Knox connections, Wayland and Waldoboro

A small monument to a monumental deed.
 Roy Barnacle photo.

This small, neglected marker, just steps from my current home, reads: "Knox Trail, Fort Ticonderoga, N. Y., to Cambridge, Mass." The tattered and faded flag, the broken light fixture, and the continually over-filled trash can pay scant tribute to the bravery and exertion this marker commemorates.  On an earlier blog, I explained the strategic advantage General Knox won for the American revolutionaries by bringing his caravan of cannon to the battlefront via this one, unguarded bridge. (See map at http://www.wayland.ma.us/Pages/WaylandMA_Veteran/mapvets.pdf) There are other memorials to Knox in this area.

It interested me to realize, on a recent trip to check up on the Waldoboro property, that our two homes are tied via American history.

In Thomaston, Maine, just a few minutes' drive from my former home in Waldoboro, stands the Knox mansion, Montpelier. Although built on land inherited by his wife, the house represents General Knox's reward for service to the new country. The current structure is a 20th century duplicate of the original.

To quote the museum's web site:

In 1795, newly retired, Knox bade farewell to Philadelphia and moved his family to the newly built Montpelier in Thomaston, Maine, to dedicate his "all to the development of the District of Maine." There he had a hand in many of the emerging businesses in midcoast Maine: He shipped timber, quarried lime, made bricks, experimented with agriculture, built a lock and canal system, built many roads, and got involved with land speculation. The elegant house he built at the head of the St. Georges River epitomized the dreams of the young republic. It compared favorably with George Washington's Mount Vernon and Jefferson's Monticello, and Knox made it the center of many enterprises in midcoast Maine, employing many citizens. 

(See http://www.generalknoxmuseum.org/montpelier.html for more details.) 
For a reality check, here is Roy's picture of Montpelier-in-Maine:

Montpelier in context -- Dragon Cement plant in background.

Riches

From the left:  Sharon Girouard (R), Sarah Barnacle (R), Rachel Feeney (S), Robert Barnacle (R), Leah Gallant-McFall (S), and Cathryn Polito (R).  Photo by Gaye Gallant-Prescott.

Here is a pouring out from Roy's and my cornucopia:  Our combined family of six wonderful adult children. (R) indicates Roy's contribution to the gang, and (S) indicates mine. There are also five grandchildren, not all of whom were present in person at our wedding (October 9, 2010, in at Sharon's home in Limerick, Maine).

Martin's Point Beach and a lost camera

 

A day or two before I left Waldoboro for Wayland, I paid a final visit to my saltwater beach.  A recent house guest had called reporting a lost camera, and I thought I should retrace our steps to see if perhaps the camera had been dropped. The visit proved to be a cutter of umbilical cords. Martin's Point beach was as I had never seen it. Highest tide, crashing surf, disturbingly agitated. 

Yet underneath the saturnine mask, it was still my beach. A place where the sun sets behind the pines in a blaze of coral cloud. A place to float suspended in the gentle swells. A place to bring company. A place to be alone.

I climbed across the rim of rocks and ledges, just barely out of reach of the spray and remembering each spot where photos had been shot. What a beautiful day it had been. But no camera here.

Few lobster boats out today, and the sailboats of summer were gone. I knew it to be possible that this was my last visit. How to say good-bye?  I got out my cellphone to report "no camera" when I remembered the phone's video function. Here was a way to take Martin's Point beach away with me. These are not pro films. Play them small. Yet I think they carry the flavor of the day. Do you like them?  

River views

Heading downstream

On this chilly night at Riverview Circle, I'd like to retrieve memories of a mellow ride on the Medomak in September 2009. Daughter Rachel was bow paddler and photographer. The first shot shows me in the stern, but lazily drifting through sea grass barely covered by the advancing tide. Waldoboro Village is retreating into the distance. It's likely the tide was almost at its height.

179 Friendship St., from the river

Here, we pass my house and barn. In the way of frugal Yankees, the front and sides of the house and barn were elegantly sided and painted, while the rear -- invisible from the street -- is plain to the point of severity. Did we swim in the river? Yes, following the lead of Tom the Intrepid. Not only is the bank choked with scrubby undergrowth and the edge marshy, but one must wade through or float over yards of tickly-sharp sea grass before reaching clear water. The estuary water is brackish.  However, swimming there is fun. I loved the extra boost from salt water flotation and the feeling of immersion in another world, so close to home.

Eagle landing

Cormorants on a dock

On this trip, we spotted an eagle, coming in for a landing in the evergreens. Then we saw a gulp* of cormorants drying off on one of the few docks allowed on this section of the river. Soon, the birds will return to diving for supper. There are almost no signs of human activity on the upper reaches of the tidal Medomak south of the village of Waldoboro.

The furthest extent of our trip.
The village has disappeared and
we appear to be alone in the wilderness.

Looking back on a fulfilling trip. 
The old button factory is across the river
from the town landing where we
started and ended our afternoon.

 
*http://www.npwrc.usgs.gov/about/faqs/animals/names.htm

Combine Two Christmases

Our Tree-in-Waiting

How do you do Christmas after combining two long lives into one new marriage? Roy and I briefly considered scrapping all of the old and starting fresh, but grandparents just can't do that. We bought a wonderfully fragrant balsam fir at Home Depot, this being Metro West Boston, and stored it in the shady corner of the deck while we made a trip to Maine to check on my house and bring down more stuff. In this case, "stuff" included one carton of Christmas ornaments quickly culled from the cases in the cold, cold attic.

Back in Wayland, we settled the tree into Roy's cast iron stand. There were many strands of lights. I tentatively offered the string my kids called the "hula lights," not knowing how Roy might feel about the raucous flashing. He went off to his office, leaving a grateful me to lace the tree with the hulas. Our compromise, that when he is present we run them on "steady."

Helena's crochet magic

Next, I added the ornaments I had brought. Red balls covered with sister-on-law Helena's crochet netting. A couple of my angels. A couple of my birds. Two each of ornaments made by daughters Leah, Rachel. A couple of my own creations. Same with the mantel. On one side of Roy's clock, I put my athletic snowmen, the Christmas cupboard miniature made by sister-in-law Elaine, and a lump of coal.

In 1981 Santa drove a van.

Then I called for Roy who brought up from his cellar tubs of ornaments, most of them more elaborate than mine. On went Santa in a truck. On went Santa in a cargo plane. On went a tiny mouse, and a tiny seal kissing noses with an Eskimo toddler. My single icicle blended in with his many.

Bride's side

Animated ornaments

On the groom's side of the mantel went several of his treasures. Underneath we strung some of his collection of electrically animated ornaments. Santa twirling in a space ship. A train running round a mountain. A city with both train and subway running. A Salvation Army band playing. An angel with a glowing lantern.

Our Russian doll

His glowing star trumped my straw angel, which modestly retired to a lower branch. The final touch is the Russian doll bought on our recent trip to the Museum of Russian Icons -- our first jointly owned ornament.

The Man of the House by our tree.

Dancing lights at Christmas 2010 at Roy and Sara's home.

The world intrudes

Intended as a meditation on my private world, this blog today must face outward. 

The Univ. of Chicago's Robert A. Pape has analyzed 2,200 suicide attacks around the world which have occurred since 1980. His resulting article, "What really drives suicide terrorists? The record is clear: It's anger over Western occupation of their land" in the 12/13 Christian Science Monitor, should become required reading for all, especially our elected representatives in Washington. His first finding, that "over 90% of the attackers carried out strikes in their home countries, often just miles from their homes, to resist foreign occupation of land they prize," should be enough to give pause to our "war on terror." His second major finding is that of the fewer than 10% of all terrorists who are "transnational", their common characteristic is not cultural alienation, etc., but a "deep anger at Western occupation of kindred Muslim populations." . . .  that "While religion contributes in many cases to increased feelings of loyalty toward a kindred community that may be oceans away from an individual's country of citizenship, the primary cause of these horrible phenomena is foreign occupation."  Pape's proposal about how to redirect our war on terror in a much more focused way, seems exquisitely logical to me. 

Pape's article appears in poignant juxtaposition to another Commentary article about successful career military personnel --  telling what is their motivation and what benefits they derive from their service. 

The ironic and gut-wrenching twist to me is that these dedicated "warriors" are gaining in character, expertise, and stature --  which often makes those who flourished in the military of great benefit to their families and American society -- but making those gains today at the expense of an extremely unfruitful occupation of foreign soil.

Read, and tell those responsible what  you think.

Things that do appear -- or did appear -- to awaken an ordinary day.

Surprise! A storybook bride on the ledges at Pemaquid.

Mushrooms spring up from the arid roadside turf
along Friendship Street, Waldoboro, Maine

London phone box springs up
in a Newcastle, Maine, meadow.
Roy Barnacle photo

Ricky and the River

Sudbury River, photo by local river god, Roy Barnacle.

Weeks ago, my husband sold his canoe, preparatory to our planned move. Purchasers were two young boys from the neighborhood. They stopped in to enquire, ran shuttle negotiations back and forth between Roy and their Dad, and eventually showed up with Dad and cash and carried the boat away. Not long after, we saw the boys down at the river's edge, set up for fishing. Roy tromped through the woods to see them with their new canoe, only to find that the canoe had vanished. They hadn't realized it needed to be tied. Roy gave them all the advice he could, then and later; but we knew that unless their Dad got on the stick quickly it seemed almost hopeless that the children would ever see their boat again. We were uncomfortable about this outcome. We knew that here the Sudbury River enters a great wetland reserve and meanders for miles through lonesome byways before emptying with the Assabet  into the Concord -- then into the Merrimack and finally the sea. What likelihood of retrieving a lost canoe? If we only had a boat . . .

Today, as I set out for a walk, I crossed paths with a boy. He stopped to get acquainted. We had quite a good chat about events and people in the neighborhood, and I learned that he was Ricky, a middle schooler. He reminded me that he had bought Roy's canoe. Immediately I asked if they had ever found it. Oh, yes. Some people across the river had seen the floataway, had caught it and tied it at their waterfront. Somehow news of the catch got to Ricky's family.  "My Dad has a GPS, so we went and got the canoe," he said. "We had to climb down a real steep bank and carry it up. It's in our garage for the winter. If you and Mr. Barnacle ever want help with anything, just come and get me." Ricky headed for home and supper.

I had much to ponder on my walk. We had questioned the wisdom of a parent giving children a canoe to use, apparently unsupervised, on a river. We had seen no evidence of their recapturing the boat, and had assumed -- again -- some level of parental inattention. But all the time, the family had the situation well in hand. What kind of parents raise a child to be so comfortable conversing with an adult? So considerate? The fact is, that Ricky is the first neighbor to make a point of welcoming me to Riverview.

Meet the Man

Sara Gallant and Roy Barnacle made their engagement official
at Pemaquid Point Lighthouse, to the roar of crashing surf.

Having sounded out my inclination by phone, Roy surreptitiously arranged a public proposal at the jewelry counter at J.C. Penney in the Natick Mall.  I said my "Yes" before a delighted audience of sales associates.  How could anyone resist his gleaming, golden brown eyes and London Cockney accent? The ring had to be sent back for alteration, so on Roy's next trip to Waldoboro he took me to Pemaquid Point -- the scene of our first date -- for a third and final "Yes" that sealed the engagement. The witnesses this time were the waves, gulls, and lobster boats. We were married in October 2010.

Icon Immersion

Elijah and the Chariot of Israel from the
Museum of Russian Icons in Clinton, Massachusetts

Here is a new treasure from my cornucopia. Roy and I tried out a new museum Tuesday, the Museum of Russian Icons. I confess that after a lifetime of formal and informal study of art and religion, here and abroad, I knew next to nothing about religious icons. I absorbed all I could yesterday, and look forward to a return visit.

Depictions of the Chariot of Israel were of special interest to me, because of my Bible slide lecture on that topic, tracing the evolving and devolving imagery of "chariot" from one end of the Bible to the other. 

An icon that kept pulling me back for more viewing appeared almost foolish at first, a saint squeezed into the top of a narrow stone tower. But this was Simeon Stylites, a Syrian of the 5th Century who spent his adult life in solitary prayer on that tower, alone but not incommunicado. He was not merely praying into the wind, for he accomplished numerous recorded healings. Who knew? Not me. In fact, creation of many of the icons was inspired by spiritual healings accomplished by the devout Christians depicted.

Icons were not just an element of church decoration for veneration. They were also a grounding element within most Christian homes in Rus (early name for Russia). By the time of the Bolshevik Revolution in the early 20th Century, it is estimated that there were more than 20 million icons in Russia. The Communists destroyed all they could get their hands on.

The icons had been under attack once before. The Early Christian Church had held to the second commandment, prohibiting the making of graven images, and this new phenomenon was at first seen as breaking that law. Icons, murals, and other church art was destroyed by edict of Emperor Leo III. Owners of icons could be maimed; some were executed. The Council of Nicaea in 787 eased the authorities back from the brink of holocaust  by saying icons were OK as long as it was understood that the image itself was not being venerated, but the person or event to which it referred. One can go a step further and honor the power impelling the people, events, and healings.