I spent about an hour last Sunday morning on the trails along Sharp’s Run at Medford Leas, enjoying seeing the awakening of plants and trees. It’s nice to see the feathery foliage emerging on the trees but our lack of rain shows in the shallow Sharp’s Run.
Here’s a Redbud. It wasn’t on the trails; it’s along the walk in front of the Estaugh Building but it was too pretty against a cloud pattern of branches to be left out.
Back on the Red Trail here’s a crab apple that I photographed last week and, below, the same branch last Sunday. This is the trail where I watch a local walk her several exhuberant Jack Russell terriers and her collie most mornings. Last month one morning I watched five deer move smartly down this trail, and last week a Red Fox crossed my grass and headed for the trail.
The Red Trail Crabapple (see above) a week later.
There are lots of wildflowers happy to be here along the Yellow Trail. Here are two for whose names I’m in debt to Maggie Heineman.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
I am always moved by this poem as I am by work such as Debussy’s La Mer (The Sea). While you’re reading this and looking at the images you can hear the third movement (Dialog of the Wind and the Sea) by turning up your volume and clicking on the arrow here.
It is his impressionistic style that appeals to me but it is also the images evoked of the sea, something with which I have had a long love affair. (My Nordic genes?) My late friend, psycho-analyst LeRoy Byerly, once observed that the sea reminded us of the sloshing waters of the womb. Well, it could be but my own affinity for the waters dates from childhood on the beaches and along the Intra Coastal Waterway in a boathouse on pilings with my rowboat underneath it. Also, having to watch all of the episodes of Victory at Sea many times in OCS probably had some effect as well.
In any event I have a bountiful stream of memories involving the seas and other waterways. As a child, diving under the waters, pretending to be the comic book character, Submariner; walking the beaches in winter after school; scampering dangerously from rock to rock on the jettys; putt-putting through the marshes after a night of fishing, with only a war surplus one-cell life jacket light as a running light.
As an adult it was watching the chairs slide across the deck in the wardroom while crossing a March, storm-tossed North Atlantic, and watching the long deck of the LST ripple with each wave through which we plowed. It was barely surviving a windy day’s broach and near capsizing of a Captain’s gig I was running while rounding the tip of Conanicut Island where the Narragansett opened to Long Island Sound’s chop. It was standing on the bridge in deep night during a quieter Atlantic crossing and seeing another ship ghosting by in the distance, sharing the greatness and the depths and the loneliness of stars and sea. It was standing on a Pacific shore as the sun sank into the mysterious Far East with Richard Rodgers’ Theme of the Fast Carriers spinning in my head, thinking about that war and my brother storming murderous beaches, and the great dramas and losses and sadness of that profound era.
It is my brother, Bill’s, poem defining experiences I have also felt.
It was being anchored in a bight along the Rideau Waterway in Canada, surrounded by rocky hillsides, seated with my family on the roof of our rented houseboat as night and a Canadian chill fell upon us and hearing the plaintive call of a loon. It was being placidly anchored in some secluded gunk-hole of the Chesapeake Bay as twilight descended upon us amidst others at anchor; secure, sharing private peace from the hazards of life, the bay and the night… islands of humanity. And, it has been struggling through six foot seas as we ran along the coast while the cat puked on the aft deck and Marty Lou wondered out loud why she had ever left the mountains.
It has been walking the docks of marinas after safely tying up at day’s end, hearing the sounds and smelling the smells of boats at rest. It has been gazing over the froth-filled near-shore reefs at the distant mountains of St. Bart’s as the sun rose on our beloved Dawn Beach. It has been gliding on a canal boat through a dark Alsatian mountain tunnel in lantern light with the sounds of a requiem mass being played. Whose? Too many years ago and too far away; I don’t remember.
It has been out on the sailing grounds, sun and spray in my face, watching the races and hearing the shhhhh of the hulls slicing through the water, the clicking of the cranked winches, and the occasional flapping of luffing sails. It has been standing on the beach during a Nor’easter, physically understanding the overwhelming forces of the pounding waves and my own insignificance there. And it has been watching the moon’s reflection and the brief sheen left on a receding wave.