Brooklin, Maine was not a good place to see fireworks on the Fourth of July, but it was a superb location to watch fireflies.
There were pyrotechnics in three nearby towns, but none were near enough to make it worth our while to climb into the car after dinner and drive to a crowded place in order to ooh and ahh with a lot of other people. Instead, we lingered over a dinner of grilled salmon, roasted potatoes and steamed peas (from our home garden, which were delicious, thank you very much). As darkness fell we dished up some frozen nirvana - Island Lady Toasted Coconut ice cream - onto which we sliced plenty of fresh, local strawberries. Then we turned out the lights and let ourselves be entertained by thousands of lampyridae.
Sorry to say, I did not take any photos, but my camera could never have captured the frenzy.
The fireflies in the field between our rented cottage and the shoreline were absolutely crazed with lust on the evening of July 4th, dancing and sashaying, flitting and flirting, zipping and zooming, beaming their desire into the night.
I hope it was as pleasurable for them as it was for us.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Empty Saddle
Many words have been written this week about the loss suffered this week by so many middle-aged kids who grew up in greater Boston.
Rex Trailer rode off into the sunset for the last time.
"Sad Day in Boomtown," was the headline in my hometown newspaper, The Fitchburg Sentinel and Enterprise. It was a sad day at my house, too.
Those of you who didn't grow up in Eastern Massachusetts in the 1950s and 1960s don't know what you missed. Saturday and Sunday mornings, my sisters and I would run downstairs in our pjs, turn on the big black-and-white floor model TV and watch test patterns until Rex Trailer's New England-style western extravaganza came on. Here's the link to his obit, for those who never had the sublime pleasure of watching Boomtown while eating their Cornflakes: http://www.sentinelandenterprise.com/topstory/ci_22354594/sad-day-boomtown
And here's what he looked like back in the day.
He rode in on a horse (Goldrush, who I understand was stabled in Groton, not far from where I lived), no gun on his hip but lots of fun up his sleeve. He did rope tricks, sang songs and talked about living on the range. For an aspiring cowgirl, it was must-see TV.
I met him once, when as a co-op student at Northeastern University I was an intern reporter at the Boston Globe. He had a gig running tours to Europe, aimed at people whose kids and grandkids idolized him. My assignment was to drive out to Logan Airport to interview some of the keyed-up participants on what was the biggest tour group ever to fly out of Boston.
I found a sea of people wearing cowboy hats in various colors. That was how Rex and his tour group posse organized themselves. Blue hats boarded one plane, green hats another, red hats a third. I interviewed a bunch of them, then waded through the crowd, looking for my old hero.
When I finally located him in the packed terminal, Rex was wearing a yellow hat and a big smile. I introduced myself, shook his hand, asked a few questions, jotted some notes. Before bidding him bon voyage I dropped my still-new professional demeanor and admitted I was a longtime fan. He grinned, apparently accustomed to such bashful confessions.
I'm now at an age when I know something about loss. I've grieved loved ones and held the hands of friends who have been in that devastating place. Just this week my family lost my 98-year-old father-in-law, whose remarkable life we will celebrate next weekend
Rex Trailer's death does not touch me anywhere near as personally as that loss. But it was another reminder that life gallops on, so I'd best keep my feet in the stirrups and hang on.
Rex Trailer rode off into the sunset for the last time.
"Sad Day in Boomtown," was the headline in my hometown newspaper, The Fitchburg Sentinel and Enterprise. It was a sad day at my house, too.
Those of you who didn't grow up in Eastern Massachusetts in the 1950s and 1960s don't know what you missed. Saturday and Sunday mornings, my sisters and I would run downstairs in our pjs, turn on the big black-and-white floor model TV and watch test patterns until Rex Trailer's New England-style western extravaganza came on. Here's the link to his obit, for those who never had the sublime pleasure of watching Boomtown while eating their Cornflakes: http://www.sentinelandenterprise.com/topstory/ci_22354594/sad-day-boomtown
And here's what he looked like back in the day.
He rode in on a horse (Goldrush, who I understand was stabled in Groton, not far from where I lived), no gun on his hip but lots of fun up his sleeve. He did rope tricks, sang songs and talked about living on the range. For an aspiring cowgirl, it was must-see TV.
I met him once, when as a co-op student at Northeastern University I was an intern reporter at the Boston Globe. He had a gig running tours to Europe, aimed at people whose kids and grandkids idolized him. My assignment was to drive out to Logan Airport to interview some of the keyed-up participants on what was the biggest tour group ever to fly out of Boston.
I found a sea of people wearing cowboy hats in various colors. That was how Rex and his tour group posse organized themselves. Blue hats boarded one plane, green hats another, red hats a third. I interviewed a bunch of them, then waded through the crowd, looking for my old hero.
When I finally located him in the packed terminal, Rex was wearing a yellow hat and a big smile. I introduced myself, shook his hand, asked a few questions, jotted some notes. Before bidding him bon voyage I dropped my still-new professional demeanor and admitted I was a longtime fan. He grinned, apparently accustomed to such bashful confessions.
I'm now at an age when I know something about loss. I've grieved loved ones and held the hands of friends who have been in that devastating place. Just this week my family lost my 98-year-old father-in-law, whose remarkable life we will celebrate next weekend
Rex Trailer's death does not touch me anywhere near as personally as that loss. But it was another reminder that life gallops on, so I'd best keep my feet in the stirrups and hang on.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Happy New Year!
We took our traditional first day of the new year beach walk today after lazing around this morning in true New Year's Day fashion then taking down our Christmas Tree. Here are some photos of the beach:
The light was waning by the time we got there. The "pink-at-night, sailor's delight" glow bodes a fine day tomorrow.
Here's Diane with a big new year's smile.
And me with my hat yanked down over my frozen ears.
Happy New Year to all!
The light was waning by the time we got there. The "pink-at-night, sailor's delight" glow bodes a fine day tomorrow.
Here's Diane with a big new year's smile.
And me with my hat yanked down over my frozen ears.
Happy New Year to all!
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