SONG WITHOUT WORDS
SONG WITHOUT WORDS
This will be a blog of few words —
I am back in New Jersey, still enraptured by this flawless visit in Maine with my sister and our (formerly) Toledo cousins
We were treated to five entire days of unconditional love, in Margy and Peter’s new home on Casco Bay.
At home, we were surrounded by towering pines and firs. We found last roses (salt spray) of summer, and tasted last blueberries.
We walked among ever-burgeoning seaside goldenrod.
We were treated to memorable hikes, sentimental journeys, even kayaking the Bay among rockweed garlands (a first), in sea wind and waves. Heaven on earth. I’ll do this first blog post on our lobster feast — setting the scene in all ways:My Chicago sister, Marilyn Weitzel with Sally Lee and Margy Cowgill
I know, I know, it was Plymouth, Mass., not anywhere near Williamstown, Mass. And it certainly wasn’t Bennington, Vermont.
But it’s Thanksgiving in Princeton and there aren’t any Pilgrims, and everyone’s eating turkey when Priscilla and John and Miles and all, and of course Squanto, were tucking into lobster and deer and yes probably cranberries with maple syrup, which those clever, generous Indians brought to the feast.
It’s also beastly cold, raining and snowing at once, and nobody’s plowed anything anywhere near my new apartment, and what is going to happen to all that wet, as the mercury plunges tonight?
1781 — as a person of Michigan, founded in 1837 — I can barely believe house dates like this. You see why I feel, these are the birthplaces of our nation.
I need non-ice upon which to drive to the Brig at dawn with Jeanette Hooban, because we need many birds, not just one, tomorrow.
And I need sun.
In Bennington a month ago, we were drenched in sun and color. Come, stroll its streets with me. There were hardy pioneers there, too. And, of course, many tribes of powerful Indians. And patriots who fought in the Battle of Bennington. There were probably bears and certainly deer, and now there are moose — somehow I never think of moose in the time of the pilgrims.
We were in the heartland of our country, in my experience. We stepped into different time machines in each New England town. My heart is still there, strolling the tree-root-uplifted sidewalks of Bennington, under glowing ancient trees, examining homes of other centuries, some of which had marble walkways to their welcoming front doors.
there’s a place I go to eat
in a building weathered yet spruce
Home Is the Fisherman — from Bahrs Restaurant Table
building weathered, yet spruce
high above the Navesink
over in The Highlands
inside, all the appropriate accents
gigantic lobster claw
grizzled captain figurehead
the requisite polished brass
one of the earliest ever
stands sentry at entry
every table waterside
sky light tripled
bouncing off inlet
then white fishing craft
to dance along our plates
we take binoculars
sometimes cannot order
because we’d have to take our eyes
from fugitive goldeneye swimming below
off petite grebe
My Sister Dreaming Across the Inlet at Bahrs
most friends know their specialties
belly clams for Faith
Anne’s oysters, fried light as tempura
Mike’s delicate scrod
my sister’s and dear Tasha’s lobster rolls
–high and pink and light
above that toasty roll
succulent steamers for Karen
scallops seared (special order) for me
always the cloud-soft hot biscuits
sun caught in Yuengling
on the horizon shimmers
our afternoon’s quest
Sandy Hook’s bird-rich reaches
across an emptying inlet
below our table
tie up to clean
Good Day on the Bay
one day, even I could tell
they were working on roseate
Captain later revealing,
“Each brought home his limit”
a little boy at the next table
–watching those deft surgeries
when asked, “What would YOU like?”,
–pointing at their bass–
“I want one of those.”
Sky Light at Bahrs
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