Fish Tales

Many times when I run into someone I haven't seen in awhile, the first question I'm asked is "Do you have any trips planned?"  Traveling extensively has become a 21st century habit.  Earlier in life, Gary and I were getting by as many younger couples do.  We'd save our tax refund to pay for a car trip.

 

We covered New England from Bar Harbor, Maine, to the shores of Lake Champlain in Vermont.  We would stay in a vacation cottage near Arcadia or in the Green or White Mountains. Sometimes we would find a motel instead.  We always packed a camera, and as time went by, fishing gear and bait.  Gary put together a chart of the best fishing holes along the Kancamagaus Highway.  No, I can't share.  Fishing hole locations are secret, of course. 

 

We would find that zen quiet when sitting by a trout stream, line in the water, waiting for that little jerk telling us our bait had been taken.  With the sun peeking through the leaf cover, and the warm dry air of the mountains, we didn't care that it was the middle of summer and humid at home.  Work worries just melted away, and flowed down the Swift River.

 

These photos are from July, 1992.  Here we are, twenty years younger, thinner, and with much more hair.  We may have gone to more exotic places later, but none were any more fun than sitting by a river, catching fish and scenery, and letting the day flow by.

 

This Wednesday would have been Gary's birthday.  People have  been correct.  The hard edges of loss have softened with time.  I can look back and treasure those lazy summer days and be thankful that we had so many of them.  I can also look forward to more summer days, and making more good memories with the people in my life.

 

The one lesson I think I've learned is that the connections with people and the memories we make are what we can keep over time.  And are the things to be most valued.

 

 

 

Father Christmas ghosts.

The holiday season and the end of the year is typically a time of reflection.  I've been thinking of all the good Christmas's and family get togethers I've attended over the years.  And there's been lots.  For example, there were Christmas mornings when Santa was still real.  The biggest kid my house that morning turned out to be my dad.  He would wake us up and tell us that Santa had arrived, and would sit and watch with a smile as we opened presents.  He was a man of very few words, but his actions would often speak volumes.  He was a hard working, blue collar guy.  He didn't have a profession or career, but a calling.  He was the provider, as my mother was the homemaker.  Different times and different roles, but still important.

As I said, he didn't talk much.  He was often tired, sometimes grouchy, but he did work a zillion hours a week.  Once he retired, though, he opened up a little.  He was more relaxed, I was older and had learned men's small talk (did you see yesterday's game?) and he would sometimes share stories.

He told me one story of when he was a teenager in Saugus, and had a job pumping gas on Route One.  This was before the days of the major interstates, so anyone traveling from New York to Maine had to use "the pike" as all highways were called then.

He had a pair of famous customers who had a summer home in Maine  stop at the gas station one day, Bette Davis and her husband Gary Merrill.  It must have even more impressive back in the 1940's to see a movie star.  Without a 24 hour news cycle, instant tweets, and not even television, stars lived in a different universe than they do today.

He had a more homespun story that makes me smile even now.  Here he was, first generation American, born of Lebanese Catholic parents.  He had been set up on a blind date by his brother and his girl, who had a friend.  The friend was first generation American, the child of Sicilian immigrants.  Things were going well.  And of course, he was invited home for dinner to meet the parents. 

My poor mother was mortified by what her mother served.  Lentils, of all the greenhorn things to serve to someone my mom was getting serious about.  What would he think?  Immigrants back in the early twentieth century did their best to Americanize themselves.  Sofia became Sophie, Caterina became Kitty, and Rosa became Dolly.  The sisters had pride in their American style.  Oh, but the horror of serving lentils was not to be imagined.

My father laughed when he told the story.  He had been brought up on lentils and other similar Mediterrean food.  The subtext he didn't mention was his probable nervousness at meeting the family.  Whether intentional or not, my grandmother Lena put him at ease by serving a dish my grandmother Nady had served him his whole childhood. 

And then Sophie and George in turn served those dishes to their children, my brother John and I.  And keeping the tradition going, John has requested that I bring something Lebanese to dinner Christmas day.  So in a little bit I'll be cooking up some kibbee, and his children and grandchildren will have a little.  Sophie and George's legacy, and their parents' as well, are the dishes we still eat, and the memories we make around them.

Merry Christmas, dad.

French Fairytales

A Librarian's Pilgrims Progress

I've been around libraries all my life, starting with my mother bringing me to the bookmobile in Lynn when I was very small.  Our whole neighborhood would walk together, mothers and children, and it would be an outing for the ladies as well.  They would have a chance to catch up and speak with other adults, and the kids could skip along around the edges.  These households would have had just the one car for the father to take to work, so it was a special occasion for all involved to go out to the bookmobile.

When we moved to Salem, my mother brought both my brother and I to the library on Essex Street as soon as we could sign our names to get a library card.  I spent many hours there, so much so that when I entered high school, Mrs. Tomlinson in the Children's Room asked if I wanted to work there. That's where I started my profession, 14 years old, a page in the Children's Room.

After college I tried a variety of jobs, and none really seemed to fit.  Ten years after graduating from UMass/Amherst, I saw a posting for a Children's Librarian I at the Lynn Public Library.  I filled in the application, went for the interviews, and started shortly after.  Finally, I had found something that fit.

In the years between being a page at 14 and now, I had the chance to work in all departments at the public library, and now at an academic one.  I made my way to the big office with the ornate, antique furniture as library director, and then stepped back into the role that I have enjoyed most through my career, reference librarian.

But this time of year brings back a memory of my first days, and when I worked primarily with children.  I was at the Houghton Branch in West Lynn, and we had 16mm films we would show once a week in addition to craft making and story times.  There was a very popular book that had been made into a short film in the 1980's.  The hero was a girl whose parents had immigrated from Russia for religious reasons.  She had a Thanksgiving homework assignment, to dress a doll as a Pilgrim, with a capital P.  One of those people with the black clothes, and silver buckles on their hats.  She was having a terrible time of it, and went in tears to her mother.  The mother sent her to bed, and made a pilgrim, small p.

The costume she crafted was of a Russian peasant.  The teacher was upset, and told the girl she had missed the point of the assignment.  When the girl told her mother, they talked about the reasons the Pilgrims had come to Plymouth, and the reasons her own family had come.  The little girl then realized she also was a pilgrim, even without the silver buckle.

The Houghton Branch Library was situated in an incredibly diverse neighborhood.  We had families from all over Europe, Asia and the West Indies coming in every day.  What I remember most about my stay there is that after showing this movie, a Cambodian girl came up to me in tears.  She said, "Nadine, does this mean I'm a pilgrim too?"  Yes, I answered, you are.  She was a struggling student, both academically and socially.  That day, at least, she felt she belonged somewhere.  She fit in.

To all my fellow pilgrims, small p, Happy Thanksgiving, and may you find your special fit also.

Falling out of Fall

Well, I'm still trying.  Trying and trying to maintain that good attitude towards fall
that so many people have.  The pumpkin's on the balcony, the autumnal centerpiece is on the dining room table, the cheery sign is on my door.

Today is everything I would want fall to be:  sunny and warm.  Today I can putter and clean and read and enjoy my home.  I even had a nice walk along the beach before the wind blew me back into my car.  But we've had too many days this October with clouds and rain.  And darn it, I had to put the heat on. 

With the days growing shorter, I begrudge any bit of sunlight I'm deprived of.  I don't walk in the rain.  Naturally curly hair makes that a disaster.  I believe exercise is better out of doors in the fresh air and sunshine.  There's that vitamin D, and balancing all those serotonins and melatonins makes for a better night's sleep.

As we're sitting here smack in the middle of October, I have to take stock.  Yes, the foliage is great this year.  But the flowers are dying.  Mums just don't do it for me.  While they are colorful, those colors aren't in my preferred palette.  Like Sweet Baby James, deep greens and blues are the colors I choose.

So I've rejoined the Y, will continue to order the pumpkin spice latte, maybe bake some pumpkin bread.  Just let it stay sunny, not gray.  I'll keep savoring the sights and smells of autumn.  And I'll try not to think of the white and gray season that follows.

Falling into Fall

I have to admit that Fall is not my favorite season.  As the days shorten, all I can think of is the Winter that is coming.  The thoughts of those dark evenings, that cold, and gosh, snow! all bring my mood down.

All of which means I'm living in future, not the present.  There's no telling what kind of winter we'll have on the North Shore.  It could be mild and snow free, like last winter.

No, this year I'll live in the Autumn.  I'll focus on the good points of the season.  The cool nights are better for sleeping.  The warm, sunny afternoons perfect for being outdoors.  The season shines in New England, with trees sporting a vibrant palette.

Baked goods smell of cinnamin and clove, and hot drinks are appreciated in the nippy air of morning.  The farmers markets are full with local harvests, and there's lots of good cooking to be done with fresh fruits and vegetables still.

It's time to change wardrobes, and time to put on shoes.  Time to check out last year's sweaters, and corduroy pants.  Time for a pumpkin on the balcony, and a new welcome plaque on the door. 

It's a good day so long as there is a chance to get outside.  I'm going to stop thinking of Fall as an ending, but as a continuance of good things to be enjoyed.  Sometimes the snow and ice is more attitude than weather.

Beach times

The beach has been the setting for this summer.  Whether I'm walking along, sitting by or on, or driving by, I've spent a lot of time on the beach and by the ocean.  And since I've spent the summer home and not vacationing, the beaches I've been visiting this summer are the ones I've been going to all my life.

I remember traveling by bus or taxi, or by an auntie's ride, to Revere or Lynn or Salem Willows when I was small.  At the Willows we would vary sitting on the beach and sitting on the grass.

Later, as a teenager, there were bike rides to Devereaux beach with other Salem Library pages, and long, lazy afternoons.

My husband and I would go to the Willows early in our years together.  We'd play skeeball and pacman, have ice creams and chop suey sandwiches, and walk the park.  Later we mainly walked  along Lynn Shore Drive.  And lastly we would go and sit, watching the Boston skyline and Nahant.

What I've noticed especially this summer is how quiet beaches have become.  In the 1960's and 1970's, each blanket would host a transister radio.  As we would walk along looking for a "spot" we'd hear WMEX playing music, or WHDH's Ned Martin and Curt Gowdy giving play by play reports for Red Sox games.

The 1980's and early 1990's featured boomboxes playing loudly, with FM stations ruling the air.  They'd be carried on the shoulders of skate boarders speeding past.  The beach still had a soundtrack, and a boisterous feel.

Then Sony developed the Walkman and Apple the iPod, and pesonal listening devices became the norm.  The beach has gone back to natural sounds; waves break, gulls cry, and children laugh and play.  Everwhere else technology dominates our lives, but not at the beach.  Having a soundtrack is now a personal choice. 

Walking along the beach has become one of my favorite ways to excercise.  I'm hoping for another mild winter so that I can continue to do so.  The beach is a place I go to to find a sense of quiet, of timelessness, and renewal.  If I want music, I put the ear plugs in.  This year, though, I've gone without, and listened to the beach sounds, and felt like they're one of the constants in my life.