One Dude in the Woods

as winter dies in New Hampshire...

Myric — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 16:56:00 GMT

Winter is dying in the valley;

The white dreams of December

are melting into gray,

The ice bids farewell to the river

and flows south to its last call,

The magical dance of snowflakes

in the air has become

a tedious whispering echo

of a season fading;

Mittens once caked with frost

are retired to the closet

to sleep away summer;

Poets scrape at earth and sky

to dig some hiding hint of beauty past

and warmth to come to set to page

with pen anxious and eager for a muse;

Young boys stare in sorrow

at the muddy sledding hills and

unready baseball fields and sigh

longingly, thinking perhaps that this

is the season for discovering girls

since there’s nothing fun to be done outside;

Soon spring shall join us and give us rebirth,

Then summer shall find us

with adventures yet to be told,

Then autumn shall leave us reflecting

on the past and dreaming

of the first magical speck of snow

just around the corner

as the world falls gently to sleep again;

And our White Princess

shall alight on the land once more,

The ancient stone walls of our fathers

shall be hidden under

a blanket of glowing frost;

Thro’ our soggy mittens our hands

shall feel the sting of snow once more;

And Lady Winter shall blow

thro’ our hearts, awaken

our dreams, and once more

flit by unseen,

gently kissing our noses

and brushing our cheeks,

bringing smiles and laughs

from the young and from those

pretending to be young;

And she lives for us, knowing

that we love her for the moment

but shall cast her aside again

like ungrateful children;

And as she ages we shall wish her gone,

abandon dreams of snowy woods,

forsake the joy of frozen ponds,

and chase the warming rays

of sunlight that bring us life

and send her to sleep.

Ten

Myric — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 19:43:00 GMT

He isn’t like the other boys

His eyes are older and sad

One might never believe he was only ten;

Watch the way he stands by the window

in the dark, empty classroom

watching the others play outside in the snow,

He purposely leaves his boots at home

so he won’t have to go play with them,

talk to them, be laid bare for them;

He sits alone, somewhere else,

his eyes won’t say where his heart is,

it would almost be sad, were it anyone else;

But he’s going to be someone, alright,

Just watch the way he stands watch over the world

as though he is its only knight;

He’s going to be someone, alright,

someday when he discovers where he belongs—

—it’s clear that isn’t here by the window

watching others play without him.

Winter in New Hampshire’s Woods (by me)

Myric — Sun, 02 Mar 2008 22:32:00 GMT

Winter in New Hampshire’s Woods

Winter like a selfish child

throws itself against the walls,

the ancient walls of country church,

and whistles through the wooden halls

where humble hearts of broken souls

seek to find revivement there

and lay before the altar steps

a world of trial, world of care;

Winter like a storm at sea

washes over country hills

and through the sleeping woods it wails

to try the wandering Yankees’ wills

of all on skis or snowshoes stalking

silent forests, set in white,

finding solace in the hollows,

finding spirit in the light;

Winter like a love-struck artist

paints the river lands in gray

and blue of dusky falling shadows

fading gentle with the day,

and I, so like that star-crossed lover,

loving jealous winter’s work,

walk with pen the snowy woods

and hide where star-crossed poets lurk.

waking up and needing to write

Myric — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 19:45:00 GMT

The thief of silence mad in love

with getting captured

rules my mind at midnight

and fills my pages,

begging for a soul too

distant to touch

to calm the burning fires

of hidden ancient rages.

Impoverished rags trace my trail

of unfinished thoughts

that haunt my hourless nights

and fall wounded to earth,

they cry like children

pounding at the door

for soft rhyme or prose, desperate words

to give them birth.

I close my eyes while

my pen utters blasphemies

my mouth cannot say

for fear or doubt,

waving a fist of contempt

against beckoning bold reality,

and daring it to strike me

before my heart is found out.

Heavy and weary, my screaming soul

upon each new page bleeds

in scratching fury the fire nib

burns, reveals to tired, hiding eyes,

ancient eyes, knowing eyes that

watch the world like

two poets enchanted by a muse

while ink hurled down upon cold page dries.

Then somewhere in the night across

the dreamscape snowy fields—

echoing on silver blankets

of heaven’s frozen tears—

a church-bell rings

to call the hour and

draw night’s whispering phantoms back

to earthen berths of yesteryears.

Hear, it is done, that thief of silence,

muse of fire, barer

of hidden souls has

done his violence;

now fly away night,

and fly away specters,

put away pen and page ‘til morrow,

and let the poet sleep in silence;

disturb me no more, you thief of silence.

New offering

Myric — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 19:38:00 GMT

The sea seems distant as the moon,

as far as summer from December,

and I, here snowbound, wait for June

and rocky shorelines I remember;

High upon a grassy hill

I watch the gathering tides below

in memories, for winter’s chill

knows not but seas of drifting snow;

Sleeping ships upon the foam

know no morning, only night,

seaborne dreamers wait at home

to sail once more past Portsmouth light;

Winter is a wedded lover

clothed in white, romancing me,

but soon I’ll fly from winter’s cover

and set my heart once more to sea.

I wasn't going to say anything, but...

Myric — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 18:00:00 GMT

It’s sad, and sickening. Every single news report I’ve seen, read, or heard has all mentioned ~ almost in passing ~ that Heath Ledger was found naked. Every last one of them. Coincidentally, that is what made the headlines when they found Marilyn Monroe.

America, you’re a great lady, but sometimes you sadden me.

I guess this is what happens when free press is given to monkey-brained sensationalists.

What happened to reverence? What happened to decency? What happened to human respect?

When Nixon began having severe drinking problems while he was in office, Johnny Carson refused to make any more jokes at his expense. There is a such thing as going too far.

This is our press, people. Their motto is Let’s Go Too Far. I’m not going to watch the news, read the news, or listen to the news anymore because the news is a flawed concept. For the most part, it does not report on what’s going on in the world, only what’s going wrong, and often times they, themselves, are causing the problems. I wonder how many celebrities would be drinking so heavily and doing drugs and falling apart if they weren’t being chased 24 hours a day by vultures with cameras? The atmosphere in Hollywood is to blame, as well, but it isn’t all to blame. The news ~ it is always looking for a twist that will bring people in. It gives opinions, not truth.

I know some people of honor who work in that career field, but they are the minority, unfortunately.

So, my solution? I’m not giving in. I’m not watching, reading, or listening to them anymore. Heck, the comic strips aren’t even funny anymore! If you give in to them and eagerly read about the sordid details of celebrity lives and deaths, if you let them shape your views, if you believe that what they are saying is absolute truth, well, then, you’re just as guilty.

Stand up and shout them down. Let the poor boy rest in peace. Let him have the privacy in death that you never let him have in life.

The Last Gasp of the New Hampshire Primaries

Myric — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 15:54:00 GMT

Well, it’s over.

The candidates are gone.

The press is gone.

Their signs are all trampled bits of trash in the snowy streets.

No more do we hear, We love you, New Hampshire!

or I am fully dedicated to the people of New Hampshire!

or I have complete confidence in the voters of New Hampshire!

or The good people of New Hampshire are the heart of this great country!

They have toyed with our hearts, drank our maple syrup, and now they are gone.

Peace descends upon the Granite State.

Like groundhogs searching for their shadows, the people of New Hampshire emerge from their houses, timidly scanning the streets for tour buses, news vans, and men wearing suits with no ties to look “casual” and show their “relatability” to the common man... who, around here, probably doesn't even own a suit, let alone a tie.

Parking has opened up again. An honest Yankee may safely go to the bank without having a microphone stuffed in his face.

No more does a feller have to shake hands with another feller he’s never met before for no reason.

No more annoying phone calls.

No more junk mail.

No more bright-eyed college kids at the door with pamphlets.

No more national news anchors mispronouncing the name of my town.

A man can walk around with a gun again without being stopped by out-of-state security folks.

Anonymity. We are once again nonexistent on the national radar. It’s beautiful.

It is over. Now, let us have peace… until January of 2012…

We send our prayers to the good people of South Carolina, Michigan, and Nevada. All y’all’s next.

PS: I got one vote for Vice-President as a write-in from Lebanon, Ward II

Titleless

Myric — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 15:51:00 GMT

I’ve just been contemplating how much I used to know,

How everything I understood, I understood as everything,

How sharp the wire around my borders,

How high the walls around my mind,

And nothing could get in that didn’t find its twin within.

I woke in trembling fear last night at all there was I’d never know,

And cried in pain upon my pillow, knowing I must still advance,

Advance into the darkened reaches, haunting memories of youth,

When all I knew was all there was and all there was I knew as truth.

Still terrified I take a step, for what I fear much more than growing

Is standing still or going back, and living life, but never knowing.

A marvelous day for a new poem...

Myric — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 19:09:00 GMT

My Great-Grandfather, John, was an immigrant from Scotland who settled his family on a farm along the Connecticut River in what is now West Lebanon, New Hampshire. As a young man, my Grandfather, George, used to rise early before he went to school, hitch...(read more)

snow

Myric — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 17:38:00 GMT

Snow is a wonder.

Is there anything more magical than snow? It transforms landscapes into works of art, and provides a modesty cover for the earth as she changes from her finery of Autumn into her fresh clothing of Spring.

Snow excites the imagination. It is impossible to perceive this season of the year without the wonder of snow. When Christmas tip-toes up to pounce upon us, it best does so thro’ a sprinkling of snow, and when the old year gives birth to the new, what better way to welcome it than to sit in the silent, snow-covered woods, listening to the sheer silence of the world around?

Snow is peace. A forest can be as quiet in any other season, but there is something about a coating of snow that brings it peace. It absorbs sound, and absorbs worries. It silences the mind as well as the world, and gives us respite.

Snow is food for the mind. Perhaps because we spend most of the year without it, snow wakes us from our mental doldrums, or shocks us back from reality to sweet, silvery forgetfulness. That’s where genius flourishes ~ that short step toward the pounding thoughts of everyday life cannot contend with the velvet crunch of fresh snow beneath the haggard foot. Snow lets us think, or lets us forget.

Snow is the ultimate toy. No building blocks can form a fort in the manner of snow. Where little boys play, towers rise, formed by wet mittens and runny noses. Castle walls claim the air and kingdoms are born, defended by snowballs and stick-swords. Gates may crash and walls may fall, but snow rebuilds each day, and castles grow larger and stronger until a distant voice rises over the hills, calling the warriors in for dinner, and ending the war until tomorrow. Battle wounds are healed only with hot cocoa and fresh cookies.

Snow is love. Lovers seek silence and solitude in the frosty woods, by frozen streams, beneath the watchful eyes of chaperone mountains. Words come easily on snowy evenings that otherwise would find a weaker voice, if not bolstered by the soft calm of snow. Hands are cold and hearts are warm, as hours rise and fall like unseen waves, ebbing and flowing, unnoticed by the crystal eyes of young romantics, who see only each other.

“If I could only have you near

to breathe a sigh or two,

I would be happy just to hold the hands I love

on this winter’s night with you…”

Snow is life. It courses thro’ the veins, excites the mind, stirs the blood, awakens the soul. Snow is a gift God gives us to remind us that we are alive, and we are loved, that life is a delight, and that we are part of the world.

Das Rant

Myric — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 16:13:00 GMT

And that’s another point. A recent comic strip pointed out that Christmas used to be about parents doing something nice for kids and kids appreciating it, but now it’s about “growing the economy”.

Well, that’s fine if you think that the economy is what makes America strong, but America ~ like people ~ is strongest in adversity, not in prosperity. We have entire generations who have never known real adversity or the joys of a simple life.

Techno, socio, economically addiction.

The birth of social drama as a form of communication.

The inability to look a man in the eye and speak plainly to him.

Okay, what brought this on was a documentary film I watched on Vermont Public Television yesterday about a feller who moved up to Twin Lakes, Alaska, and lived alone in the wilderness for 35 years. He built everything he needed, hunted for his food, and lived a good life. A little snow didn’t phase him, and he had about 8 feet of snow on the ground from September to early-May.

So, we’ve lost our cultural intelligence, is what I’m saying, and it’s been replaced with something that is NOT positive. And this notion of continuing to grow the economy is a symptom, and it is killing the soul of America for a few reasons:

1) Growing the economy means that the heads of the corporations are getting richer and the businesses are growing, but, as we can see, that does not mean that the common people are benefiting from the growth, since the economy has been growing at the expense of the working man;

2) Something can only grow so far before it collapses on itself;

3) Growing the economy seems to mean buying more crap that is just gonna end up in a landfill. It means addiction to new technology and a loss of understanding of how to do things when technology doesn’t work. There is no longer an understanding in America of the difference between a need and a want;

4) Growing the economy means that more people are trying to live well outside their means, and are being driven into debt because they either can’t control their spending, or credit becomes far too necessary a tool for life;

5) Due to human nature, prosperity usually drives us further and further away from our dependence on God.

So, okay, I have homework to do, so I’m gonna stop ranting. Remember that Christmas isn’t about growing the economy, and NEVER vote for a politician who always talks about it ~ we need to live within our means. Think about it: Andrew Jackson was the last president who actually balanced the budget. He figured that, if a family needed to live within its means, why shouldn’t the government? Well, perhaps it’s because the government can’t live within its means that it is encouraging the public at large not to, either.

There I wuz...

Myric — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 16:38:00 GMT

I know I’ve said this before, but I wish you could see the view out my window right now. Winter has painted over New Hampshire’s fall canvas with a veil of white, and the town around me looks sleepy today, as if resigned to settling into its snowy slumber.

Winter is peaceful here. I was on the road yesterday during a storm and thinking of the odd dichotomy: to the drivers around me it was a driving nightmare, a slick mess, a disaster waiting to happen. Snow was dumping on us, as tho’ purposely trying to make our day difficult just to spite us. But a quick sideways glance into the woods told a different story, and showed the true nature of yesterday’s snowfall. Among the trees the snow drifted down lazily, filtering softly to the ground, and clinging to the exposed branches of the stately old patriarch trees and lapping around the lower reaches of the precocious saplings. It was beyond idyllic ~ it was a flashback. When I was a kid I loved to put on my snow suit and just lay in the silent woods, watching the snow fall straight down toward my wind-kissed nose. I would contemplate existence… well, at least to the extent that a six-year-old boy could; you know, the usual stuff: toys are cool, girls are icky, I can’t feel my nose, etc, etc, etc. That memory flashed as a strange juxtaposition between the idylls of a young Yankee boy and the manic, white-knuckled tension of adults making frantic attempts to power their way thro’ God’s enveloping white hug.

Ya know, I’ve thought a lot about what I could have done if I had stayed in the military. As soon as I got back from Afghanistan, I longed to go back to the war. I tried several times, but they wouldn’t send me either back to Afghanistan or Iraq, so I got out. There is still the residual twinge, craving excitement, craving actions that will cement my place in history, toppling tyrants, just like in my heady old days in the mine fields. But honestly, I’m pretty sure that’s not who I am anymore. No, I’m definitely a new feller, someone who would be more happy throwing on an old plaid flannel shirt, donning my snow gear, and laying out in the back yard for a few hours watching the snow falling straight on my nose. I remain convinced that, if the tyrants of the world had spent their childhoods laying in snowy fields contemplating existence, and becoming one with a pile of snow, they wouldn’t have been such old poos.

Sigh… I suppose I should get some work done now…

Another from my archives...

Myric — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 20:39:00 GMT

Belonging.

Belonging is one of the most important human concepts. It is so completely universal, that I won’t bore you with all the reasoning. I’m just going to assume you already understand why it’s important.

I went for a drive today and popped some CCR in the cd player. Those of you who spend a lot of time on the road know the importance of having good music, appropriate to your setting. Around these parts, I prefer Bluegrass, mostly. Down by the coast anything nautical, or anything with a haunting refrain played masterfully on one of those strange instruments I can never identify. The closer I get to a city the more I need classical. Gordon Lightfoot and Creedence Clearwater Revival are always good bets. Today was emphatically a Creedence day.

One of the first songs went something like this:

Put a candle in the window

For I feel I’ve got to move

Where I’m going I’ll be coming home soon

Long as I can see the light

I remember lying on my bunk in January, 1996. I was at Lackland Air Force Base for Ground Combat School. Prairie Home Companion was on the radio, and a woman with a delightful voice sang that song. Funny, I never listened to the words before until I heard it on that program. It’s been a favorite ever since. So today I was listening to it and thinking of belonging. Not everyone is born where they belong, and there’s every chance that some percent of the population either belongs everywhere or doesn’t belong anywhere. But I know where I belong, and always have. Here’s part of the reason why.

Out on Route 4 in Grafton, New Hampshire, is a small store/gas station. I go there after church and sometimes when I’m just passing thro’ to grab a snack ~ usually something absolutely horrible for me, deep-fat-fried, and dripping with grease. I love that stuff. I’m a guy, so, yah, whatever. I always get a smile when I’m in there, and people who have no idea who I am always stop and chat, find out how I am and what I’m up to. And it isn’t that fake sort of “How are you today?” that you get at those big stores. These people are always genuinely interested in what you are out and about doing that particular day. Most of the little stores don’t have televisions, you see. So they are glad to see you, and everyone always has something cheerful to say. A week ago I was eating some wicked-good ice cream and waiting for them to fry me up something disgusting, and the lady at the fryer glances out from the back room and smiles. She brings my grease-soaked bag up to the front and says, “Here ya go, Myric!” I walk out, smiling. It’s a gorgeous day.

Now, something you should know is that this store is a Mecca for motorcyclists. They come from all over, on their way to someplace else, and stop for fuel, greasy food, and ice cream. And they are never from around here. My first experience was a couple weeks ago right before Bike Week up at Laconia. A bunch of dirtbillies from Ohio pulled in on bikes that couldn’t pass any sort of noise ordinance inspection, and they ask me where they were…

…I went local on them:

Them: Where we at?

Me: Route 4.

Them: Yah, but where at on Route 4?

Me: Grafton.

Them: Ah. Where’s that?

Me: Where you trying to go?

Them: Laconia.

Me: (pointing east) It’s that way.

Them: Umm… thanks.

Me: No problem. Any other questions?

Them: Yah, where are all the "gentlemen's" clubs around here?

Me: None around here. Don’t think there are any in the entire state ~ folks tend to go to bed pretty early around here.

They stared at me… then left… Life is good.

So, back to last week, I’m standing on the porch with my ice cream and my fried pieces/parts of what was perhaps… um… I wanna say… chicken? and I hear this loud, annoying chatter. They are semi-old people, sitting on the porch of the store, eating, drinking, and being obnoxious. I look at their motorcycles: Honda Goldwings, mostly. Quiet bikes. That’s something, at least. Indiana plates. I was exiled to Indiana for quite some time, before returning home to New Hampshire.

Not to say that folks around here aren’t loud and obnoxious, but there aren’t really enough to be a bother. I live in what most would consider a city, of sorts, and it’s dead quiet here by 8.oopm every night.

Belonging isn’t necessarily a notion of geography, altho’ topography can definitely play its part. Some people have a terribly romantic view of New England, and there is certainly that. The scenic beauty, the picturesque villages, the Autumn colors, the Spring mud. But there tends to be a lot of shoveling to do, and the state animal of New Hampshire and Vermont is the wild pothole. But I’ve only very rarely met anyone who was unhappy living here, and it wasn’t the climate and the bugs that chased them away ~ it was the fact that their souls and personalities were not geared correctly to thrive here. Many come here after reading Robert Frost, but Frost was an idiot. Around here, if there’s a road no one takes, chances are pretty good everyone’s got a darn-good reason not to take that road. Being a Yankee isn’t something you can just fall into ~ one must be born a Yankee, regardless of the part of the country in which someone is born. Someone from California can be born a Yankee. Someone from Florida can be born a Yankee. Heck, someone from Indiana can be born a Yankee! I know at least one, personally. But it takes a special breed to belong here. Being a Yankee, and belonging here, is by no means a matter of birth ~ it’s a matter of mind and spirit, and a good, sturdy mix of romanticism, playfulness, stoicism, and wonder. It’s an odd, often contradictory mix, but we’re an odd, contradictory people.

From my archives...

Myric — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 20:28:00 GMT

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Wait, they don’t call this Pleasant Street anymore, do they…

I just got back from a short drive. I should be in bed, but I thought I’d enjoy a short jaunt, so I went. As I left the house I was struck by how quiet it is around here at night. I live in what most would term a city, but really, it’s not. It’s just a bunch of people living fairly close to each other. If you go up on the hills around here and look down on Lebanon, you can barely see it. But we do alright ~ we even got The Smothers Brothers to come here Saturday night (more on that later).

But just because it is past 8pm, doesn’t mean I’m getting out of the driveway easily. As I get in the car I am alone in the universe. I turn the ignition key… the car starts… I put it in gear… BAM! the tiny street outside my grandmother’s house is jammed with cars. It takes about a minute for everyone to dissipate, and I am off. So much for Pleasant Street, I think to myself. Oh, wait, that’s right ~ it’s not Pleasant Street anymore. Sometime in the 1990s they renamed the street on which my grandmother had lived since the 1950s after my nephew. It’s now XXXXXXX Avenue ~ I kid thee not.

I take off up Slayton Hill. The beauty of this area is that all you have to do is drive for two minutes in most directions and you’re in the woods. Slayton Hill is in the woods. It connects to a 200-year-old section of the Old King’s Highway that ran thro’ here right before the Revolution. My dad used to sled down part of the abandoned cut when he was a kid. Speaking of which, halfway up Slayton Hill Road is the house my grandfather and grandmother literally built by hand after The Second World War. They owned the land, and only built onto the house when they had the cash, so they owned the house clear when it was finished. Yankees. It wasn’t a large house, but it worked. These are my roots and this is my heritage. I connect here.

Now I’m faced with a question ~ I can turn left onto the paved Daisy Hill road, pick up Meriden Road, and head back into the center of Lebanon, or I can turn right onto the unpaved Great Brook Road and come out a little further down, but still on Meriden Road. Well, I’m gonna hafta go dirt on this one.

It’s cool up in the woods, significantly cooler than at my house. I love this dirt road. I’ve photographed it so many times, but have yet to capture it. It’s getting dark, and on nights such as this I can see myself one day walking down such a road on beautiful evenings. The ground falls steeply away on both sides of the road, but I’m feeling lucky today. The hill is steep and my car accelerates without my hitting the gas, but I figure you can’t fight gravity, and I don’t want to burn out my breaks, so I just go with it. I reach the bottom unscathed as jazz plays softly on the radio.

Where Great Brook Road meets Meriden Road (most of the roads around here are named after where they go ~ that’s a hint in case you’re ever lost) there is a sign that says:

Fresh Eggs

Self Serve

24/7

This has always been a unique concept to me, having lived so long in a city. Basically, the family puts the eggs in a wooden stand outside their door by the road and leave a metal box for folks to put the money in. Folks come up, pick the eggs they want, drop the money in the box, and drive up the road. No one ever steals eggs or money. Next time I need eggs, guess where I’m going.

I turn left onto Meriden Road. It goes straight into the center of Lebanon where the town green usually hosts musical and theatrical events on summer nights. Tonight the town is deserted, tho’ ~ only a few folks walking around. It is after 8pm, you know. Folks gotta get up early in the morning to get the best eggs, I s’pose.

It’s cold in the car. I’ve got all the windows down and the sunroof open. Another crisis. I could close the windows and the sunroof and be comfortable, or I could leave them open and be alive. Guess which one I chose.

The whole drive took fifteen minutes. Now I’m home and awake, it’s past 9pm. Usually I am in bed, but I had to drive tonight, so I did. There’s a side of me that says, hey! I should go do that sometime! and then there’s a side of me that says, better go do that now ~ carpe yerself some freakin’ diem, boy! Tonight I carpe’d me some diem. Tomorrow night, I’ll probably carpe me some nachos.

An annual tradition

Myric — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 01:50:00 GMT

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

For ever flushing round the summer sky.

Castle of Indolence.

The above words opened my favorite story, Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I repaired to the old Gilkey Burying Ground in Plainfield, New Hampshire, today to read that story. I read it every October, just because there is always a little illogical part of me that believes firmly in embracing silliness and letting one’s imagination run away with him.

The cemetery is perched upon a tall, steep hill, overlooking the valley that contains the Blow-Me-Down Creek (what a dumb name). Beneath the hill runs the old Stage Road that connects modern Route 12-A with Route 120. It’s a lazy sort of road, but a beautiful view.

The crest of the hill is marked by a large obelisk with some faded words upon it, enclosed within an old iron fence that separates its departed occupants from the others. Inside (or rather beneath) the fence and the marble marker lie interred a Captain Kimball and his family. He was one of the first settlers of Plainfield in 1761, served in the Revolution, and died in Plainfield in the 1800s. The cemetery is within the bounds of his old farm.

Right next to the iron fence lie Captain and Mrs. Benjamin Chapman. He also served in the Revolution. I sat beside them to read.

It’s an interesting thing, looking around, and thinking that the whole of the woods upon which I looked were once cleared for miles around, and colonial farms were run where trees now claim the slopes. Stunning views, and interesting thoughts. How many scenes of grief and sorrow were played out over the two-hundred forty years that cemetery has been used? Each of those names on each of those stones was a person, flesh and blood, with the same aspirations for a good life that we have today. They loved and lived and breathed in life. But time left them behind, and even those who mourned them are all gone, too. Says something about life, that does. Says something about our purpose and our necessity for earnestness in our Divine service.

The grass is still mown and someone still places flags on the graves ~ there are even a few relatively new markers. But these old places are more for old souls to wander, to sit and read, and to get some serious thinking done. I sort of did all three today. I read a few pages, then would hear a noise behind me that would startle me a bit, then I’d go back. Deep forest on the borders of the old burial ground. Anything could come walking out, or any slight breeze could be the past occupants of the land, disturbed by my intrusion, coming down to check out my awesome car. Sweet J But reading there, what a serene feeling. However, the scene around me was so breathtaking in Autumn’s afternoon sunlight, that I only got a little more than half the story finished. I may yet go outside today and sit in our own tiny patch of trees and finish the reading, or even put it off for tomorrow afternoon, or perhaps even the next.

What a life. I’ve decided not to comb my hair anymore. It’s a waste of time, and it looks fine… and in reality I just don’t care that much about my hair, so long as it’s still up there.

And I did replace my old Red Sox cap today. The store wasn’t jammed, but they did try to pawn off a bunch of overpriced World Series stuff on me, and tried to talk me into coming back tonight when the new shipment of championship t-shirts came in. I don’t’ wear t-shirts. Anyhoo, my old Red Sox cap is so old that it’s made out of wool ~ the new ones aren’t even close to wool.