Passing Shades

How does nature do it? As I walked home tonight, I notice the hundred year old oak in my back yard has begun to turn. It is a lovely old tree with long sweeping branches and a thick covering of full leaves. I pause, admiring the pretty shade of light orange and while musing upon its uniqueness my eye is drawn to two pots of identically shaded party mums sitting in clay pots upon my neighbor’s doorstep.

Could it be that these two remotely related species one spiraling inevitably towards sleep and the other in prime form of wakefulness—both on a sliding scale of color change—might have paused to compliment one another as old oak goes a-browning and the bright little mums strive to shame the sunset hue? I realize that this is life. In our old age, we often reflect shades of youthful splendor, if only in one passing day. While in youth, we seek to reflect those few elders in whom we have seen a spark of greatness.

The sun sinks and all things turn to gray as I round the corner. The moment fades, but another little piece of nature’s infinite balance has found its niche in my mind.

Cellphone-itis

I am sitting, staring at three cellphones arranged on the table before me--and that isn't even all of them, my ex-wife has one too--thinking, "I must be rich." As a father of teens, I am amazed at the level of complication these little devices can cause, correction, that kids can cause, with so little effort. When the phones reside in the various pockets of my children, they are a source of infinite distraction, yet when I commandeer them, I am left stunned by what I find in the text traffic and plagued by the lack of connectivity I have with them.

"How did I become so dependent?"

Ordinary Misery

Carter Hill Orchard beckons locals with two outstanding reasons: Proximity to Concord and plump, red apples. The second may behoove any orchard, but after a day there, I was skeptical of even the apples. A gorgeous bird blind dominates the hill top orchard, and draws many birdwatchers (hawks, specifically) to the place. Beware the "walking trails," though. A fine kiosk displays the network of walkways, but it is not so...My family took the trails only to find downed trees, locked gates and a mile and-a-half loop back to the entrance. We licked our wounds with free fruit and over done cookies that left a poor taste.

Trophy Bass

The slow wandering canal that connects the stump field of the Hopkington Dam to the dam itself is nearly current free. Only the slightest ripples march away from the spillway confluence into the lower lands-the whole area is low and really does not appeal to my anglers sense. I paddle under the wind, down a long watery way and emerge at the lower pool. I fo not expect much, but a small earthly, bush covered island catches my eye. With the open pool the wind navigates for me, but I lob a line just short of the outcropping. A snag...frustrated, I paddle over to free the snarl. Liftiing the line I feel a jerk first. A mangled clump of pond weed greets my net first-then I see him:
3.5 pounds and close to 22 inches, the king is on.

Bass Delivery

Though the bike is cankered, the fishing gear is absolutely in order. I took half a day late august and put the canoe into the "stump field" at Hopkinton Dam. The wind heaved the prow over constantly, but I pushed with a will and made a wave line over to the western pools. A few casts netted naught, but the sense of silent scales filled my mind. I casted near a stump and - Bang! - the line downed hard. A little slow reflex saw me set the hook a second late, but sure. Bringing in the prince of the pond at 17 inches and a pound and a half, he kicked without feet and spat lipless curses- but he was mine. More to come...

Biking with Laura

Ok, the chains become rusty and I sometimes drive...This blazing summer has nearly squeezed the ride right out of me. Last quest was two weeks back, a return to Sewall's Falls with teenaged daughter. Laura is 15 and has complained of the same lethargy that I am enduring. We hit the road at 8:30 and got up a good wind; 6-7 miles of street riding only made me hungry. Slicing into the riverside dim brought the scent of hot summer/low river deep into my sinuses. We did the nominal trail shots, but must mention the killer whoops about 1/3 mile in-Laura was very poised and handled the roots well, I barely avoided a throw. The bomb was yet another trail-blaze on the way home, ended up climbing and circling the same rugged hill-Laura was not amused! Beat back the undergrowth and followed a narrow stream-bed back to State Street. It was a good ride.

Whiplash

Back on the bike today...whole new set of rules: Kids field day--in city riding with luggage. The first piece, my outstanding little son, Mr. Peter; his post is dangling from a seat-pole mounted RomerJockey Kindersitz. It is a garish green press molded plastic kid-horn, probably maxed out by his near thirty pounds-but rugged, sturdy and a great puddle-fender none-the-less--perfect observational perch for a curious 4-year old. Next up from him is young GooG, my 18-month old, top heavy, crystal clear-eyed boy, hunched over my upper back like a baby gorilla in an LL Bean aluminum framed kid tote (real name Grady). Being so laden, I drift down the small home-hill ands gingerly edge into traffic on South St.

The distribution of weight is such that spontaneous wheelies can occur with a strong pedal thrust, and sharp turns often pinch the leg of the Kindersitz against my rear tire. The "buzzing" scares off any urge to press the limits of riding. I ride atop my trusty trek with a new, sharper awareness of the moving shapes around me. All of my motions are spongy, like soft car brakes or deflated tires. An urge to stick to the sidewalk is probably quite healthy, but it's pitted and pocked surface warns me away early.

We travel the miles out to Rollins Park in South Concord and greet the throng of 1st through 5th graders and a host of teachers, aids and the full elementary paramedic squad (two schools nurses camped at the gazebo). Riding into the play area does not recall any trail conquering thrills, but a wave of relief that we are all safe and here--we join into the games and groups.

Time slips by and we gather under a truly gnarled red oak for a lunch break. My littlest is showing signs of an approaching nap, and Mr. Peter has been made an honorary member of his big Sister's "Stripe Team". We chow down cold dogs, chips and fresh fruit, and It falls to me to break the news to Mr. Peter--we can't stay the day. He is sad, and considers a pout, but his winning smile overcomes and he readies himself to go with Dad--must love the wind in his hair like the old man.

Our course home includes the pedestrian obstacle course around the state capitol buildings and legislative annex; a peculiar lunch time crowd, distinctly divided by class: Well-dressed--almost glamorous-- senators, mingling with state workers and occasional citizen petitioners. The break in the morning gray has clearly lightened everyone's Friday mind. We chase down a couple of green lights by alternating between two parallel streets and swing onto the calm shade of Union st. A few strokes from home, I feel the heavy head of my little gorilla plunk softly onto my neck. It is warm and furry and a sweet feeling that for now, we belong together crowds my heart and I pull into the drive for the de-quip. Life is good, even when tame--the trick is modulation: always forward-- keep it new and remember the little people are always watching.