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"An exile, saddest of all prisoners,
Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong,
Seas, mountains, and the horizon’s verge for bars."
-- Lord Byron
August 6, 2001 (APJP) -- I was able this week to visit two of the places that live in my heart. I drove on Thursday afternoon north to New Hampshire, taking old rural Route 2 through Lexington and Concord, past Walden woods, and up 101 to Dublin.
There, near the end of a pitted and rock-strewn dirt road that wends through deep woods, sits a small log cabin on a pristine lake. The lake was carved by glaciers eons ago. The waters are deep, but remarkably clear and warm. At night, the sound of bullfrogs shake the glasses in the kitchen cabinet.
The place belonged to my grandparents. When they bought it, fifty-odd years ago, it was little more than a fishing shack. There was no plaster between the logs, so the winds had their way with the former occupant, a grizzled old ice fisherman. In the center, however, stood a huge stone fireplace. My grandparents went to work on the place and made it into a tidy little vacation home, all wood paneled and wreathed with a porch that looks out onto the lake.
It belongs to my mother now, and she has made it her own. When I arrived on Thursday in a cloud of road dust, she was sprawled in a lawn chair down by the water. A week's vacation shined from her face. Two mammoth dogs ran hither and yon. Gypsy, a beloved collie-lab mutt, seemed to be showing her age a bit. Raven, however, was every inch the black-furred slobber-encrusted 130 lb. banshee of a Newfoundland adolescent. Being greeted by an exuberant Newf is like getting mugged by a large, wet, happy Wookie.
I popped a beer and settled into a chair next to her. We sat for a few hours and talked. I marveled at the effect this place had on her. She is a busy lawyer back in Boston, but the air and sun and silence in Dublin acts upon her like a narcotic. After a while, she wet inside for a nap. I went underneath the house to haul out the toy.
Last summer, my mother bough a nice, big, green kayak and a wooden double oar. I tossed it in the water and plowed out to the center of the lake. The sun was setting in the west beyond the trees, and the clouds were burning. Water bugs churned on the surface of the water, and bats swooped and dove around them with impossible grace. To the east, a near-full moon rose above Mt. Monadnock in the distance. The silence was complete.
I sat there in the middle of the lake until it was nearly full night. The bullfrogs began their basso chorus as I rowed for home, but went silent when I scraped the boat back on to shore. That night, I slept like a stone.
The next day, after driving back to Boston, I headed west with my girlfriend Cara to her parent's house in Wallkill, NY. The area reminds me quite a bit of New Hampshire. It is rural for the most part, with wide fields bisected by winding country roads that beg for a heavy foot on the accelerator. Cara had grown up in this place, and can drive those roads blindfolded. I am learning, slowly.
Old houses and stone Huguenot churches dot the roads here and there. The stars at night are brilliant and mesmerizing. Not far away, mountains burst suddenly out of the pastures. It is a special pleasure to visit this place. I do not go as often as I should. Cara's presence makes it all the more extraordinary.
That night, we went to the Ulster County Fair. It was a sprawling whirl of lights cast by the rides, and the air was spiced with the scent of fried dough and pizza. We bought our tickets and plunged into the throng.
The local Grange had set up a large tent where organizations could set up booths. I wandered through, tipping a nod to the surly Green Party rep who was keeping a solemn vigil next to a knifesmith that had drawn a considerable crowd. The next booth down was sponsored by the New York Republican National Committee, but no one was there. The occupants, I noted, were checking out the blades. I pointed this out to Cara, and her
laugh filled the tent.
Encamped all around were carny tests of skill – dart throwing, ring tossing, water squirting – offering desperately cheap stuffed-animal prizes. The local Grange had set up a large tent where organizations could set up booths. I wandered through, tipping a nod to the surly Green Party rep who was keeping a solemn vigil next to a knifesmith that had drawn a considerable crowd. The next booth down was sponsored by the New York Republican National Committee, but no one was there. The occupants, I noted, were checking out the blades. I pointed this out to Cara, and her laugh filled the tent.
One cannot go to a county fair without hemorrhaging money fruitlessly from every pore. I tried the bee-bee gun contest, and lost. I tried the vertical rock-climbing contest, and lost. I tried the contest with the sledgehammer and the bell on the tower, and lost. I tried the skee-ball contest, and lost. I wasn't upset. We rode the ferris wheel and got stopped at the top. In the distance, a slightly fuller moon was rising.
Tonight we drove home. As Cara and I talked, I kept noticing the verdant green of the woods by the side of the road. The moon, past full, kept pace with us. The air was warm from the window, and summer suddenly felt infinite.
For the first time in a while, the frustration and anger I have been suffering melted away. There is so much to be bleak about, and in this struggle I have many times become coldly focused on victory alone. These last several days have reminded me of why I am involved in this fight to reclaim what has been lost.
My love for these places I visited are proof positive of my citizenship of this country. I am no exile. I am of this land. I am this government. I was given a prized gift by being born here, and I have been blessed with the senses to appreciate what that means.
The potential for good in what we work for cannot be measured. If we dwell in despair and anger every moment, we lose the ability to see and remember that which we are seeking to preserve and protect. I saw it again these last few days, and realized that it had been too long since I had looked up and cast my gaze around me in a moment of thankful contemplation for what is still good and pure and beautiful.
Look up.
Copyright © 2001, 2000, 1999, 1998, 1997, 1996, American Politics Journal Publications, Inc.
