Alec Hastings's Blog, page 2
June 30, 2015
Summer time...
My wife and I went to a wedding Saturday night. It was lakeside. It was warm and summery, the end of June. Friends and family sat in folding chairs looking out over the water. Wedding helpers rolled out the equivalent of a red carpet on the grassy aisle between the two groups of chairs. It was a thin, white cloth walkway, very floaty, and it was a big challenge for the bridesmaids to navigate with their high heels. The bridesmaids leaned just a little on the arms of the groomsmen, stepped as lightly as deer, and even though the gossamer wrinkled and tried to snag the unwary, they all walked the walk without accident. Whew! The groom arrived in a canoe paddled by his two best men. He stepped out of the boat, teetered for a split second between water and dock, recovered smoothly, and strode toward the flower-draped arbor where the ceremony soon commenced with the arrival of the bride. I watched these two attractive, bright-eyed, smiling young people, I listened to the officiant's well-spoken words about love and happiness and relationship, and I felt the way I always do at these moments--like someone has just plucked a guitar string attached to my heart and tuned it to the people around me. And I hadn't even drunk a beer at this point, I swear.
After a lovely ceremony that reminded us of just how wonderful marriage can be when two people cherish each other, that ended with the bride and groom's pledges to each other, the festivities began. I did wrap my fingers around a beer at this point and thought about what to do next. Should I talk with my wife and a group of old friends already engaged in conversation or should I "mingle?" Mingling is, I'm guessing, not the first choice for many of us. It's not mine (or it never used to be). Sometimes, like Saturday night, that's just why I do it. I walked up to a group of about seven people standing by the lake talking like they knew each other well. They looked to be in their twenties or thirties. I am sixty-three. "Hi," I said. "I decided to walk up to a group of complete strangers and say hello. My name is Alec." Introductions followed. Then one of them asked, "How are you connected to the bride or groom?" "I'm not," I replied. "I'm crashing the party."
Fortunately, I had sized them up correctly. They were young and full of life, and this was funny, especially when--after a drawing out the comic moment--I reassured them that I was joking. In no time at all I was telling them a story about myself (the one about hitchhiking to Arizona when I was eighteen), and asking them for their own stories. Soon, we were all at ease, getting to know each other, and having fun. When my wife and I ventured out on the dance floor later, these new young friends made us feel right at home.
We danced and danced like we were still kids, and we were--at least, until the next morning. We danced to the B-52's "Love Shack" which is the nickname someone once gave our humble home in the Vermont woods. We danced to Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" and we danced to new music I've never heard of because--I'm sorry to confess it--I sort of stopped listening to new music after the eighties. Near the end of the evening, the DJ lined the women up on one side and the men on the other, and we danced down the lane, a couple at a time, in a "soul train." Finally, Denise requested Mustang Sally, and we danced our last dance at the wedding.
The night was not over, however. As we passed by the bar upstairs, a live band of "old guys" (our age) was playing Mustang Sally--deja vu! I went to the men's room quickly, and when I rejoined Denise, she said two guys had started dancing with her as soon as she stepped onto the dance floor. Made her feel pretty good! We danced in the bar until they switched to Richie Valens' "Oh, Donna" which was too slow. We got permission from the desk clerk to park our pull-behind camper in the resort's parking lot across the street, and then we drove a minute down the road to the town's public beach and went skinny dipping, a necessary preparation for bed because I, for one, had engaged in the act of perspiration. We finally dropped into bed with satisfied sighs a little before midnight, listened to the rain just pattering on the roof, and drifted off to the mysterious land of dreams.
Probably by now, you are wondering about the point of this particular blog. I am too, but I'm not going to dig too deep for this one. I think it's as simple as this. Moments come when we are reminded of how ephemeral life is, and we are reminded of how sweet life is in spite of whatever hardships we meet and suffer through. A summer wedding is an especially sweet reminder. Seeing the bloom and beauty and joy of youth, and feeling deliciously alive on a summer night with fireflies sparking and wine flowing and friends cavorting... well, it just twangs that guitar string inside me and makes it sing.
After a lovely ceremony that reminded us of just how wonderful marriage can be when two people cherish each other, that ended with the bride and groom's pledges to each other, the festivities began. I did wrap my fingers around a beer at this point and thought about what to do next. Should I talk with my wife and a group of old friends already engaged in conversation or should I "mingle?" Mingling is, I'm guessing, not the first choice for many of us. It's not mine (or it never used to be). Sometimes, like Saturday night, that's just why I do it. I walked up to a group of about seven people standing by the lake talking like they knew each other well. They looked to be in their twenties or thirties. I am sixty-three. "Hi," I said. "I decided to walk up to a group of complete strangers and say hello. My name is Alec." Introductions followed. Then one of them asked, "How are you connected to the bride or groom?" "I'm not," I replied. "I'm crashing the party."
Fortunately, I had sized them up correctly. They were young and full of life, and this was funny, especially when--after a drawing out the comic moment--I reassured them that I was joking. In no time at all I was telling them a story about myself (the one about hitchhiking to Arizona when I was eighteen), and asking them for their own stories. Soon, we were all at ease, getting to know each other, and having fun. When my wife and I ventured out on the dance floor later, these new young friends made us feel right at home.
We danced and danced like we were still kids, and we were--at least, until the next morning. We danced to the B-52's "Love Shack" which is the nickname someone once gave our humble home in the Vermont woods. We danced to Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" and we danced to new music I've never heard of because--I'm sorry to confess it--I sort of stopped listening to new music after the eighties. Near the end of the evening, the DJ lined the women up on one side and the men on the other, and we danced down the lane, a couple at a time, in a "soul train." Finally, Denise requested Mustang Sally, and we danced our last dance at the wedding.
The night was not over, however. As we passed by the bar upstairs, a live band of "old guys" (our age) was playing Mustang Sally--deja vu! I went to the men's room quickly, and when I rejoined Denise, she said two guys had started dancing with her as soon as she stepped onto the dance floor. Made her feel pretty good! We danced in the bar until they switched to Richie Valens' "Oh, Donna" which was too slow. We got permission from the desk clerk to park our pull-behind camper in the resort's parking lot across the street, and then we drove a minute down the road to the town's public beach and went skinny dipping, a necessary preparation for bed because I, for one, had engaged in the act of perspiration. We finally dropped into bed with satisfied sighs a little before midnight, listened to the rain just pattering on the roof, and drifted off to the mysterious land of dreams.
Probably by now, you are wondering about the point of this particular blog. I am too, but I'm not going to dig too deep for this one. I think it's as simple as this. Moments come when we are reminded of how ephemeral life is, and we are reminded of how sweet life is in spite of whatever hardships we meet and suffer through. A summer wedding is an especially sweet reminder. Seeing the bloom and beauty and joy of youth, and feeling deliciously alive on a summer night with fireflies sparking and wine flowing and friends cavorting... well, it just twangs that guitar string inside me and makes it sing.
June 23, 2015
Dad's Day
I know this is late. Story of my life! I had a great Father's Day. My daughters and family with me. A phone call from Jake out in Idaho. I thought about my own dad and remembered this short piece, one I always associate with him. Here it is for the blog, and to spark a few lingering thoughts of your own father.
When I Look at a Canoe
Just the shape of a canoe is sacred to me. The graceful curves are aboriginal, close to nature. The bow resembles hands in prayer. When I look at the delicate ribs and thin plank skin of a cedar canoe I feel its life, I imagine it beneath me, rocking gently on the shimmering water. I want to kneel, point toward the horizon and leave land quickly behind.
I see my father when I see a canoe, as clearly as if he were still alive. It is late afternoon years ago. We are drifting on Lake Carmi. To the north, Owls Head Mountain rises from the plains of Quebec. My father places his paddle quietly across the gunwales of the canoe and then sits still. The last flickering daylight slants down and blinds me when I turn to look at him, but I can see reverence in his eyes. We face west together and watch the October sun transform itself into a pillar of fire over Lake Champlain.
If there is any memory in my DNA, any history of the tribe running in my veins, I feel closest to it when water swells beneath me. I see my great grandfather in a bateau, following logs down the Connecticut River. He and the other jacks drive them to the mill. I see the spring mist of early morning rising from Lake Memphremagog and the faint silhouettes of Abenakis paddling a birchbark canoe.
On land, I am down-to-earth, grounded; on water, I drift, float. I am free of restraint. I remember four days on the Saranac Lakes long ago, the smell of the campfire burning down to embers, the stars of the Milky Way filling the sky to the brim, the water lapping the shore, and an owl hooting across the bay. On that dark point of land, surrounded by the soft, sucking waters of the lake, I glimpsed a world beyond.
I migrate to the Saranacs every year. I go in April when the snow squalls can still blow down from Canada. I stay for several days—until I can relearn the knack of entering a moment. I sit completely still in the channel that leads to Little Weller Pond, and there I see the sharp black heads of two loons returning my gaze from a safe distance. When they let loose their wild, eerie cry, I am drawn to them. Out of the corner of my eye I see drops of water falling from the blade of my paddle, and I follow their widening rings until they finally disappear.
When I Look at a Canoe
Just the shape of a canoe is sacred to me. The graceful curves are aboriginal, close to nature. The bow resembles hands in prayer. When I look at the delicate ribs and thin plank skin of a cedar canoe I feel its life, I imagine it beneath me, rocking gently on the shimmering water. I want to kneel, point toward the horizon and leave land quickly behind.
I see my father when I see a canoe, as clearly as if he were still alive. It is late afternoon years ago. We are drifting on Lake Carmi. To the north, Owls Head Mountain rises from the plains of Quebec. My father places his paddle quietly across the gunwales of the canoe and then sits still. The last flickering daylight slants down and blinds me when I turn to look at him, but I can see reverence in his eyes. We face west together and watch the October sun transform itself into a pillar of fire over Lake Champlain.
If there is any memory in my DNA, any history of the tribe running in my veins, I feel closest to it when water swells beneath me. I see my great grandfather in a bateau, following logs down the Connecticut River. He and the other jacks drive them to the mill. I see the spring mist of early morning rising from Lake Memphremagog and the faint silhouettes of Abenakis paddling a birchbark canoe.
On land, I am down-to-earth, grounded; on water, I drift, float. I am free of restraint. I remember four days on the Saranac Lakes long ago, the smell of the campfire burning down to embers, the stars of the Milky Way filling the sky to the brim, the water lapping the shore, and an owl hooting across the bay. On that dark point of land, surrounded by the soft, sucking waters of the lake, I glimpsed a world beyond.
I migrate to the Saranacs every year. I go in April when the snow squalls can still blow down from Canada. I stay for several days—until I can relearn the knack of entering a moment. I sit completely still in the channel that leads to Little Weller Pond, and there I see the sharp black heads of two loons returning my gaze from a safe distance. When they let loose their wild, eerie cry, I am drawn to them. Out of the corner of my eye I see drops of water falling from the blade of my paddle, and I follow their widening rings until they finally disappear.
June 18, 2015
A Fairlee Good Time
Yesterday, Denise and I drove to Fairlee, Vermont with our mountain bikes. We met two friends at Lake Morey and headed up Bald Top Trail. We didn't blow anybody's house down, but we were huffing and puffing so hard we could have if there had been a house in sight. It was all trees... and steep! Granted, we are sexagenerians (not sex-crazed, at least not most days--just over sixty), but still, it was WICKED steep as we say here in Vermont. So we pedaled, and some of the way we walked the bikes because mud was added to steepness. We met a logger. "Will we get to Brushwood Road if we keep going?" I asked. "No," he said. "You've got to go back to that last fork and take a right on the Cross Mountain Trail." "You mean the one about a mile back down the steepest part of the hill?" I asked. "Yut," he smiled. "Gets a little swampy up on top, but that'll take you over to Brushwood." "Thanks!" I said cheerfully. I wondered how much longer David and Diane would be our friends. We rode back down the hill, took the fork, and crossed the mountain, riding some, walking some, riding through a swamp, and riding wild and free down a long mountain road for the last couple miles. We took a dip in Lake Morey to clean off and then met for a cold beverage and bite to eat at the Salt Hill Pub. I felt body-tired but spirit refreshed. David and Diane said they would still be our friends. In fact, they claimed to like the bike ride.
I have been reading The Crossing by Cormac McCarthy. It's part of the Border Trilogy which includes one of my favorite novels of all time--All the Pretty Horses. When I read The Crossing, I feel--after a page or two--as if I am riding my sorrel horse alongside Billy Parham, and we are in the mountains of Mexico. I love being outdoors. I think a life of adventures--even very small adventures (like capturing potato beetles in the garden if that's all the day provides)--is good for body and spirit. And I think a life lived with imagination, with stories and art, and an appreciation of beauty, adds that little touch of stardust that makes it all especially special. At least, it works for me
I have been reading The Crossing by Cormac McCarthy. It's part of the Border Trilogy which includes one of my favorite novels of all time--All the Pretty Horses. When I read The Crossing, I feel--after a page or two--as if I am riding my sorrel horse alongside Billy Parham, and we are in the mountains of Mexico. I love being outdoors. I think a life of adventures--even very small adventures (like capturing potato beetles in the garden if that's all the day provides)--is good for body and spirit. And I think a life lived with imagination, with stories and art, and an appreciation of beauty, adds that little touch of stardust that makes it all especially special. At least, it works for me
June 15, 2015
Rainy Days
I have really come to a time, at sixty-three, when I love a rainy day. Yesterday, a June sun shone and Vermont was hot and beautiful, and I took a shovel and potato fork and spent much of my day in the garden. Two days ago I finished scything and raking a half acre of hayfield. All that hay I forked over the electric fence into two long rows along the downsloping east and west sides of the garden. Yesterday, I continued the garden work. I pinched Colorado potato bugs, scraped their eggs off the undersides of leaves, and hilled the potatoes. I nestled the potato plants, broccoli, squash, and everything else but the carrots in mulch, so the soil will keep some moisture for the plants and not dry into a hard-baked crust. The carrots are too small, but they'll get mulched soon. I tightened the fence wire and turned the fence on again, and I dug up three years of compost and moved a pile into the garden. I enjoyed myself, but this morning aching muscles are telling me about all that bending over.
Today, however, it is raining. I have coffee brewing, homemade bread for toast, and hours ahead of me to make progress on Amos Waters and the River Hogs. A small list of simple pleasures, but no less enjoyable for that. Rain, rain, come again, go away another day. And you, kind reader, fare well down the path of your own day.
Today, however, it is raining. I have coffee brewing, homemade bread for toast, and hours ahead of me to make progress on Amos Waters and the River Hogs. A small list of simple pleasures, but no less enjoyable for that. Rain, rain, come again, go away another day. And you, kind reader, fare well down the path of your own day.
