there’ll be no gardening to ground down to the end of this place bitterly eliminating so much accumulation before swimming through the cloudy first day at liberty disregarding temptation right off the bat to say nothing of ferocious loving What discipline will emerge? except in the leaves of greenhorn pages there’s work awaiting, oh boy, I bought this overnight woods heavy and wet but daily shaving’s a pain so perhaps by the time thee sees me again I’ll be scraggly not paying bills is hardly superfluous still wish you were here on the trail
Tag: Life
Regarding those photogenic cute puffins
The distinctive seafaring bird is on any serious bird-watcher’s bucket list. Here are some things to know.
- They don’t make muffins, contrary to the children’s ditty.
- Apart from their nesting time on North Atlantic or Pacific cliffs, they spend all their life at sea, resting on the waves when they’re not flying. They’re essentially an arctic bird, though they come south to breed. Considering where I’m living, maybe I’ll take the boat tour and see some, too, if the outings aren’t already booked solid.
- These birds can dive underwater for a full minute and are fabulous swimmers.
- As a group, they’re a colony, a puffinry, a circus, a burrow, a gathering, or – get this – an improbability.
- They’re quite social, with one colony in Iceland reported to have more than a million nests.
- They can flap their wings in a blur of 400 times a minute, reaching a flying speed of 55 miles an hour. At least they’ll evade cops with radar guns.
- Two opponents in flight can lock beaks and then beat at each other with their wings and feet. OK, that’s ugly but still impressive.
- They generally stay with the same mate for life, returning to the same burrow nest.
- Sometimes they’re called Sea Parrots or Clowns of the Sea.
- A puffin’s beak changes color during the year.
At low tide, you can walk out to Matthews Island
The population of Eastport lives mostly on Moose Island, with a few more on Carlow. Both are connected to the mainland by a 1930s’ causeway running to the Passamaquoddy’s Pleasant Point Reservation in the township of Sipayak. Before that, the connection was a toll bridge to Perry.
But these aren’t the only islands within the city limits.
The Maine Trust Heritage Trust includes Treat Island among its preserves open to the public. Settled in 1784 at the juncture of Passamaquoddy and Cobscook bays, it became home to a fishing hamlet of 50 or so families and then a Civil War artillery battery before being acquired by 1935 for a tidal power project that was later abandoned. Treat’s open meadows, cobble beaches, trails, and spectacular views are, however, accessible only by boat – and kayakers are advised to hire a local guide before venturing out on the challenging tidal currents.
Eastport also includes small Dog Island, which once had a lighthouse, but is tucked away in a tony part of town. Again, you get there only by boat.
Fourteen-acre Matthews Island, however, sits along Carrying Place Cove and Cobscook Bay, not far from the municipal airport. And you can walk there, if you time it right, while the tide’s out. Just make sure you don’t get stuck by the incoming tide. Another of the Maine Coast Heritage Trust preserves, it’s accessed through a right of way on private property and then an exposed bar.
In the early 1800s, Capt. Charles Matthews raised his eight children here. Today, eagles are raising their own on the north side of the island.
My dream routine? Pre-Internet?
For decades, I dreamed of getting free from the demands of the newsroom – meaning any paying 9-to-5 job – so I could concentrate on what poet Gary Snyder aptly dubbed the Real Work.
That goal entailed something resembling financial independence, which was hardly likely on a journalism income.
As for 9-to-5? It never fit the places I was employed, sometimes straight salary for 60- to 70-hour weeks, and even when I’d left management and joined the union, it was typically nights and holidays or a double-shift on Saturdays.
I had hoped for a breakout via a bestseller book, and some of my non-fiction projects might have turned the trick, though I found it difficult to respond rapidly when I was tied down by other time-consuming obligations.
The closest I did come in those years was a year’s sabbatical I gave myself between jobs back in the mid-‘80s, when I submerged myself in drafting what later emerged as my novels, after much revision and the openings finally provided by ebook publication.
One thing I learned from that experiment was that I couldn’t continue at that pace – I required more balance in my life. My bank account wasn’t the only thing that was depleted.
One of my annual exercises after that involved setting goals for the year ahead, usually by season. The categories included things like Home, Relationships, Creative Projects, and Quaker Practice – I’m starting to see a forerunner of the Red Barn, eerily – but also had me thinking about how my daily life might look if I ever “made it” as an independent writer.
Part of the impetus was a fear of letting my life just kind of ooze away. I suppose it goes back to some of the sermons heard in my youth, the ones about time being God’s gift to us.
In response, how much could I rely on a tight daily routine, starting with an early morning rise for meditation and then hatha yoga before a light brunch and maybe an hour with the Boston Globe and the local paper followed by a big block for writing and supporting activities?
That thinking was countered by a recognition that I couldn’t fit everything I desired into straight days, so I also played with chunks of time staggered through the week – Topic A on Mondays and Wednesdays, for example, with Project K late on Wednesday.
And then, I still couldn’t fit everything in.
After I’d remarried, my wife caught one sight of one of my schemata and reacted with scorn. She saw so much daily reality I wasn’t including, such as cooking, cleaning, gardening, time for others, and even myself.
Now that retirement has finally provided the independence I sought, I’m having to admit I still haven’t achieved that ideal, intentional scheduling. Instead, so much has revolved around big projects like the novels and random to-do lists.
Still, it built upon the bones of daily Spanish lessons and half-mile swimming and a weekly commute to Boston for choir practice, in addition to Quaker worship and committee work.
But then Covid hit, followed by the move to Maine.
Quite simply, I still haven’t hit on the balanced pace. Maybe now, that the last book’s in place? Or maybe after I stop blogging intensely?
The biggest surprise for me in all of this is how much the Internet has changed the picture. I want the early quiet of those early hours for my writing and revising. What happened to the meditation? As for regular exercise? The nearest indoor pool is in Canada. Or for spreading out with a newspaper? I do most of my reading online, even books, no matter how much I love ink on paper. Even interacting with others occurs largely via email.
One thing I don’t feel is “retired,” but I will say in all of this I feel more engaged than ever.
Naturally, that won’t stop me from tinkering with a routine. I’m sure whatever I come up with will be far superior than what the nursing home would arrange.
How do you arrange your days and weeks? Any secrets to share?
Third Haven, New Haven, White Haven nexus
wouldja guess Maryland’s official sport is? jousting! (no, I wasn’t jesting, ’tis truly) these tabs from Fitzwilly’s and the Whitby Winery Uncle Charlie! what on earth’s on the radio? maps of New Haven and Providence sorry, such minutia, leisurely spans the Eastern Seaboard only to realize what had been removed to Tampa whoa! Prairie Home Companion it ain’t present background noise, roll the dial this rumbling would appreciate new Verdi’s Falstaff any better? reminded to pay bills, catch up hardly boring and ask how many of them practice, whatever . blessings, stick to it
A musician’s insight on leadership
The question of just what a symphony orchestra maestro actually does led to an unexpected answer about leadership on a YouTube interview. According to the 59-year-old Paavo Jarvi, a conductor is essentially a teacher, regardless of the quality of the players. That, more than his artistic vision or temperament or divine inspiration or managerial skills.
It had me thinking about the best bosses I’ve had and realizing their excellence was as teachers.
How about you? What do you look for in a leader?
~*~
By the way, I was rather startled when I came across Paavo’s age. I still think of him as a “young” conductor, one of Max Rudolf’s last students.
He’s now the age Dr. Rudolf was as music director of the Cincinnati Symphony orchestra, a fine ensemble Paavo later directed for a decade before turning his attention to Europe.
Confessions of a booklover
Looking at my book purchases over the past few years, I’m finding that most of them are ebooks. The new paperbooks in my collection are mostly gifts, gratefully received, augmented by a few used volumes purchased online.
Cost is a factor, admittedly, but so is shelf space. We still have a thousand or more titles to cull from our collections before moving the remainder up here, and keeping them in storage ain’t cheap. My own practice of the past decade requires me to say adios to one copy every time I get a new one, and I find the swapping to be heart-rending. Books really are personal, and who ever wants to let go of a friend?
Among the harder aspects of putting our old house on the market was one we hadn’t anticipated. Our Realtor told us the bookshelves couldn’t be jammed, as ours were, but that buyers were entranced when shelves were only half full. We didn’t want to repulse them but, well, we had several walls to go through on that point.
That meant buying a lot of boxes from U-Haul to pack. Buy boxes? They stack better, for both transport and storage. Worth the price.
~*~
When it comes to how I’m now reading, I do find a distinction between ebooks and paper.
If it’s a page-turner being devoured quickly for pleasure or else an authority I’m using for background reference, I prefer digital. The digital search function’s very helpful, believe me – much better than relying on an index – and if I’m quoting something in a writing project, cut-and-paste beats keyboarding any day and is less likely to include typos. On the other hand, if the text requires slow reflection and digestion, traditional paper moves to the fore. Krista Tippett’s Becoming Wise: An Inquiry into the Mystery and Art of Living is a prime example, along with Robert Alter’s The Art of Biblical Poetry and The Art of Biblical Narrative.
Maybe the divide even comes down to whether it’s something I want to read hands-free or hands-on.
~*~
These also play into my considerations in my own publishing strategies.
As I looked to outlets for my big nonfiction project, Quaking Dover, I realized it was the kind of volume most readers would want to have in their hands or even wrap as a present.
It was one I’d want to place in bookstores and libraries, but that became a big hurdle.
If I put it the book up at Amazon’s KDP, the bookstores would back off. As for libraries? Dunno.
The alternatives I saw were prohibitively expensive for what would be a niche item, unless it magically took off on the charts, even as print-on-demand.
The plot thickened when my ebook haven, Smashwords, announced it was being absorbed by Draft2Digital. Yeah, the promises of no changes were there, but really?
Yet from what I’m seeing, maybe not. Maybe this is the big challenge to the Amazon juggernaut.
Upshot is, that’s where I’m planning to place my print version.
Other red barns out there
Somehow, a red barn is iconic. Little wonder I latched onto it in naming this blog. My posts have already mentioned Tuttle’s and Red’s Shoe Barn in Dover, New Hampshire, and the Red Barn Motel in Millbridge, Maine.
As for others? Not all of them are on farms.
- There’s the fast-food restaurant chain that originated in Springfield, Ohio.
- A market and deli in South Burlington, Vermont.
- A feed and pet store in the San Fernando Valley of California.
- A flea market in Bradenton, Florida.
- A home décor store in Wisconsin.
- A convention center in Adams County, Ohio.
- A trailer dealership in Texas and New Mexico.
- A medical marijuana producer and dispensary in New Mexico.
- Amish in Maine, who not only allow them but make them their bright signature color while keeping the houses plain white.
- And let’s not overlook Tom Waits, singing “There was a murder in the red barn” as the chorus.
Look out, Curtis
Shakespeare or Shaw she was almost finished except for a chem’stry exam see how many of those medievalists still know what shapes up too content on minor correspondence, talking to yourself in equal measure
Don Draper and the life I thought I’d be living
My first awareness of the Mad Men television series, about a decade ago now, came in my daughters’ outraged question – “Was there really that much sexual abuse in the workplace back then? They’re making that up, aren’t they?”
They were incredulous at the blatant sexism and racism of the time I grew up in, even after I confirmed it was there.
What they described was confirmed and more in my recent binge viewing of the series. Let’s just say I was quickly emotionally engaged in the show.
Growing up in the Midwest, I was repeatedly told I belonged in New York rather than in my hometown. Advertising was, in fact, one of the career paths I was considering, and like journalism and publishing in general, Manhattan was still the center of the universe.
Watching the presentations reminded me, to some extent, of the first offices I worked in, even in Ohio. And Don Draper, the advertising creative director at the core of the story (I started to say “heart” but he is rather heartless), reminded me of some of my livelier bosses as well as a kind of ideal of what I was aspiring to or perhaps was being groomed for, at least before the hippie influence kicked in.
Yes, there was cigarette smoking everywhere, and liquor – and functioning alcoholics. (Should I say “functioning alcoholics who smoked”? Or is that too redundant?)
There were also some incredible secretaries, who were far more than typists. The best held the office together, far more than the corner office they reported to.
Let’s just say that the workplace changed drastically in the years since, in part through the digital revolution.
~*~
The show also hit close to home through the father of my best friend in high school, who was a vice president in a boutique advertising agency, one titled with the initials of the three of the partners’ surnames. Not that he was anything like the ad men in the show. Through him, though, I learned of the intricacies of billing, production challenges, deadline crunches, marketing analysis, and purchasing print, broadcast, billboard, and direct mail access – things that were touched lightly on, if at all, in the plots but still a factor.
And during college and the first year after, I was exposed to families that could well have mingled with the Drapers – executives, attorneys, and politicians, plus their wives and children of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s.
~*~
My daughters were swept up in the show’s fashion mindfulness of the ‘50s and early ‘60s but unhappy with the styles as the chronology moved on in the final seasons. We can argue there.
My biggest criticism is of the cheap shots taken at hippies, falling into stereotypes rather than the more carefully crafted type studies up to that point. In doing so, the writers and producers lost an opportunity to more sharply critique the cynical, superficial world Draper and his colleagues inhabited. The tone of these segments, quite simply, was out of line with the rest of the production.
Even so, I was devastated by the final episode.
Could that have actually been me? Thank God, I escaped.
Jnana's Red Barn 