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.