putting the house to bed

October 19 post

sunrise:  6:53

For us - the last sunrise of the year on Sutton Island (barring some crazy notion of J's that brings us out here for a winter adventure).  Today we put the Field House to bed for the long winter months.  Our electricity was restored just in time for one lighted evening before we turn it off again.

So many have done the same before us, for 110 summers.  Beds are stripped, water is drained, windows and doors secured against the inevitable nor'easters that will whistle and screech through every crack.

This year's beach-combing treasures sit on shelves alongside others from years long past.  Some get returned to the sea, some find a safe place out of the way before porch furniture fills every free space in the living room.

 (notice the difference in the position of the sun since last June?)

Perhaps the occasional workman or hunter will wander past and peek in the windows during a lunch break.  We saw both yesterday -- one man re-roofing Bunchberry Bungalow - our farthest eastern neighbor, and two bow hunters arriving as we waited for the ferry boat to carry L, E, and e to shore.  If they happen to look through the salt glazed windows of this timeless house, they will see much of the same furniture, books and crockery that a hunter might have seen a hundred years ago.  The ewers and water basins were more than decorative back then (and could have come in handy over the last 2 days).

Blaze orange vests on the dogs were only slight reassurance to me this morning, knowing the bow hunters were probably out at dawn as well.  I am surrounded by 3 pacing dogs who didn't get nearly enough exercise this morning.  We have the rest of today in full light for a last island gallop.

water carrier

October 18 post

sunrise:  6:52

I read somewhere about a society in a third world country where humanitarians were hoping to elevate the standard of living through education.  One of their biggest challenges was getting girls to school because their traditional job was water carrier.  A water carrier cannot be spared, not even for a day to go to school.

For only two days we have been obliged to walk 100 yards down the path to a spigot in the woods for all of our water.  We need it for drinking, washing, cooking, toilet flushing.  If we want warm water, we have to build a fire, arrange a cooking platform, and heat water in a pan.

It is the rare evening at the dinner table that you hear this casual conversation: 

"We'll just use the toilet water to wash the dishes."  "Okay.  Good idea."  (just to be clear - it was water from an open bucket, perfectly clean.  Just not as clean as the water in closed jugs.)

Suddenly wasted water is relevant.  Overuse has immediate consequences in labor.

There is something wrong.  We Americans need more awareness of what it means to labor for our own personal survival.

I am marveling at our guests, who have chosen to stick around for all this time, when hot showers, electricity, restaurants, and central heating are only a ferry boat ride away. 

L and E are both scientists - in fields of biology.  They spent hours on end with their five year old daughter along the shore yesterday - exploring, collecting, exclaiming over all life forms.  Goaded by their enthusiasm, we gathered a bucketful of mussels and a few clams to boot.  Most of their dinner was a mollusk feast.

For J and me, every new guest that joins us here adds a new layer of appreciation for the wonders of this island.

power out

October 17 post

sunrise:  6:50

We arrived to a powerless house on Sutton Island.  The storm that stopped all the ferries on Friday did its damage, and apparently power lines were down all over the area.  No one, howeer, was on Sutton before us.  So our Saturday call to Bangor Hydro came late in the game.

"I can tell you I'll try to get there tomorrow," said the service guy, "but I'd be lying if I said it was likely.  It'll probably be Monday."

Our Montanan guests are a game bunch, and they opted to stay, power notwithstanding.

So we felt a bit like the occupants of little house on the prairie last night -- adapting, gathering water by hand (from the water lines that run through the woods), figuring out how to cook in the fireplace.

When we were sitting at the dinner table, drinking wine, eating a hot beef stew (reheated in a cast iron pan that sat on a grill propped over 2 huge slabs of granite that J found outside), buttering our fire-toasted bread, eating a huge salad, we were feeling pretty fine.  Who needs electricity?

Well.  I confess, I wouldn't want to keep it up for long.

J and I are up early today - fire crackling.  We're about to gather more water, then brew coffee.  Luckily, it's cold enough so that most of our food should stay edible without refrigeration.  the ice cream sandwiches have seen better days.

I will be happy for running water, hand washing, and refrigeration when they return, but when five of us sat around a toasty warm fire last night, telling stories and singing old remembered songs by candle and firelight, life felt pretty good.

the mind at rest

sunrise:  6:52

There are times in life when the mind is abuzz with thoughts and ideas.  They are like a flurry of autumn leaves swirling around in your head, so many that you can hardly catch hold of any one of them.

Then there are other times when the mind seems to be at rest.  It skims along at the surface of a still pond, effortlessly, living in the moment without delving beneath the surface.

facing the rain

sunrise:  6:51

NOTE TO REGULAR READERS - I might be off the grid for several days.  All entries will be posted in their proper order by the end of October 19.

An autumn storm is passing through.  Intrepid island lovers that we are, we will nonetheless attempt a trip out to Sutton today if the ferry is running.  It could be especially exciting with our 5 year old houseguest from Montana, who is visiting with her parents for a few days (more terrific cousins!).  But she is as intrepid as anyone, and should be game for a little adventure.

Hard to believe it, sometimes, how life flies along.  Since it had been nearly 10 years since I saw this particular cousin in person, this was the first chance I have had to meet my youngest first cousin once removed.  Family history and ties forge a lifetime bond however.  There is such comfort in knowing that the branches of your family grow strong in so many directions, even when they are way off in the distance.

Here is some inspiration for the enjoyment of rain from Rachel Field.  Even in the throes of heart grief, she could not miss the beauty in the nature of things:

(from her book of poetry, "Fear is the Thorn")

O Lovely Rain
 O lovely rain, fall on the sea,
Silver on silver, liquidly
Darken each trunk and knotted root,
Give every twig a silver fruit
To hold, and let the bending grass
Be thick with berries clear as glass.
Film the fierce green of juniper.
Let spruces drip with quicksilver.
O lovely, multitudinous rain,
Knock on my door and window pane;
Stream through the dark, and while I sleep
Your grave and timeless rhythms keep;
Beat like some far, ancestral drum
On this dull brain, this heart grown numb.

Chilean miners

sunrise:  6:49

I got an email from my 21 year old daughter at 9:30 last night.  "I just can't stop thinking about the miners.  They rescued all 33," she wrote.  It is truly a captivating, heart-wrenching and inspiring story.

She went on...

<<"The fact that they were all down there together, staying alive, having faith, for over 2 weeks with no contact from the outside world, and then for 2 more entire months, to think that every single one with hardly a scratch are now back with their families and their lives are just turned upside down. It's just amazing to see them all smiling in the daylight, and looking so full of life!

I think part of it is just that it's incredible to see such a positive story, a story with absolutely no negative, so highly publicized. What is our news full of? Wars, bombings, terrorists, failing politics, natural disasters. And here is just happiness">>

My more cynical side worries about the negatives that are lurking around the edges of this story - lawsuits, corruption, political posturing, finger-pointing, media frenzy, the uncertain long-term fate of the rescued miners whose lives have been turned upside down...

...but how sobering and wonderful to hear this sincerity of feeling from a young person looking out at our world.  She is absolutely right.  The rescue itself is a triumphant story of dedication, fierce hope, competency, efficiency, teamwork, success, relief - and pure joy. 

It is a phenomenal tale of perseverance and patience, the story of the 33 miners themselves, trapped for so long over 2000 feet underground in the hills of Chile.  Many more stories are sure to emerge, but the one that I am most interested in hearing is the one about leadership.

When the story of the first contact with the miners came out - and we learned that they were okay, living a daily routine with jobs to do and holding on to hope - I thought of the story of Ernest Shackleton, whose expedition to Antarctica became trapped in the ice in 1914 or so.  One of my favorite books is called "Endurance:  Shackleton's Incredible Voyage."  The story of the whole crew's survival was all about the strength and wisdom of a great leader of men (and a bit of blind luck). 

The ability to lead with conviction, assuredness, compassion, and good sense - to hold on to the confidence of your team even in the most dire of circumstances - that is the test of a great leader.  I have to believe that there was such a man underground in Chile.  We may hear the story, or several versions of it, but it is one that I would especially like to celebrate.

hell is other people, or not

sunrise:  6:48

The sun is hurtling toward the south.  It surprised me this morning how far to the right of the smokestack I had to look to find it peeking out from under the covers.

 *********

In his book, Huis clos (No Exit), Jean Paul Sartre puts forth the proposition that "Hell is other people."  The few characters in the book have all the creature comforts they need, but they are confined in each other's company for eternity, and that is their eternal suffering, their hell. 

Now think about the fact that the most severe form of punishment for incarcerated felons is solitary confinement.  Some say that those weeks or months without any human interaction are as cruel and unusual as any torture.

Which is true?  or is it both?  Which do we need more, enough solitude to get a clear sense of our selves, or the comforts of community?  What if you had to choose only one?

*********

Frosty fields, glassy pond, lovely autumn morning.