer seek shelter from the hot sun under the shade of the maple tree. I sit in the sunshine until it becomes too cold and uncomfortable, then I reluctantly go inside.   

I know that from now on the days are numbered.

“As summer wanes, we cherish every mild dreamy day,” wrote Gladys Taber, who chronicled her days from Still Cove on Cape Cod. “I love the soft blue haze, I know summer still walks the lanes, but the frosty slipper of autumn is just behind.”

Me and the Mormons

Lifting the front of her brown peasant-style skirt, Gaye began filling it with stones, rounded by rolling to and fro in the constant ebb and flow of tides. Wedged between brown, gray and white stones, bits of sea glass sparkled in the sun.

As I watched her collect her treasures, my mind flew back to the first time we met a decade ago.

I was the new religion editor at the newspaper, and I received a call from Mormon missionaries requesting an interview. In college I had learned all about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, “The Book of Mormon” and the Prophet Joseph Smith, but I had never spoken to a Mormon face to face.

When I was a little girl, I had a brief encounter with Mormon missionaries. I remember my mother’s anguish as she told me and my brother that there were two men in suits knocking on the doors of our neighbors’ homes. She told us that if we were very quiet, they would go away. The men came to the door, then turned around and left before even ringing the bell; and my mother was astounded. She later noticed the sign in the window I had written in large, childish scrawl that said: “WE ARE NOT HOME.”

Needless to say, it was with some trepidation that I anticipated the interview. I asked a minister about Mormonism, and she told me that it was a cult. I had grown up watching Donnie and Marie Osmond and they seemed so nice, I responded.

A few minutes into the interview, I threw out every misconception I held about Mormons. Senior missionaries Max and Gaye would become the dearest of friends.

Eighteen months later, I met with them for what I thought would be the last time. There were tears in our eyes as we hugged goodbye. They were returning to Utah, but we vowed to stay in touch.

In 2006, I went to the Religion Newswriters Association Conference in Salt Lake City, and I spent four days with Max and Gaye. I visited Temple Square with them, and they accompanied me to the nearby cathedral.

Two years ago, they informed me that they were going on a second mission. While they longed to return to the Boston area, their placement was uncertain.

In the spring of 2011, they were reassigned here. In my professional capacity, I continued to write their faith stories; but on Christmas and Easter, they sat around our table.

Last weekend I invited Max and Gaye for our annual Labor Day bash at the Tiverton summer house, and Fogland was at its best. Sunshine streamed through the clouds bathing the seashore in an ethereal light.

Many years ago Gaye send me a prayer card that read: “As a lighthouse sends its sure, steady beam to guide the ships at sea, the Lord gives His light to guide you … There is no fog too dense, no mariner too lost to feel His love and light. He loves you.”

For my landlocked Utah friends, the beach was a whole new world. They were enthralled by its beauty.

“I am a pioneer,” Gaye said laughing, as she placed shells and stones in her uplifted skirt.

Her ancestors crossed this country in covered wagons, while mine sailed the seas.

We couldn’t be more different and more alike.

Gaye and Max

 

The trouble with tech

Sometimes it’s just so hard to lead a simple life.

We seek a peaceful existence, but contemporary life encroaches. We wonder how “to be in the world but not of it.”

Contemporary living requires the use of technology, which ultimately should make our lives easier. The trouble with tech is that it often doesn’t.

As a writer, I earn my living at a laptop or desktop. Yet whenever I can, I head for the beach, away from the buzz of electronics.

I walk by the sea, and tap into the Source.

It is nature that restores the equilibrium: the cry of a gull, the gentle lapping at the shore, the wind whistling in the sea grass. Unplugged, I walk by the sea and tap into the Source.  

And this is the saving grace, because lately, coping with technology has been a real chore.

I pay bills electronically, and I find this new technology to be a great time saver.  I no longer lament the time consuming ritual of writing out checks. I decided to change banks, and then spent three hours trying to set up online banking. Multiple calls brought no resolution, other than the suggestion from the bank representative to wait four business days for the system to refresh for each new payee I added to the list.

I received a bill for a routine dental visit that should have been covered by our insurance company. I called the customer service number twice and listened to recording after recording, but there was no option to leave a message or speak with someone. I had to call my dentist’s office, and they finally were able to straighten out the carrier’s error three days later.

By far the worst technological mishap occurred at the ATM machine. A routine withdrawal turned into a nightmare. I put my card in the machine, punched in the pin number, and the receipt came out but no bills. The bank was open, so I reported the problem, and the teller assured me I would be credited within the week. I spoke almost daily to corporate representatives from here to India, each promising to rectify the matter. Three months later, the credit finally appeared in my checking account. The assistant manager told me that he personally would never use that particular ATM. Go figure.

Since it took three hours for one online banking transaction, three days to fix an insurance overcharge, and three months for one ATM withdrawal, I question whether it would have been easier to write a check, mail a letter and keep a stash of money in the mattress.

I mill over these musings at the water’s edge. I walk it off while I seek a path that allows for life’s little annoyances but technologically speaking, gets back to basics.

Thanks, Tim Tebow

Whipped by the wind, the water is wild at Fogland State Beach, smashing into rocks and spewing white spray everywhere.

I spot new construction at the Point, a good sign in this sluggish market. But what jumps out at me on this bitter January morning is the roof frame, held up by a cross beam.

This gets me thinking about spirituality and how it holds us up when the winds of fortune batter us about.

The media is still abuzz with news about Broncos Quarterback Tim Tebow and his miraculous ascent to the playoffs, despite his loss to the Patriots. Taking a knee in the parlance of the game will never mean the same again.

Facing the opponent and the vagaries of the often brutal game, Tebow drops to one knee, with his elbow on the other knee, places fist to forehead and prays on the football field, seemingly unaware of his surroundings – even in the midst of 68,756 screaming fans at Gillette Stadium – as he communicates with his God.

While this outward sign of faith has become a worldwide phenomenon, it is Tebow’s own words in a constant barrage of interviews that best relate his innate spirituality.

Bated and battered with questions from reporters about his unlikely rise to superstardom, Tebow answered candidly, admitting his faults, praising and encouraging his teammates even after they dropped the ball, and stressing that he will continue to try his best with the help of Jesus.

When asked about his future plans before the playoff game, he told the reporter:  “It’s definitely not Super Bowl or bust. … Whatever happens, I’ll definitely count this season as a blessing and I’m thankful for the opportunity.”

Perhaps this statement reveals the secret to his success.

Whether he’s Tebowing before the game or after a touchdown pass, or answering another tough question in front of a camera, he always gives thanks.

Philosopher, medical missionary and theologian Albert Schweitzer in “Reverence for Life” wrote: “The great thing is to give thanks for everything. He who has learned this knows what it means to live… He has penetrated the whole mystery of life: giving thanks for everything.”

Many great athletes behave badly, and this season Tebow offered fans an alternative: someone with integrity. Tapping into the Source of his strength, he gives his all and is full of thanks whatever the outcome.

“Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world,” said author Sarah Ban Breathnach.

The wind lobbing sand at the windshield finally gets my attention, and before I drive away, I pause and give thanks for windy winter beaches, soaring surf, faith, football and Tim Tebow.

It’s just too cold to take a knee.