FISHING REDUX

We borrowed my friends' canoe this morning. Tattered but not battered the old, forest-green vessel with faded wood trim withstood  its passengers as my boyfriend shoved off.  I sat in the bow. The clear, blue lake had become hidden--the closer we got to the shoreline--by trees. Thrust onto the rippled water and the open sky, I began to breathe, genuinely breathe, like Mother Nature had slapped me on the back after being born. The mostly sunny day welcomed us until a cool ocean wind reminded me that although summer had officially begun, we were on Cape Cod. My boyfriend spoke first: "What a gift, living here. Smell that air." We've known each other long enough that we are as in sync as the wind and the water.

The temperature rose enough to tempt painted turtles from the shallows to the top of a smooth rock: two were already sunbathing when another began to make the arduous climb to join the others. Paddling (sporadically on my end to save energy) to find a strategic fishing hole, I spotted above me a large raptor. My boyfriend identified the hovering bird as an osprey which had decided to scan the lake for fish, encouraging for we had hoped to find our share. Then, in the midst of the sunless sky I saw scant then multiple numbers of smaller birds racing toward the osprey to keep it away from their nests. My body may be challenged, but my eyesight has never been sharper.

Myles and I had agreed to "catch and release" and my excitement increased as I remembered why I love the sport. I hadn't been rod/reel fishing in fresh water since I childhood. Handling the live worms or minnows had become as easy as using chopsticks. I used to go down to a nearby stream to catch trout, not much luck when using a bobber in a raging brook, and a stocked pond where I did catch some legal-sized rainbows. Later that year, I learned I'd been fishing in a pond on unmarked, private property, owned by a renowned art museum across the valley. Undaunted, I discovered other fishing holes.

Adulthood brought with it saltwater ventures across the Great Pond, or the Atlantic Ocean, which included ice-fishing in the Gulf of Finland on the Baltic Sea--common dace were the catch and release that day. Almost a decade into the future, across an even bigger "pond," the Pacific Ocean, I successfully attempted deep sea fishing, off a kelong in Malaysia. Our fishing group ate what we caught. But that's another story.

Funny how I lived as a grad student in Missoula, Montana, also renowned for the now classic book (and film), A River Runs Through It, written by Norman Maclean, and I never went fishing! Rafting, yes, and sojourns to nearby lakes to swim; however, not a nibble, other than to eat store-bought trout, cheap then, and fresh--really, genuinely fresh.

So decades later, here, on a pristine body of fresh water, I sat with a high-quality reel and fiber-glass rod, a shiny lure dangling from the tip, ready to resume my once passionate pastime. Only problem, aside from an in-grown belief--fanned by family and classmates--that I had little hand to eye coordination for most sports and casting, chronic medical issues and being slightly intimidated by the master caster sitting behind me, I literally got tangled up in knots. Myles kept saying, "feel the load of the lure," inwardly I wanted to take my oar. . .no, I refrained from launching an attack on my teacher/boyfriend and after dozens of tries, and Myles' loving encouragement, I began to find my rhythm, the "feel."  Around the same time, Myles heard deep-throated "ribbits," bull frogs, sounding for a mate. He paddled closer yet we never saw the bulbous amphibians, as if they wanted to taunt us to find them. Stay tuned for a much bigger discovery later in this blog.

We darted from spot to spot, searching for still waters as we avoided the strengthening wind and ripples, to cast for bass, large- and small-mouthed. Myles has the eyes and nose, "you can smell the bass." No catches for either one of us, though the master fisherman had a few strikes. I had hoped to have re-beginners luck. And yet, I didn't have an inner sense of justice that the experienced sportsmen at the stern hadn't caught anything. Our day had been so wondrous. I refused to let my first lesson be spoiled by the capricious nature of the elusive bass.

One of my friends who had lent us the canoe, met us in the garden as Myles and I clambered up the winding path. I asked if we could change into our swimsuits for a leisurely dip down the road. Larry suggested we swim where we fished, the lake behind us, but I vocalized what I rightly believed Myles had thought: "We'd love to, except we saw a large [common] snapping turtle swimming up from the depths to the shallows." My boyfriend then provided the weight and measures, around twenty pounds of the reptile. Larry laughed as he said he and his wife, Beth, swam regularly in the lake. Still, I was deterred. I rationalized in my head, Of course, the lake down the road had snappers, too. However, even with the practical knowledge I had of the creatures, snappers are nocturnal reptiles which are usually lethargic during the day except when their nests are threatened, having seen large holes dug in my friends' garden where female snapping turtles had attempted to lay their eggs, I stood firm.

I changed into my suit; then Myles and I left the oasis we had shared. I can't speak for my boyfriend's inner thoughts. For me, our decision had been correct not only because of that prehistoric turtle's sudden appearance. No, re-capturing the magic, the unspoken moments that morning would have been a mistake.

Déjà vu had struck me. Years trying to get my parents or friends to go fishing or picnic by a stream--with limited success--had left me spent. I had let others spoil my pastime. Today, I regained hope. Having a close one with me to share the joy helped. I had to decide, nonetheless, whether to be thwarted or encouraged by the cumbersome process of re-learning. Absorbing another memorable day on Cape Cod, returning to a simple pleasure from childhood. . .well, you can guess my choice.

A VACATION OF THE MIND

Princeton mathematician Andrew Wiles was asked during an interview in a PBS/BBC airing of "The Proof" about his process for proving Fermat's Last Theorem. Dr. Wiles replied he took long walks through the woods where he could clear the clutter from his mind, leading to remarkable revelations. Naturally, practitioners of yoga and mediation, and many therapists prescribe long walks or places to escape the noise in your head. My rebellious nature didn't immediately take to this often-made suggestion. And then after a low period, I discovered where I feel most at ease; where the non-stop, left-brain neural processing would seem to go into stasis, and my imagination, right-brain, would be given free rein. Those who have read my book or have followed my blogs may already know where I find inspiration: beaches on Cape Cod.

Even in the middle of throngs of visitors during this late spring, I set up my chair, as I wear my beach hat at Nauset Beach and decompress. No, I don't clear all the clutter from my noisy mind. Instead, I watch what I want to see and listen to what I want to hear. No day is like another. As with the crystalline sand which sifts through your fingers, each handful contains individual grains; only unique when observed closely.

The tide is out, this afternoon, at Nauset, but the harbor seals look more relaxed as they swim 200 feet from shore, as if the shallower water will provide a buffer from a roaming Great White shark. The seals swim in waves, up to six or more at a time, parallel to shore. There are more this year--repelling and aggravating ocean fishermen--and yet the rascals never cease to amuse. One line of seals travels as if it were a train, with a young seal carrying the rear, the caboose.

Farther out the flat, curved horizon--the aperture of the earth--gives me a chill. Why? Maybe because seeing the roundness of our planet reminds me how close to the edge human beings have come. As the eighty degree sun begins to increase my body temperature, a cool wind picks up and then I spot a kite. One multi-color, trapezoid, inflated drifter moves quickly along the shoreline, high in the clear, blue sky with its long tail acting as a rudder. I strain my neck to peek over other beach-goers to find the expert flier, no luck.

Zigzagging ruts carved by the outgoing tide and sand breaks have produced tidal pools. Unlike Skaket Beach's flora and fauna, Nauset's shallow waters hold stones--some ordinary and others colorful, buffed by the ocean's power. The pools are warm, the ocean colder. Brave, early seasonal swimmers are in the surf, but not too far from the shoreline. Strange seeing so few near the sun-kissed sea. Shark sightings have scared even the curious from wading in or splashing their feet.

The break is shallow, at least from where I'm sitting. Mini-pipelines shut down as fast as they start. Peering south, toward Chatham, the breakers are bigger--surfers try to catch a wave but the surf bottoms out. Only a lone skimmer, a tall, lanky teen looking for the best spot to launch his board, has my vote for a successful afternoon.

Then, I turn my attention to the voices. Spurts of conversation: "Sharks have been around for thousands. . ," "I love spinning," to "Did anyone get the Red Sox score?" I am delighted that the inquisitor doesn't have his cell phone to get the answer. A woman in the party holds a pink-cased I-phone, yet her effort produces: "No service, here." I'm thinking, Ah, Nauset, a nature lovers' paradise.

After seconds of smug glee and watching ubiquitous football tossers who almost always pick a spot where they are in danger of hitting a lounging beach-goer, I notice a couple playing paddle ball on the flat sands down the slope from my location. The two are wearing nondescript shorts and t-shirts. This picture begins my next journey. A fashion reconnoiter, you might call it.

Most men, thankfully, are in the retro-trendy long swim trunks, a relief for if I wanted to see their package I'd go to the ballet! (Balletomanes don't despair as I love the performing art and rarely pay attention to the often-padded "spectacle.") Women are wearing a variety of bikinis, a rare string here and there, along with bandeaus; whereas others have chosen tankinis and one-pieces like I have. I've decided to classify these ladies even further as: sun-worshipers and sun-avoiders. The latter numbers greatly increasing with the sun cancer burst.

The swimsuit colors don't impress me this season. Fashion designers should observe towel trends for more eye-catching designs and colors, bad and good. From faux leopard to neon pink stripes; a cobalt blue blanket with stringy fringe to understated solids. Not a repeat among the multitude. I start to believe that towel selection is like numerology or astrology, providing signs about the owner's personality. {Sorry readers I won't describe my towel.}

Quietly and suddenly, on the flats a beach buggy captures my line of vision. The U.S. Park Service driver, most likely a retired vet (the Park Service/National Seashore gives vets dibs on summer jobs) rides along with a wide smile. Unlike the original "buggies," this vehicle has a jeep-like, boxed shape, with a permanent roof, screened rear window and even a yellow siren. At least, the intrusion is peaceful.

A tell-tale sign that I'm at the right place. For, there are hundreds of visitors around me yet very little noise. Whether residents, summer snow birds or tourists, those who come to Nauset share a desire to absorb nature's canvas; to listen, to see, to feel the blessings of the sea.

LAVENDER FIELDS, FOREVER.

Meters away I spot the purplish, tight-knit wildflowers; then across the arid fields we get closer to perfect rows with imperfect sprigs, lighter in color with tinge of silver-gray supported by lime green spikes, standing strong. Like the famous Rosé wines from Provence, the lavender plant or herb gathers its unique aroma the the sun-dried earth. Its scent often found in over-perfumed soaps or lotions, very few of which approximate their source. The genus, lavandula angustifolia or English Lavender is the most prevalent, but the Provençal plant's genus species I refer to in this blog is pyrenaica. Taken from the Pyrenees, I'm assuming. I didn't realize until I researched this article that there are thirty-nine species of the genus found across the globe in mostly Mediterranean-like environs, making the herb even more enticing. 

When I decorated my bedroom, the first color I pulled from Renoir's painting, The Swing, a framed print, formerly my mother's, was lavender. Mother had grown lavender in her terrace garden, not requiring much fuss but stopping my mother in her tracks when she inhale the herbs' genuine perfume. So, I went to a nearby Home and Garden and asked for lavender. After a while they found some sprigs that were younger, fresher, and another bunch of older, aged lavender. I tied them together with a yellow ribbon and hung them on my wall, parallel to the poster but on the other side, upside down of course. Just as dried-flower enthusiasts do during a hot, dry summer.

You see I live in an apartment, so I don't have an outside door or a window that isn't bombarded by delivery truck smog. And I'm not an indoor plant fan, so the Old World sprigs give me a taste of the past, Provence, and nature's beauty. Yes, I've been to Provence, as part of a solo trip around France more than a decade ago. I stayed in Aix-en-Provence and during a tour around Cézanne country I spotted a field. The driver stopped so I could take a picture of lavender in its most famous setting. 

Later, I saw a little known film by Ridley Scott, based on the novel by (A Year in Provence) Peter Mayle called "A Good Year." (To provide context, "A Good Year," in wine parlance, refers to robust bounty producing a great wine that year.) The movie features a tongue-hanging, sexy portrayal by Russell Crowe. Okay, he looks great but his character is an ass for one third of the film until Marion Cotillard--who gives a break-out performance as a smart-mouthed waitress--tames the beast. One of the funnier, recurring moments in the story comprises newly-arriving characters finding dried lavender in flower boxes and dumping the worn purple sprigs into the trash. Unbeknown to these visitors, lavender wards off scorpions, arachnoid family fixtures in the desert-like heat of the South of France. I relay this story because it supplies a thread, albeit a tenuous one, between that member of the mint family and me. Yes, I'm a Scorpio. No, lavender hasn't scared me away. Some days I wonder, however, if the dried flowers on my wall don't complete with the Dream Catcher above my bed, peaceful dreams one night, toss and turn nightmares the next.

Next, lavender's multiple direct uses of lavender have been discussed ad infinitum. An indirect contribution, one I now bemoan, is the flower's infusion into red wine via the terroir or terrain particularly Rosé. Actually, the word-origin of lavender comes from the French, lavandre, meaning "to wash" as in permeating the soil (Thank you, Wikipedia.) And with the onset of spring, I had looked forward to indulging. Alas, between medical issues, including a newly acquired allergy to the histamines in red wine, I've had to forsake drinking the aromatic elixir, for now. Still, I have my lavender.

So when I gaze at those tied, slightly aromatic sprigs that bring a little Provence into my small bedroom, I reflect on the beginnings of lavandula; the charming movie that taught me a lesson and the lavender-infused earth that produce great wines. And, of course, my days visiting Aix-en-Provence: taking in a Renoiresque, picture-window view of a terrace garden at Le Clos Violette; drinking a superb, local red; eating langoustines and picturing those lavender fields that would help produce such a sensuous memory.

[If you'd like to travel with me to France and other places, watch my narrated, scored video at http://youtu.be/RaYwJm9Cz5I , Part One, which includes a story about my serendipitous experience with the earthy driver.]

THE SPOKEN WORD

If memory serves me biographers of William Shakespeare, at least one English professor and several movie characters all conceded that poetry was written to be heard not read. When first introduced to poetry, many like Robin William’s students in “Dead Poet’s Society,” groan when they see a thick anthology on their teacher's desk, dreading the analysis of iambic pentameter and couplets. But in an inspired English class. students, such as those in the movie, needn’t worry.

I was raised in a more oral tradition. We had often heard readings by poets from many cultures, seen Shakespeare’s plays and film adaptations long before I began studying poetry in school. You see, my mother and father didn’t go to college and had haphazard schooling. Dad did go to the American Academy for Dramatic Arts in New York City for one year, then taught English and Drama at a secondary school in upstate New York, where he would he meet and marry Mom.

Mother, the always humble intellect, wrote a Greek play in free verse when she was eleven years old (she couldn't repeat the feat and sadly the work was lost in storage after the Great Depression hit). My Mom also spoke conversational French and Italian from living in Europe before the Depression. She attended a variety of schools until thrust in the working world because of my grandmother's debts. Then Mother would often read on her own the great writers and poets, as well as attend multiple lectures in New York when she could. Years later, Mom would sing French songs and read French stories to me. Both parents were eloquent public speakers; hearing my father read bedtime stories aloud never got boring. Mom loved poetry. Dad was more reluctant. However, their enthusiasm for the spoken word never wavered.

Conversely, my early English teachers tried, unsuccessfully, to go by the book, parsing every line of Shakespeare’s works, T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Songs from the Portuguese, etc. When we got to Emily Dickinson, I threw in the towel, and barely passed English that term (1/6 in Junior High, a momentary blemish). What saved me from becoming a “versa-raptor”?(My term for one who dislikes poetry.) An English teacher in high school who believed in playing records, yes the vinyl ones, having his students read aloud or watching movies to give us visual and aural reinforcement of the written verse. Mr. Ingraham also wrote his semester reports adding a quote from Shakespeare particularly suited to his comments, no doubt from his head as he would recite Shakespeare's verse in class. He restored my admiration for poetry and laid the foundation for my writing. 

Later, two events reinforced that love of the spoken word. One summer day walking by St. Bartholemew’s Episcopal Church in New York, I happened to notice a sign: FREE. Jeremy Irons Reads His Favorites, at 12:00 pm. I looked at my watch, 11:45 am, and sprinted inside. Most of the pews had already been filled. I didn’t care. I took my place off-center and couldn’t believe my luck. The English actor had chosen several morsels, including lines from Pinter’s plays, Shakespeare soliloquies and D.H. Lawrence’s poetry, including “The Elephant Is Slow to Mate,” a favorite of mine. Spurred on by an adored professor from college, I had read everything D.H. Lawrence wrote. I listened to Irons' every nuance, each word as if new. In my mind, I can still hear his inflection, cadence, crisp articulation and pure joy.

I wavered from regularly reading or listening to verse for a few years until the inauguration of President Bill Clinton. Along with my mother, we watched the introductions until writer and poet, Maya Angelou, approached the podium. Not surprising, Mom knew of Angelou’s work. Angelou had achieved renown through her memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.  Mom and I sat entranced: Angelou's cadence, inflection, performance, all came together. She mixed serious, societal commentary, using metaphor, and jubilant resolution. When she finished, I shook my head and watched my mother. She continued to watch the screen as Angelou was escorted back to her seat and Clinton stood up to hug the majestic lady. “Mom, wasn’t she magnificent?” I bellowed. My mother said simply: “Exquisite.” Maya Angelou had left my mother speechless, a major victory.

How fitting that an actor from a rich oral tradition and an actress, singer, poet from an equally rich oral history would have shared formative moments in my life. I’ll never forget Jeremy Irons’ lustrous voice and Maya Angelou’s proud resonance. And, where the British, historical precedent of English Literature, particularly in poetry, has waned, the American voice continues, even with the passing of one of our finest songbirds.