Shedding possessions

A few years ago my mother hired a carpenter to tear down the old rusty metal shed that my father had screwed together from a kit decades ago.

It was listing to the side like an old barge and leaked whenever the rain came from a certain direction.

The craftsman built a sturdy new wooden shed with two windows and clad it with gray vinyl siding. He also added a ramp for the riding lawnmower.

The two big white wooden doors swung back and fastened with hooks, offering access in and out all day long.

I remember thinking that it would be difficult to fill this massive space.

Well, fast forward three years later, and it was time to clean out the shed.

The floor was carpeted by several summers’ worth of grass carried in on the blades of the mower.

A hodgepodge of chaise lounges and aluminum chairs were propped up against the walls.

Fishing gear that had been stored on the ample shelves was scattered everywhere:  poles, life preservers, buckets, tackle boxes, spools of fishing line and nets.

Volleyballs, bocce balls, and kids’ bouncing balls of all shapes and sizes rolled across the floor.

A 20-pound bag of potting soil waited near empty flower boxes, and garden tools lined one wall:  shovel, hoe, pitchfork, scythe and rakes.

Unfortunately, there were also lots of uninvited guests: bees, wasps, hornets, ants and an unidentified colony of tiny creatures living under a turquoise tarp that were content to be sheltered from sun and rain.

While my mother snipped at an invasive vine that had wrapped itself around the sea grass fence, I dragged the aforementioned paraphernalia onto the lawn.

Then we swept until the shed was once more in pristine condition.

My husband hung brackets on the walls, and the dozen or more chairs were suspended in air.

Then we sorted and filled too many trash bags with the stuff of summers past.

Hot and dirty, I listened to the incessant waves battering the shore but ignored the siren’s call and worked nonstop until every last item was stored or shelved.

Hot and bothered, I wondered why we had collected so much clutter.

Less is more.

On this beautiful summer’s day, the Creator gave us an abundance of sunshine, soothing winds and a shimmering sea.

All we need.

Summer slides into autumn

Dragging my feet, I find myself in the last weekend of summer. In all my memories of summer days spent at the summer house, I cannot recall a season of such perfect weather. It is the stuff of quintessential New England: cool sunny mornings, clear cloudless days with gentle breezes, brilliant rosy sunsets and comfortable evenings.

“Summer slides so gently into autumn … that it is easy to believe there will be no end,” said New England author Gladys Taber. “Day dreams toward twilight, skies are sapphire, the tide ebbs quietly. I begin to think time itself is arrested and the green leaves will stay forever on the trees. Gardens glow with color, with late roses and with carpets of zinnias and asters.”

Even though I am in denial, I detect the winds of change. A tinge of orange colors the maple leaves in the front yard. When I walk to the beach, I bring a sweatshirt. I can count the few fuchsia beach roses that still cling to the bushes.

Yet, despite my reluctance to move on, I admit that September offers a beautiful backdrop to my days. Now there is time to pause and truly admire the Creator’s handiwork.

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.

Then by an unseen cue, the wind picks up; and I wrap my arms about me, lingering a little longer.

“Nature, however, sets her own time schedule,” said Taber. “She decides when the first white frost will come and when the geese go over and when the leaves will begin to drift down and when the hibernating small animals will feel the urge to snug down in their burrows.”

With my hair whipping wildly in the wind, I slowly amble back to the summer house for a cup of tea.

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.

Summer musings

In 1969 my family bought a parcel of land by the seashore for $3,000, which forever changed the course of our days.

Our location changed.

We spent weekends in June, July and August there. Over the years we slept in a tent, camper van, recreational trailer and eventually, a house. As children, our backyard playground became a long stretch of rocky coastline. At night, we fell asleep fanned by cooling sea breezes and soothed by the hypnotic sound of breaking waves.

Our activities changed.

At dawn, we carried our aluminum boat to the water’s edge. Heading upriver, we anchored over a ledge and fished until we tired of baiting the hook and taking flounder, scup and the occasional sand shark off the line. At night we fished off the rocks in search of striped bass, but more likely hooked eels. Afternoons were spent swimming, fishing, clamming, crabbing, reading, hitting the volleyball over the net and biking.

Our diet changed.

The result of our labors, we feasted on fish, clams, quahogs, periwinkles and crabs. The charcoal hibachi, and later gas-fired grill, was always ready to sear steaks, ribs, chicken, hamburgers and especially the plentiful varieties of fish. On steamy, humid days, we ate lettuce with huge chunks of just-picked tomatoes and sweet bell peppers from our tiny garden behind the shed. They were garnished with a sprinkling of parsley that my grandfather had started from seed decades before. And no afternoon ever went by without our savoring a heaping sugar cone of ice cream.

Our health changed.

Breathing clean sea air and warmed by sunshine, we ate when we were hungry and had plenty of exercise. We had no set schedule, no appointments, no housework and no obligations.

Our relationships changed.

We knew all our relatives. Family and friends stopped by for a visit on Sunday afternoons, and we caught up on each other’s lives. Permanently on vacation, we greeted our neighbors when we walked by their cottages, sat side-by-side on brightly colored towels at the beach or chatted on our hands and knees while digging for clams.

Our perspective changed.

Spending endless summer days sitting on a boulder and gazing out to sea, your faculties become sharper. You notice the tides, the wind direction, the intense fuchsia of sea roses, the rhythm of swaying sea grasses, the skies in shades of blues and grays, the puffiness of cumulus clouds, the fast-moving shapes of storm clouds, the dance of sandpipers, the flight of seagulls, and the miracle of pulsing waters in the estuary changing direction in front of your very eyes.

You see God’s handiwork everywhere, and you feel loved.

 

Not just another fish story

I am a Yankee through and through, raised on rocky New England soil with the sensibilities of our hardy Pilgrim predecessors.

Yet, I am also third-generation Azorean-Portuguese and that part of me surfaces in my desire to live near the water’s edge, as well as in words – in the language of my forebears – that occasionally come to mind.

Last week without thinking I spouted a phrase that I heard my grandparents often say. Frankly, I never quite understood its meaning before; but this time it described the situation perfectly.

I said, “Nao mata engorda,” which loosely translated means: “If it doesn’t kill you, it will fatten you.”

My husband loves to fish, and he always hooks the requisite amount of scup. After he cleans the fish, he coats it in a layer of flour seasoned with salt, crushed pepper and garlic; then slowly grills it. When done, it looks like a steak; and there is no fishy smell.

Although I like fish and often order it in restaurants, I prefer filets. While scup is a tasty fish, it has a multitude of tiny bones that no matter how hard you try are difficult to avoid. They blend into the white flesh and after a bite have to be fished out of the mouth.

Consequently, I never eat scup – that is, until last week.

My husband had caught a gigantic specimen, and he grilled it to perfection. He asked me to give it another try.

Before handing me a small portion, he removed the center bone and every single sliver of bone that he could unearth from the flesh.

Carefully, I put pieces into my mouth no bigger than a peppercorn and chewed them to mush before swallowing. I filled up on boiled potatoes and salad.

Every time we eat fish, we always talk about the first time my husband sampled trout. We were dating back then, and my brother brought home his catch. Used to saltwater fish, we were anxious to try them.

Unfortunately, my husband swallowed a bone, and rather than make a fuss, he went to the bathroom where he says he did surgery on himself. Needless to say, it was a harrowing experience.

When we were done eating, I took a drink of orange juice, sucking the liquid through a straw; and that’s when I felt a dart pierce the right side of my throat.

I’ll never forget the ashen look on my husband’s face, as I coughed and choked, trying to remove the tiny knife embedded in my flesh. He kept apologizing over and over again, but it was my fault for breaking the fast.

Every time I pushed under my chin, I swore I could still feel the bone, nailed in place. I drank “gallons” of water, downed huge chunks of multigrain bread; and with my husband’s bidding, ate a whole bag of microwaved popcorn.

My husband insisted I go to the Emergency Room; but the sharp pain eventually ceased; and I was pretty sure, I had swallowed the thing.

The next day I awoke with a sore throat.

Five days after the injury, I am thankful that I can relate this fish tale to you. I am well, although a tiny bit heavier.