Just a small sample of things I’ve written over the years. More to come soon.
From Power & Motoryacht magazine:
Just a small sample of things I’ve written over the years. More to come soon.
From Power & Motoryacht magazine:
I recently got into a text discussion with a friend about apples. He lives in Washington State, and he thumped his chest a bit about the many varieties available there. Recently I was in the grocery store and realized we have a fair number of varieties here in the East Coast as well.
I never really thought about it where I live in Connecticut. I buy apples but, for some reason, I think I mostly buy them in the fall. I always pick up a paper tote bag of Macintosh or Macouns near the door of my local grocery store. Of course, we eat them year round, so I don’t know why it feels like I only buy them in the fall.
At our house in Massachusetts when I was growing up, we had a few apple trees. They were evenly spaced in two rows, three on one side, five on the other. I never knew any of the varieties, but some years they were quite prolific, and we needed to pick them up in buckets lest the fruit rot on the ground. This of course was the absolute worst chore, and our folks used to encourage us to make a game of it, standing back from the buckets and tossing the apples from where we stood. Ooh, look I made a shot—needless to say it didn’t work. It’s funny, I think it would seem fun today.
We never sprayed the apples with pesticides to keep the bugs and worms out of them, or otherwise encouraged them to grow. They just did, year after year. When I go home now, those trees that once seemed enormous to me, or those that remain, anyway, now seem stunted and gnarled.
One tree we had by the kitchen door was a crab apple. The fruit were small, bright green, and each one hard as a golf ball. Some years that tree was prolific enough that the fruit would fall so thick on the ground you couldn’t put your foot down without stepping on one or two. They were brutal if you happened to be barefoot, though probably a bit better than the wormy, brown, and better-camouflaged specimens beneath the other trees, which would smear beneath a footstep, or could even make you slip chasing a fly ball in the wiffle ball game.
The crab apples were the best choice should you get in an apple fight, an unavoidable eventuality in a family with three boys in a neighborhood with plenty of kids around. I remember hiding behind the tree farthest from the crab apple as my older brother waited me out. I broke for the corner of the fence by the woods, and, as I ran directly away, he drilled me right between the shoulder blades.
Occasionally I would find an apple on the ground that had just fallen (usually not during an apple-pick-up session, since I could honestly say during those—and probably often did, vociferously—that if I never saw an apple again, I would be a much happier person) or actually reach up and pick one that looked, well, palatable. I would give it a polish on the belly of my T-shirt, and take a bite. The apples that we found in this condition were invariably rock hard. Also the texture was terrible, almost unchewable in its graininess. The flavor was acidic, not a hint of sweetness. Did I mention the skin was like leather? Usually I would end up spitting out the single tiny bite, since these four attributes conspired to make me resolve never to try one again. Until next time.
There was one exception to the apple trees in our little orchard though. At the very front of the property, last in the longer row of apple of trees (or first if you didn’t live the majority of your life in the backyard, as I did) was a pear tree.
The pear tree was different. For one, the fruit was not as common as the apples most years. I have no idea what variety they were, but in my mind they were brown-skinned like a Bosc (which I confuse with an Anjou to this day). Also the branches were quite high up the tree as I recall, so we generally couldn’t get to the pears before they fell to rot in the grass. And when they did sit in the grass and rot, they attracted yellowjackets at a far greater rate. All the fruit would do this, depending on the weather and if one of my brothers or, more likely, I mowed the lawn without picking up some of the fruit, instead chopping into the perfect consistency to bait the stinging insects.
And while I didn’t always like to eat apples as a boy, I have always loved pears. But now I love them all.
Strange days these.
I’ve been meaning to write a blog lately but all my topics seem to be “evergreen,” which in real editors’ parlance mean the topics are not urgent enough, and they never get written at all. Maybe there’s something to this.
I think about people who have changed my life. And then I think how they have chosen to change their own lives. And then I feel fairly haunted.
I wrote a dreadful poem once about Kate Spade’s designs. My wife actually made fun of me for a while. Very superficial and stupid. She’s done so much more than I ever will. In light of my self-centeredness, I never even thought to regret it until now.
What is this grip that takes hold? Does life really become so untenable? I guess it must for them (and who knows what anyone really thinks), but I can’t imagine. And there are times when I get sad myself. Saying, like what the hell’s the damn point? But to this degree, nah…
Bad lesson for my daughter, first of all. Without hope where are any of us?
And, I’ve thought about it. In short, I’m too interested to see how it turns out here. No matter how hard it gets.
Bad days, they end. Given the chance.
It can always get better. Until this is the response. Then there’s no opportunity.
And to those who say Anthony Bourdain or Kate Spade, or anyone else who makes this final choice, to those who say they’re in a better place, I would answer: Please prove it.
The wind had picked up. I shut the lights and peered out the back window, my night vision returning. The night sky had darkened to the Southeast, a haze of low, black clouds bearing down. I turned away, thinking as I climbed the stairs to bed that maybe it was a trick of the eye, with the streetlights from the the Southwest creating the effect. That it was night creeping in.
The lights of our homes do that, don’t they? When the darkness descends, they hold the outer world at bay. Much like the fireplace, the hearth at the center of the circle.
That’s why I like the wind so much — it intrudes with its sound and feel, particularly when the windows of our old house rattle as the pressure ratchets up, then drops. Reminding us it’s all out there.
Lately though, the maples around our old house have been reminding us their own way. A couple of years ago my brother and his family came for an afternoon’s visit before driving to Vermont. One of our trees dropped a 3-inch-diameter limb on his parked car shattering the back window into tempered-glass grapenuts. His family left in a rental, and he stuck around a night to deal with getting the window replaced the next day.
Just this past winter, in early March, we had a heavy wet snow here accompanied by some high winds. One of our trees dropped a large limb in my back neighbor’s yard, another dropped one on our patio, managing to block the driveway in the process.
Time to do some trimming. A few weeks later, we had an arborist come in for a look, to see what needed doing. I asked him if the big red maple at the back of the property may be saved. He answered me before I even finished: No it’s a hazard, he said. It’s got to go.
I’ve had vivid dreams lately and some I even remember when I wake up, which has become less common as I’ve gotten older. More than anything this sense of a dream I can’t recall reminds me of the present-ness of real life, how we’re all in the now, a circle of light from which the past slips.
This morning I woke from a dream, deep in the richness of feelings it evoked in me. Unfortunate since the feelings were bad. Several insecurities were there, making a day of it, and manifested in shadows that looked like people I’ve known, in situations too bizarre to be real, too real to be discounted.
I awakened and began to retreat into myself before I even sat up, then realized the dream hadn’t actually happened, and what a gift of perspective. Though I had to take some stock, and make sure the limb hadn’t dropped closer than I thought.
One morning recently, the tree crew showed up, and the tree came down. In one day it was there, and then it was gone. As piece after piece fell to the chainsaw, we could see the tree was rotten in key spots, though it was a lot more solid in places we hadn’t expected it to be. The crew chipped most of the wood, and hauled away the logs. But when they were gone, we found they left one solid, round fireplace-length limb section in the driveway.
The morning the tree crew came I had been up early, to remove some parts of our fence to give access to the tree. When I finished the light was coming up and I took some photos of the tree, top to bottom, crouching to get it in frame. A death mask. I had suddenly realized the tree would soon pass out of the circle of light, and live only in our memory.
It’s important to remember the rot. And it’s worth keeping a solid piece or two, to help keep the darkness at bay.
But it isn’t mine. Even better, it’s my daughter’s: an Optimist sailing dinghy, which we gave her two Christmases ago. I’m happy to report that Loblolly floats. (This is the name Zuzu had chosen shortly after she got her, and unbidden by her parents. It’s a paean to the beautiful stretch of beach on the backside of Anegada.)
So now Zuzu is sailing her own boat, erasing her own doubt, overcoming her nerves, enjoying the feeling of trying to do things for herself that she’s never done before.
There’s a theme here, which we’re continuing from the winter where Zuzu’s downhill skiing, and our effort level at bringing her along and growing her skills, and it’s been a revelation. Like with skiing at her level, learning and growing is a marathon rather than a sprint. More is accomplished from regular small bites than a once-a-year, daylong banquet.
Of course all the effort has been interspersed with learning from other sources and it is not a bad idea, since I don’t consider myself expert at teaching or being up on the latest techniques (to wit, the pizza and French fry techniques for young skiers. Too distracting! But snack-bar revenues may be the savior of the ski industry).
Still I’m not fobbing her off completely on any instructors. There’s certainly a cool feeling when you see some aspect of her technique that you know comes from you, something you helped instill.
The proper care of a boat is definitely something she’s learning from me. Loblolly was a little rough, a tough little Winner (that’s the Dutch builder) who has had quite a variety of owners who made the most of her rugged construction. She’s the only one in the dock racks with varnished wooden daggerboard and rudder (all the others have composite, plastic rudders–where’s the fun in that?), and Zuzu says she sails just fine, and she would know since she was on the boat with a classmate–not an instructor–on just the third day. It was pretty windy and choppy. There were whitecaps.
This summer is just getting better and better. Now about my boat….
On an ambitious weekend for a boater with a busy schedule…
I watched through envy-filled eyes as boaters who had done hardly an hour’s work were lowered from the travelift to the resting river below.
“How!? I mean, gahhhh, another one,” I’d stammer, pointing wildly at the carefree looking family sailing off into summer.
Karen rolled her eyes and went back to varnishing. We had accomplished a fair amount in early spring; the brightwork had been tended to, the mast received six coats of varnish and was really starting to shine again. The hull was waxed and painted and still … there was much left to do. It was time to call in the troops; we asked my parents to come up for the weekend to help blitz through the remaining projects.
On our to-do list was two tasks that had eluded us since we bought the boat four seasons ago: Fixing the wiring and adding running water. Yes, water…
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That’s how it’s done.
Leaves along Connecticut’s Route 9 had begun to trade their deep green for hints of orange and yellow; nature was showing its hand. Fall is here. With a long holiday weekend on tap the Karen Marie would be chasing the horizon at full throttle trying mightily to catch back up to summer.
That’s how it came to be that we motored from Essex early Saturday morning, hitching a ride down the river with an outgoing tide. The early, yet strong rays of sun burned off the morning dew providing a smoky hue to our cruise. Short chop in the Sound and the confused waters of Plum Gut made for a less-than-leisurely ride over to our destination of Shelter Island’s Dering Harbor. Covered in a weird combo of salt spray and sweat, we eventually tied up to our mooring in the southeast corner of the harbor and took in the view…
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