Sailing

The days, although sunny and warm, have been dry and the house stays cool with the harbor breezes wafting through. Glancing back over that sentence makes me smile. I am my father's daughter, obvious in the words I write, always waxing on about the weather, the humidity, the wind's direction. We are all children of parents with our combination of genes and string of nurturing history that may not define us but certainly contributes to the shaping of the people we become.
This summer seems to celebrate the paternal parentage of my children. Craig moves in and out of the house during the day often for a family lunch or a brief hello after a meeting next door. The children follow him back to the office, returning with mail or lingering through a meeting. They have always been fascinated with his work. But it is Craig's absence during the day that highlights the pieces of him left behind.

Lise begins her sailing classes next week but her obsession began weeks ago when she received confirmation of her place in the camp. She found, in constructing a model sailboat, a way to assuage her eagerness for the camp to begin. Lise is Craig's daughter in the way she loves to put things together, to understand how and why pieces and parts work in unison. She seems to have learned from him the need to extract every available morsel from an interest in order to savor and elongate all associated experiences.

Rem moves through each day with such energy and exuberance that I sometimes grow exhausted from watching him. I imagine Craig to have exhibited similar displays as a child especially when similar bursts of passionate enthusiasm escape from his middle-aged self (so much more now than a year ago). Rem's overwhelming and complete adoration of his father draws groans from his sisters and even I get tired of sitting through Rem's declarations of love for Craig. But watching Rem concentrate on his latest Lego project (lately involving forts and fortresses for Red Coats) and then needing to share his excitement on completion ignites a desire for my own ardent declarations of love for father and son.

Miren, in a distinctly feminine way, (as she will want me to emphasize) physically resembles Craig much more than the other two (Lise, of course, being a mini-me and Rem a mix). The two of them started running in the evenings so that Miren will be in shape for soccer. They create a lovely picture, heading across the yard, the lines of their bodies mirroring each other in posture and stride. And after, sweating and patting each other on the back for a good run, their crinkled blue eyes dance in unison above happy smiles.

I enjoy seeking Craig and finding him in our children. I see myself in them, too, sometimes regrettably, but also joyously. My mother, eager to share her love for the written word, pressed a book into my hand long before I started school. She read Dickens aloud on summer evenings in the den while her children listened, limbs sprawled across furniture or along stretches of thick, brown carpet. We sat huddled around the fireplace during an odd winter spell while Mom spun Shakespeare dramas on the record player. I am my mother's daughter. A book, forever pressed into my hand, one work exchanged for another. And my children, their mother's children as they fill idle afternoons but mostly long nights turning pages. Reluctant to relinquish the day or leave a chapter unfinished, they read long past the clock's passing to tomorrow. An assortment of books sit scattered about the house: a Suzanne Collins series, young adult fiction from the library, Steinbeck, Chopin, Hemingway, E.B. White.

Surviving the Heat and Each Other

The Yard continues to fill with tourists each day but the groups grow more haggard as the summer wears on. Red-faced families vie for the imagined relief of shade under the horse chestnut,oak and maple trees in front of the house. Kids collapse on the grass while parents fan their faces with museum brochures before they douse themselves with the water they haven't consumed. A woman fainted today and the ambulance came and took her away to a cooler, more comfortable place. Some of the crowd that gathered looked more than a little disappointed that they hadn't fainted, too, and then coaxed their children into another run through the Constitution Museum for some cool exhibits.

Boston temperatures have reached one hundred degrees and beyond over the last couple of days keeping us close to home. We've experienced two brown outs and reacted with a bit of country bumpkin excitement until the house grew hotter. Cooling stations opened around the city and the area pools extended their hours. The homeless are getting sunscreen and water and the elderly are getting house calls. While the city implements its heat-wave measures we have established our own. Mainly, we complain often and venture out little while there is daylight (drawing straws when the dog needs a quick romp). I periodically extol the virtues of the suffering silent and offer simple remedies such as cold showers and a change of clothes to the heat-stricken.

Rem drags his toys near one of the air conditioning units and the rest of us lie about turning pages slowly in books so as not to raise our body temperatures by even a minuscule amount. I enforce a strict "no touching" rule when it comes to sitting on furniture (to avoid the sweat beads that form where the kids' feet or legs are touching and thus dodge the arguments about who is making who miserable).

Meals now fall into the self-service category. Those willing to exert themselves for food can take whatever they find. The microwave is open to use. The oven is off-limits. Long periods in front of the open refrigerator or freezer are overlooked.

We perk up a little when the sun goes down and the breeze turns from hair-dryer hot to palatable and step outside for a little fresh air. Our evening walks have grown shorter. The city continues to twinkle invitingly across the harbor; the artificial lights currently more welcoming than the blazing sun.

The neighbors gathered around the flagpole the other night. Rem and his friend helped pull down the flag under Ranger Dan's watchful eye and Craig and I received concerned inquiries as to how we were coping with the heat.

"We grew up in South Louisiana," Craig replied. "This is nothing."

"Good," one of the neighbors returned with a smirk. "Our winters, though, are wicked brutal."

Busy Days in the Navy Yard

Rem rushes out each evening that we are home to wait for the Constitution's evening colors demonstration and the firing of the saluting battery and the chance to help take down the flag near the house. Among the patient and indulging park service workers is Ranger Dan (pictured here).

Rem had the chance to ride around the navy yard in style - courtesy of this Korean War era jeep - complete with great views of the harbor and the city.

Rem hangs out on the Friendship, a replica of an 18th century merchant ship that sails periodically through the year, this time to provide training for the Constitution's crew. Otherwise, the Friendship serves as a museum in Salem.

We enjoyed the hands-on experience on the ship. Rem took a turn at the ship's wheel before we went below deck to explore. The crew, National Park workers and volunteers, energetically explained all facets of the working ship and its historical significance.

Sometimes Rem is just an angry pirate!

(costume courtesy of his Granny Catherine)

Refreshment

Just around the corner from the scale house in the Navy Yard, near the foot of one of the many piers that stretch like fingers into the harbor sits an innocuous summer savior: a fountain. Residents, like bugs to a porch light, cluster around these gems dotting the city to savor water's magical salve on a scorching summer day. Young mothers, their momentarily abandoned shoes and strollers just out of reach, bend to grasp the hands of unsteady babies be-decked in the bold prints of swimsuits, some of the fuzzy heads sporting matching head bands or sun hats. They walk in small circles, avoiding the squealing toddlers as they run happily through the cool spouts of water, splashing everyone with delight. Parents expecting only to watch the water dance, find themselves rolling up pant legs or gathering skirts into their hands so that they, too can wade.

Older children may or may not wear swimsuits and take no time to ponder what it will feel like to walk home in wet jeans or dripping cotton t-shirts. They sit in the deepest water they can find or stretch their legs out behind them, walking on their hands like bottom feeders. Some of the fountains don't have much standing water and the kids take their place under the spouts as if they were at a mass public shower where sitting was mandatory.

Although I have seen the arcs of water and the gatherings on Cross Street and Commercial Avenue, my kids like to run down to the fountain close to home at the end of a hot day of outings. Still wet and chilled, they hope to enjoy the relative coolness of the house (the large, open spaces of this early nineteenth century home are hard to air-condition on these really hot days) deep into the evening.

While Rem swam as if in a luxury swimming pool Miren and Lise talked about our favorite swimming holes in the mountains of North Carolina. They have not done much reminiscing or pining for the only home they knew for so long. Boston bewitches them with the continued unfolding of treasures (whether a store called H&M or a fifty-two storied sky walk) and its infinite depth. And both girls are still basking in the adolescent joys of a room of one's own.

We remembered the afternoons blueberry picking in Graveyard Fields. Typically unaccustomed in the mountains to the open sky above we watched in awe as clouds and showers blew past. The afternoons always ended in the wonderfully frigid waters of the deep pool down the trail from the berry bushes. I described the easy hike along Big Creek in the Smokies to the trout pool, made cooler by the surrounding trees and rising slopes, nestled as it was in the bottoms of the mountains. Miren and Lise recalled the surprising warmth of Lake James as we swam around our canoe in coves near the edge of the lake, large motor boats and jet skis darting about in the distance. "Cataloochee Creek" and "Jacob's Fork"s rolled off our tongues without pause, releasing a rush of Appalachian waters from our lips .

No tears. No longing. Just happy thoughts of summers past.

Patriots

Our first 4th of July in a city that perpetually celebrates the birth of our nation and history continues to unfold around us. Yesterday, Craig and the kids climbed the steps to the top of the Bunker Hill Monument and we sought to understand the role of our neighborhood in the revolutionary war through the exhibits in the adjacent museum. Craig sang the corresponding School House Rock song to link everything together for the kids and whether he succeeded or not, we all got a kick out of his performance.



We left the house this morning and walked the short length of pier one to honor the celebrated elder in American history as she took her annual turn about the harbor. Next year the USS Constitution will mark the 200th anniversary of the War of 1812 and her first battle by sailing under her own power. But, even with assistance, Old Ironsides dominated the harbor, her masts proudly raised, as she followed a fireboat that spewed water like a floating fountain and filled the wide berth that the gunned Coast Guard boats, the harbor police and the park service fleet provided her for an outing to Castle Island and back.

An even larger crowd gathered in the steamy, sun-drenched afternoon, for the frigate's return to port. She paused before the Coast Guard Unit, equally festive under an arc of colored flags, and sent off a seventeen gun salute to the delight of the crowds along the piers and the boaters in the water (most headed in a line toward the locks and then on up the Charles River for the Boston Pops and fireworks later in the evening). People even left the refreshing waters of the pool complex across the harbor and gathered along the fence to watch the Constitution. In no time her naval crew, in period uniforms, the ribbons on their hats waving in the wind, had her home, this time with her bow pointing out.

Rem provided a running commentary for our enjoyment as well as the enjoyment of the fifty people closest to us that included actual observations about the ship such as the guns and the vast quantities of rope that he saw. He also spun elaborate tales of escapades, both past and future ones, highlighting his service on board.

Miren and Lise, both having slept through the morning's activities, complained about the heat and the sun's glare until the ship glided in front of them. Even they, difficult as they are to impress, smiled at the imposing presence of Old Ironsides and waited until she was fully back in port before one called the other stupid and we walked with the crowds back toward our house. Rem and Lise have just run out of the house, having already learned to time the evening gun blast so that they can watch and maybe help with taking down the colors on this, our first 4th of July in Boston.