Tag: Maine

The Sailboats, The Bagaduce and The Cross

October 4, 2024

I have always found solace in the peaceful beauty of a wonderful landmark in my neck of the woods, the little Catholic Chapel called Our Lady of Holy Hope in Castine. It is unpretentious but commands a most spectacular view. Someone once made a disparaging comment that it was an afterthought built for the “help” of the more affluent citizens of the town. Maybe. But I have my doubts.

The little Church sits where Fort Pentagoet was, and an old plaque inscribed in Latin showed that the French had built it. “A University of Maine archaeological team recently established that a Catholic chapel was originally built by the French in 1635 on the site of the present Our Lady of Holy Hope chapel in Castine. From all indications this mission was one of the first in Maine and in the United States.”

I have gone to this place many a time to think, meditate, ponder about the joys and vicissitudes of life, feel closer to my parents and other dead relatives, and reflect on the role that the French Catholic priests of the day played in establishing relationships with the indigenous population.

In fact, it was a Jesuit priest, Father Sebastien Râle, who spent most of his life among the Abenaki, who produced an Abenaki-French dictionary that is recognized as an opus because it helped preserve the language.

I perused that dictionary and it is why I came up with the name “K’chi Casco” for our little farm (meaning Great Heron).

Earlier on a breezy summer day, wondering when or if children and grandchildren might visit, fishing and hiking trips might end, thinking about the University of Maine end-of-summer picnic we were hosting, anticipating an upcoming trip to Europe to reunite with friends (and how I hate to fly, which is a real curse for me), I came across the two sailing ships. Lo and behold, thank God for the phone. I caught them competing with each other and then the Cross providing a magnificent frame…(I think so!).

And now, uploading these photos, I remembered an ancient song based on Charles Kingsley‘s poem, that I had learnt as a kid, thanks to my formidable Great-Aunts, who were steeped in old English literature and lore. I used to sing it with them, and it was the saddest of tunes and lyrics.

However, one day, when I was 10 or so, I heard a young Joan Baez singing it mournfully like a loon, the way I thought ought to be sung. I still do.

I sometimes wonder if I am the only one who takes these labyrinthine journeys through the memories in my heart and mind.

The Three Fishers
by Charles Kingsley

Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep;
And goodbye to the bar and its moaning.

(Journaled about it on September 8, 2024)

Maine Deer

October 3, 2024
May be an image of deer

I guess deer hunting season here in Maine started September 7. I have been seeing people (men, primarily) wearing the ubiquitous orange hats and orange vests, a sign that hunting season has begun.

I am a meat eater and particular in terms of the types of cuts and the quality of the meat. While I don’t like to think how that delicious steak came to come onto my dinner plate, I am also not averse to the idea of eating an animal because of the slaughter involved. Harsh, I know. But I grew up in the land of the best “asados”.

I don’t really care for venison, except for the “filet mignon-style cut”. My Mother-in-Law liked to prepare a venison chili, but, as much as I tried, I did not like it, even though I enjoy chili (I drew the line, though, in South Africa, where I was offered crocodile meat chili and elephant meat chili.).

However, a wonderful gentleman hunter (he turned a dilapidated garden shed into my little office) once brought me moose. I was trepidatious. But I felt obliged to at least give it a try. He told me how it ought to be prepared. And, to my delight, I found that it tastes like the most tender fat-free mignon. I can eat it any time.

Today, as I was leaving a friend’s home to go back home, I noticed the same mamma I have seen with 2 Bambis these last few weeks. (I am assuming it is the mamma, because the fawns stick to her like glue). She is not afraid of humans, because there is no hunter on the property and no hunting is allowed. She lifted her head to stare at me in a quite lackadaisical manner, while her Bambis frolicked nearby (too far for me to take a photo).

And I thought: I hope she keeps on grazing in this hunt-free zone. She is too pretty. Maybe she is protected (there are rules after all). I don’t know. But I like the way she carries herself and I don’t want her gone.

Now, based on my personal experience, where I subscribe to the philosophy that anything that can go wrong will go wrong, she may very well prance across the busy street nearby and be hit by a car. Kind of like a Seinfeld episode.

But, but…I sincerely hope she has many more seasons to produce more Bambis.

Autumn in Maine Can Bring a Flash of Great Joy.

October 3, 2024

Today I reunited with old friends here in Maine, something that gave me a flash of great joy. Driving home, looking at the myriad of red, orange and yellow leaves, I reflected on why I felt so happy.

Autumn is a special time here, not only because of the beauty of the landscape, but because it is the beginning of “nesting” time, or rather, the anticipation of what is to come after the leaf peepers leave:  the start of what I call the Andrew Wyathesque period of the area:  the grasses will turn yellow and there will soon be a calming down, that may bring sadness or contentment.  It depends.

The weather has an underlying chill.  My good friend, the horse, can’t wait for the first frost that will finally put an end to the pesky flies that pullulate around him.  I am not ready for that first frost, but am resigned to it.  

I have my winter clothes and am prepared.  I hope I will opt for contentment and not sadness.  One of the things I feared most about moving to Maine full time was the sadness I would feel, not because of the cold, but because of the short dark days.

I discovered that weather played a pivotal role in my life when I first lived in Moscow, gazillion years ago, in the late 1980’s.  It wasn’t until I visited Rome, on a beautiful sojourn early one spring to escape the darkness of the USSR, that I realized how the Moscow weather (and lack of sunlight) affected my soul.  In those days, only a rare few had identified this condition as “SAD”:  seasonal affective disorder.  

In the end, it was thanks to my SAD condition that I finally understood why there was only a Tchaikovsky, or a Dostoevsky, or any one of those profound Russian musicians, artists and writers.  I realized that weather and lack of light can affect your outlook on life, especially if you are missing something or are experiencing a longing of sorts.  There is an emotional dislocation. 

I resorted to music and my children, who were very young then, can attest to that.  I bombarded them with songs.  To this day, they tell me, they remember most of the music scores I played in the car, wherever we went, and they have a soft spot in their hearts for them.

Funny how old age can change things around.  I know I will be sad and melancholic when we lose the leaves and the grasses turn yellow.  However, I am anticipating spending cold days ahead with warm and kind friends and acquaintances who understand that we all go through that misplacement of emotions that comes from living life.

I leave you to listen to one of my favorite ballads that captures my heart, my love for my home, and best explains my sentiments nowadays.

My New Best Friend.

September 27, 2024
May be an image of horse and grass

He greets me and lets me swat away at the pesky flies and caress his head. He is thrilled if I give him a treat. Talking about caresses…if he were a human or a dog, he could lie next to me and I would caress his back to alleviate the anxiety or insomnia he might feel in his dreams.

He is a beauty, and a better friend than many whom I have known for half a century. I am lucky! Between my fox and my horse, how could I feel sad? He brings back memories of riding bare back, something I loved doing in my old neck of the woods in Argentina. Nah, I would never dream of doing it today. It would end in a funny tale of destruction. However, one can dream, right?

Chucho the Fox.

September 13, 2024

A lifetime ago – actually, only 6 years ago -, when I left my legal career and the Washington DC area to move to Maine full time, I embarked on a little project. By June 2018 I had finished the very first chapter of what I had hoped would become a series of vignettes about our experiences in Maine. It was dedicated to my Grandchildren.

I wrote two little books about “Pop of Penobscot”. Although not the protagonist, I had included myself, Nonna of Penobscot, in those stories.

I have so many little stories that I wrote for the third volume, one of them about the “Legend of the K’chi Casco Birch Tree”. I hope to finish it before the end of 2024. I thought I was done, but life happens, and some things need to be edited out. (Isn’t that the prerogative of the writer? Yes, but then it delays the process!).

Today I made a new friend, and of course, I immediately thought of my Grandchildren and another story. But this time, it will be about this handsome fox with perspicacious eyes that looked at me as if knowing something about me, or so I thought. He stopped when I said hello.

I interrupted his visit to the chicken coop, which is well protected. He looked at me and I loved those cotton-ball cheeks. He then decided to make himself at home, waiting for me to tell my side of the story. I need a name for this handsome character.

I have lost count of the many times I have been mocked for anthropomorphizing animals. I always felt that I was in good company, though, beginning with Aesop, La Fontaine, Rabier, and others, and ending with Walt Disney. In fact, historian Paul Johnson wrote a wonderful chapter in his book “Creators” contrasting Disney with Picasso. Worth a read.

The whole encounter brought back memories of the old Disney movie, The Fox and the Hound. We used to watch it when my kids were young. How they loved it!