October 12, 2006
Alces alces The Uncommon Moose
One morning at about quarter to six last July, My son Scott and I were driving down route 3A towards Kingston when we saw the moose. As we came down the hill towards the mill pond, I saw the figure of a large animal, like a deer but bigger, run across the street at the bottom of the hill where the road goes over the outlet from the pond. I slowed the truck and said to Scott, "look in there," pointing to the driveway where the animal had gone. Scott looked up, he had been half dozing. Standing in the driveway was the oddest looking deer we had ever seen.. It was as big as a pony but with legs twice as long. It stood with its feet planted. We stared at him and he stared back at us. It was young, and its antlers were small. They were mitten shaped, covered in a light brown velvet. "It’s a moose!" I said.
Monday, September 04, 2006
4 September 2006
My Dad has recovered from surgery after a long trial. He has been talking more about his past more than he ever has before, at least to me. He was telling me about his grandfather.
John Cook (Koch), was born in Germany, probabably about 1850. He served in the Prussian army before coming to America with his wife. Their first child, Helena, my grandmother, was born in New York city in 1880 and came to Watertown at the age of four. John worked at Lewandos in Watertown square as a master dyer, my Uncle John says that he was the owner for a short time although I am not sure how he would have come to own it or how he would have lost ownership. He had a son Phillip whom I remember from my childhood as Uncle Philly,who owned a cottage in Hampton Beach and also owned my current house where we Maloneys grew up on 15 Dana Terrace. He also had another daughter, Barbara, who married and had two sons, John would never talk to her again or acknowledge her existence because her husband was Jewish, and their sons were raised as Jews. My father remembers they always came to family events like funerals and remembers that they were friendly; he would talk to them but could not tell his mother that he had. John’s wife left him for another man after they had eight children together. She had a son with the new husband. John lived near Newton corner off of Galen street, my grandmother used to serve him breakfast, which he would refuse to touch until she put a beer on the table to go with the meal. My grandmother was living in Watertown square when she met my grandfather who was a mail man and a volunteer firefighter. My grandfather Thomas was born in 1878 and died when I was a child. He is buried in Saint Patrick’s cemetary in Watertown. His father James was born in County Mayo Ireland in 1858.
One of my earliest memories is of my father’s aunt another of John’s daughters and her husband. They lived off of Watertown square across River Street. I remember going there, and I remember them as a friendly old couple with flower gardens around their house. Strangely, one of my father’s earliest memories is also of this same couple in that same house a generation earlier.
Some of the traits ascribed to John Cook are familiar traits of the Maloney family; such as severity and stubbornness. I remember visits to my grandmother’s house on Green street. Everyone, including the children sat around the living room with the backs of their chairs against the wall, my grandmother in her rocker by the window.
My Dad has recovered from surgery after a long trial. He has been talking more about his past more than he ever has before, at least to me. He was telling me about his grandfather.
John Cook (Koch), was born in Germany, probabably about 1850. He served in the Prussian army before coming to America with his wife. Their first child, Helena, my grandmother, was born in New York city in 1880 and came to Watertown at the age of four. John worked at Lewandos in Watertown square as a master dyer, my Uncle John says that he was the owner for a short time although I am not sure how he would have come to own it or how he would have lost ownership. He had a son Phillip whom I remember from my childhood as Uncle Philly,who owned a cottage in Hampton Beach and also owned my current house where we Maloneys grew up on 15 Dana Terrace. He also had another daughter, Barbara, who married and had two sons, John would never talk to her again or acknowledge her existence because her husband was Jewish, and their sons were raised as Jews. My father remembers they always came to family events like funerals and remembers that they were friendly; he would talk to them but could not tell his mother that he had. John’s wife left him for another man after they had eight children together. She had a son with the new husband. John lived near Newton corner off of Galen street, my grandmother used to serve him breakfast, which he would refuse to touch until she put a beer on the table to go with the meal. My grandmother was living in Watertown square when she met my grandfather who was a mail man and a volunteer firefighter. My grandfather Thomas was born in 1878 and died when I was a child. He is buried in Saint Patrick’s cemetary in Watertown. His father James was born in County Mayo Ireland in 1858.
One of my earliest memories is of my father’s aunt another of John’s daughters and her husband. They lived off of Watertown square across River Street. I remember going there, and I remember them as a friendly old couple with flower gardens around their house. Strangely, one of my father’s earliest memories is also of this same couple in that same house a generation earlier.
Some of the traits ascribed to John Cook are familiar traits of the Maloney family; such as severity and stubbornness. I remember visits to my grandmother’s house on Green street. Everyone, including the children sat around the living room with the backs of their chairs against the wall, my grandmother in her rocker by the window.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
PTown
Some Years Back
Labor day my son Scott and I bicycled to Plymouth to catch the ferry to Provincetown. I had bought him a new bike this summer and we had not had a vacation or done anything for a while so I thought we could go try the bike trails in the National Seashore and climb the P-town tower. I checked the weather before we left and there was a block of thunderstorms south of the Cape moving north but they seemed to be going to pass out to sea beyond us. The captain of the ferry warned us it might be a rough ride. It was foggy and windy and starting to rain when the boat pulled out of Plymouth harbor. But once underway the fog lifted and the rain stopped. We sat up on the top deck in the open with most of the other passengers. There are always foreign tourists in Plymouth, in particular Japanese tourists. The Pilgrims seem to have meaning for the Japanese. On the ferry. there was a group of Dutch or German tourists I couldn't tell which and their English was good enough that they spoke it almost as well as their own language. The boat is fairly noisy but my first thought was Dutch, I don't know why. One young woman sat in front of me she had a graceful neck and blonde hair tied in a pony tail, the curve of her hips was in my view on the edge of her seat, I could picture myself coupled with her, my face buried in her long smooth neck.
It is quite a sight to see land , thin, sandy land, lighthouses, churches appear out of the sea, the last solid earth before Gibraltor. The sand spins around the tip of the Cape. The boat followed it into the harbor. The captain said this was one of the finest harbors anywhere, deep water and complete protection from the northeast winds. But this one is only attached by a long spindle to the mainland, there is no room for a city of any size here, just the main street and rows of beach houses and inns. He pointed out the big grey building on pilings we were to tie up at and return to at 4 pm. Scotty and I carried our bikes off the boat and decided to head first for the Provincetown tower, or Pilgrim Memorial tower which dwarfs everything else in town even the hill it stands on. I had been here twice before, once as a child on a summer vacation drive through the cape and once when I was fifteen and staying with two friends in Chatham at a motel owned by my friend Kevin's brother in law. Then we had not bothered to pay for admission but had hopped the fence. Then too we had bicycled from Watertown to Chatham in two days. This time the short ride from Duxbury to Plymouth had taxed my strength. And this time we paid admission. The clerk was very obviously affected, that is, with flowery shirt and florid face, flaming, care free and happy, in short gay and proud of it. The tower is about 250 feet tall, an elongated granite rectangle one stone thick with gargoyles and the semblance of a bell tower, but no bell at the top. It is copied from a tower in Italy. The observation deck is enclosed all around with wire and clear plastic; it is too perfect a place for suicide. There were tourists here too and several languages, little kids, and some from Revere or Everett I would guess the way they talked and the way they recognized the towns of Massachusetts engraved in the granite blocks. Scotty and I scoped out how we would get to the National Seashore. But first it was time for lunch.
We were not familiar with the restaurants, I commented to Scott that if we went into the wrong one I might have a sudden attack of homophobia. It was easiest to go to MoJos on the pier by the big grey building. It was one of those places where you order at the window and eat at an outside bench. Everywhere there are openly gay people, mannish women, womenish men, the world turned upside down, men holding hands, girls striking marlboro man poses. Inside the window there were two teenage girls taking orders and a middle aged man with a long grey mustache giving orders and I guess cooking. I went to place our order. The girl had a cute but ordinary face with brown hair and a low cut tee shirt her breasts were big like ripe white melons I wanted to look into her shirt as she leaned close to take my order; I looked at her face and then off at the ice cream machine. I had a fried fish sandwich with guacamole Scotty had a swordfish sandwich. Once I was young and such temptations were not irreconcilable with the facts of my age, but once also I knew of no heaven more real than a beautiful girls body, that has changed, I know there is a larger heaven, a better heaven but I still remain fascinated by girls.
After lunch we headed out down Ptown's pedestrian-crowded main street. I wanted to find a map so we could find the bike trails at the national seashore. Main street is all kinky little gift shops, for practical purchases we had to go back into trafficland and find a combination gas station convenience store. The girl at this counter was blonde, young and pretty and she did not speak English very well. I got a map and Scott and I headed off to find the other wild side of the cape. The once barren desert described by Thoreau now museumized with trails, parking lots, bath houses, ranger stations, and visitors centers. Genesis 1:28 says:
God blessed them and said to them, "be fruitfull and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue
it. Rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and over every living creature that moves
on the ground."
This is the fate of the man-dominated earth. I would, wrestling with God, leave some of the earth unsubdued, dangerous, for the sake of adventure and romance, but I cannot deny that this mandate is inexorably fulfilled everywhere even in my short lifetime. And to think this is preparation for a fiery end to all of creation and all the works of man.
It did not take long to bicycle from the town shore to the seashore. We rode a short way to find the beginning of the bike trails and followed them up through the sand hills, there were pines in the hollows and sand higher up, many footprints ran into the dunes from the bike path, and I saw some of the strangest mushrooms and fungi growing among the pines. At the crest of one dune, we could see the ocean. We stopped at the visitors center and climbed the stairs to the observation platform. Scott bought a b'osun's whistle at the gift shop, I thought about buying a book on seashore botany, I should have. We looked out to the sea and I was beginning to wonder if I was going to make it all the way. In my twenties I used to ride 70 miles a day, I never got tired, I flew over the highest hills, but now I struggle. It doesn't seem so long ago or part of another life yet twenty five years have gone by since then. My body is only now slowing down and my dreams are virtually the same and still largely unfulfilled, to be a writer, to have a good marriage. But I have changed on the inside, gone from death to life, from darkness to light, from despair to hope, and that in Christ.
We get to the beach and sit on the warm sand, the sea is deep and churning, a young couple man and woman play and laugh in the surf, another couple, a man and a man dressed identically, hold each other looking at the sea. Later the young woman comes over and asks if I have seen her daughter, we all look for her hoping that the worst has not happened, but then she appears in the grass on the hillside a little child in a vast landscape quietly playing in the grass and thankfully not swallowed by the sea.
We need to return to town by four to catch the ferry home so we head back down the same bike trail until we are again walking our bikes down the crowded main street, there is an incongruous mix of children on scooters, and bicycles and gay people. I enjoy the pedestrian dominated street; autos annoy me to no end, but I like people and I am interested in the human condition and here it is all laid out but perhaps still wanting interpretation. There is a huge white wooden church, one of the most notable landmarks seen from the incoming ferry. It has been converted into a museum. In this city of sin the church is no longer central or foundational to society, if it exists, it is without public prominence. What a city ripe for evangelization; so many lost souls filled with anger toward God and toward those who dare question the validity of their sexual persuasion. There was, on the sidewalk in front of the church, a mime dressed as a mechanical doll. She, it appeared to be a she, moved mechanically to a whirring sound coming from a basket in front of her. She looked just like a doll, her body was sexless, her face pretty like a young girl, her hair a mop of bright yellow curls, her eyes as blank as a machine but written across her face was the brightest, friendliest smile. I took a picture of her and of the church, then we walked on. We came next to a store that sold salt water taffy we went in to buy some, I remembering how I used to watch it made in the storefront at Hampton Beach when I was a child. When we stepped outside the same mime was walking by. She moved close to me, I was not conscious of her approach until, from the corner of my eye, I caught her broad smile. I instinctively looked up and said, "Hello", and looked into her eye as I have done many times when I was fortunate enough to receive a smile from a pretty woman. Catching a woman's eye and reading her approval is something I sometimes think I live for. But these eyes did not respond, no trace of bashfulness, or flirting or anger. There was nothing in those eyes. I instantly knew this was not a woman. She or he walked on swaying and smiling down the street. And I, puzzled, watched her go. Her gait was strong, light, agile and manlike in the sense of a male ballet dancer. The smile on the outside, the lifelessness inside; this was a tragic figure, definitely male, definitely making a personal statement to the crowd. I sensed an invulnerability that can only come when one embraces death.
We got back to the big grey building on the wharf early to wait for the boat to leave. There was a young woman with a bicycle and a backpack with flags from all over Europe on it. She was traveling alone. Twenty five years ago she might have been the perfect one for me. I don't remember meeting any woman traveling or walking or running alone on my many excursions, young, free and lonely. The captain warned us the seas might be rough so I went downstairs for dramamine for me and Scott. It was a little rough but we didn't have any problem with sea sickness. The boat pitched and rolled and the spray reached us on the top deck. The weather was pretty clear now and we could see both P-town and the mainland. With the sun low in the western sky, the mainland was dark, we were headed toward the Manomet Hills, with the power plant on the canal visible to the south and the headlands of Marshfield or Cohasset to the north. But P-town, catching the direct sunlight shone golden on the water like a mythical city in the middle of the sea; the tower so out of proportion to the rest of the town and the sand so golden and the water glinting around it. When Thoreau described it one hundred fifty years ago there was no tower but he describes the same sight of being halfway across the bay. In his day the mackerel fishing boats encircled it with their white sails the last thing to be seen as the boat moved away.
When the boat tied up in Plymouth, Scott and I and the young woman with the bike were the last down the gang plank with our bicycles. We headed home riding up route 3A. We were tired now and just labored along, it started raining a little again, we got back to Duxbury about 7pm. I think this would be a good trip to do again now that we know where we are going and if the weather was a little better for the beach. We could head directly to the National Seashore and swim and lie in the sun. The surf was high and the water warm but the air was cold and windy and by the time we got to the beach, with diversions to the tower and to eat and find our way, it was almost time to turn around. This would also be a good trip to bring company on who come to visit our area. Its a trip we'll always remember.
Some Years Back
Labor day my son Scott and I bicycled to Plymouth to catch the ferry to Provincetown. I had bought him a new bike this summer and we had not had a vacation or done anything for a while so I thought we could go try the bike trails in the National Seashore and climb the P-town tower. I checked the weather before we left and there was a block of thunderstorms south of the Cape moving north but they seemed to be going to pass out to sea beyond us. The captain of the ferry warned us it might be a rough ride. It was foggy and windy and starting to rain when the boat pulled out of Plymouth harbor. But once underway the fog lifted and the rain stopped. We sat up on the top deck in the open with most of the other passengers. There are always foreign tourists in Plymouth, in particular Japanese tourists. The Pilgrims seem to have meaning for the Japanese. On the ferry. there was a group of Dutch or German tourists I couldn't tell which and their English was good enough that they spoke it almost as well as their own language. The boat is fairly noisy but my first thought was Dutch, I don't know why. One young woman sat in front of me she had a graceful neck and blonde hair tied in a pony tail, the curve of her hips was in my view on the edge of her seat, I could picture myself coupled with her, my face buried in her long smooth neck.
It is quite a sight to see land , thin, sandy land, lighthouses, churches appear out of the sea, the last solid earth before Gibraltor. The sand spins around the tip of the Cape. The boat followed it into the harbor. The captain said this was one of the finest harbors anywhere, deep water and complete protection from the northeast winds. But this one is only attached by a long spindle to the mainland, there is no room for a city of any size here, just the main street and rows of beach houses and inns. He pointed out the big grey building on pilings we were to tie up at and return to at 4 pm. Scotty and I carried our bikes off the boat and decided to head first for the Provincetown tower, or Pilgrim Memorial tower which dwarfs everything else in town even the hill it stands on. I had been here twice before, once as a child on a summer vacation drive through the cape and once when I was fifteen and staying with two friends in Chatham at a motel owned by my friend Kevin's brother in law. Then we had not bothered to pay for admission but had hopped the fence. Then too we had bicycled from Watertown to Chatham in two days. This time the short ride from Duxbury to Plymouth had taxed my strength. And this time we paid admission. The clerk was very obviously affected, that is, with flowery shirt and florid face, flaming, care free and happy, in short gay and proud of it. The tower is about 250 feet tall, an elongated granite rectangle one stone thick with gargoyles and the semblance of a bell tower, but no bell at the top. It is copied from a tower in Italy. The observation deck is enclosed all around with wire and clear plastic; it is too perfect a place for suicide. There were tourists here too and several languages, little kids, and some from Revere or Everett I would guess the way they talked and the way they recognized the towns of Massachusetts engraved in the granite blocks. Scotty and I scoped out how we would get to the National Seashore. But first it was time for lunch.
We were not familiar with the restaurants, I commented to Scott that if we went into the wrong one I might have a sudden attack of homophobia. It was easiest to go to MoJos on the pier by the big grey building. It was one of those places where you order at the window and eat at an outside bench. Everywhere there are openly gay people, mannish women, womenish men, the world turned upside down, men holding hands, girls striking marlboro man poses. Inside the window there were two teenage girls taking orders and a middle aged man with a long grey mustache giving orders and I guess cooking. I went to place our order. The girl had a cute but ordinary face with brown hair and a low cut tee shirt her breasts were big like ripe white melons I wanted to look into her shirt as she leaned close to take my order; I looked at her face and then off at the ice cream machine. I had a fried fish sandwich with guacamole Scotty had a swordfish sandwich. Once I was young and such temptations were not irreconcilable with the facts of my age, but once also I knew of no heaven more real than a beautiful girls body, that has changed, I know there is a larger heaven, a better heaven but I still remain fascinated by girls.
After lunch we headed out down Ptown's pedestrian-crowded main street. I wanted to find a map so we could find the bike trails at the national seashore. Main street is all kinky little gift shops, for practical purchases we had to go back into trafficland and find a combination gas station convenience store. The girl at this counter was blonde, young and pretty and she did not speak English very well. I got a map and Scott and I headed off to find the other wild side of the cape. The once barren desert described by Thoreau now museumized with trails, parking lots, bath houses, ranger stations, and visitors centers. Genesis 1:28 says:
God blessed them and said to them, "be fruitfull and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue
it. Rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and over every living creature that moves
on the ground."
This is the fate of the man-dominated earth. I would, wrestling with God, leave some of the earth unsubdued, dangerous, for the sake of adventure and romance, but I cannot deny that this mandate is inexorably fulfilled everywhere even in my short lifetime. And to think this is preparation for a fiery end to all of creation and all the works of man.
It did not take long to bicycle from the town shore to the seashore. We rode a short way to find the beginning of the bike trails and followed them up through the sand hills, there were pines in the hollows and sand higher up, many footprints ran into the dunes from the bike path, and I saw some of the strangest mushrooms and fungi growing among the pines. At the crest of one dune, we could see the ocean. We stopped at the visitors center and climbed the stairs to the observation platform. Scott bought a b'osun's whistle at the gift shop, I thought about buying a book on seashore botany, I should have. We looked out to the sea and I was beginning to wonder if I was going to make it all the way. In my twenties I used to ride 70 miles a day, I never got tired, I flew over the highest hills, but now I struggle. It doesn't seem so long ago or part of another life yet twenty five years have gone by since then. My body is only now slowing down and my dreams are virtually the same and still largely unfulfilled, to be a writer, to have a good marriage. But I have changed on the inside, gone from death to life, from darkness to light, from despair to hope, and that in Christ.
We get to the beach and sit on the warm sand, the sea is deep and churning, a young couple man and woman play and laugh in the surf, another couple, a man and a man dressed identically, hold each other looking at the sea. Later the young woman comes over and asks if I have seen her daughter, we all look for her hoping that the worst has not happened, but then she appears in the grass on the hillside a little child in a vast landscape quietly playing in the grass and thankfully not swallowed by the sea.
We need to return to town by four to catch the ferry home so we head back down the same bike trail until we are again walking our bikes down the crowded main street, there is an incongruous mix of children on scooters, and bicycles and gay people. I enjoy the pedestrian dominated street; autos annoy me to no end, but I like people and I am interested in the human condition and here it is all laid out but perhaps still wanting interpretation. There is a huge white wooden church, one of the most notable landmarks seen from the incoming ferry. It has been converted into a museum. In this city of sin the church is no longer central or foundational to society, if it exists, it is without public prominence. What a city ripe for evangelization; so many lost souls filled with anger toward God and toward those who dare question the validity of their sexual persuasion. There was, on the sidewalk in front of the church, a mime dressed as a mechanical doll. She, it appeared to be a she, moved mechanically to a whirring sound coming from a basket in front of her. She looked just like a doll, her body was sexless, her face pretty like a young girl, her hair a mop of bright yellow curls, her eyes as blank as a machine but written across her face was the brightest, friendliest smile. I took a picture of her and of the church, then we walked on. We came next to a store that sold salt water taffy we went in to buy some, I remembering how I used to watch it made in the storefront at Hampton Beach when I was a child. When we stepped outside the same mime was walking by. She moved close to me, I was not conscious of her approach until, from the corner of my eye, I caught her broad smile. I instinctively looked up and said, "Hello", and looked into her eye as I have done many times when I was fortunate enough to receive a smile from a pretty woman. Catching a woman's eye and reading her approval is something I sometimes think I live for. But these eyes did not respond, no trace of bashfulness, or flirting or anger. There was nothing in those eyes. I instantly knew this was not a woman. She or he walked on swaying and smiling down the street. And I, puzzled, watched her go. Her gait was strong, light, agile and manlike in the sense of a male ballet dancer. The smile on the outside, the lifelessness inside; this was a tragic figure, definitely male, definitely making a personal statement to the crowd. I sensed an invulnerability that can only come when one embraces death.
We got back to the big grey building on the wharf early to wait for the boat to leave. There was a young woman with a bicycle and a backpack with flags from all over Europe on it. She was traveling alone. Twenty five years ago she might have been the perfect one for me. I don't remember meeting any woman traveling or walking or running alone on my many excursions, young, free and lonely. The captain warned us the seas might be rough so I went downstairs for dramamine for me and Scott. It was a little rough but we didn't have any problem with sea sickness. The boat pitched and rolled and the spray reached us on the top deck. The weather was pretty clear now and we could see both P-town and the mainland. With the sun low in the western sky, the mainland was dark, we were headed toward the Manomet Hills, with the power plant on the canal visible to the south and the headlands of Marshfield or Cohasset to the north. But P-town, catching the direct sunlight shone golden on the water like a mythical city in the middle of the sea; the tower so out of proportion to the rest of the town and the sand so golden and the water glinting around it. When Thoreau described it one hundred fifty years ago there was no tower but he describes the same sight of being halfway across the bay. In his day the mackerel fishing boats encircled it with their white sails the last thing to be seen as the boat moved away.
When the boat tied up in Plymouth, Scott and I and the young woman with the bike were the last down the gang plank with our bicycles. We headed home riding up route 3A. We were tired now and just labored along, it started raining a little again, we got back to Duxbury about 7pm. I think this would be a good trip to do again now that we know where we are going and if the weather was a little better for the beach. We could head directly to the National Seashore and swim and lie in the sun. The surf was high and the water warm but the air was cold and windy and by the time we got to the beach, with diversions to the tower and to eat and find our way, it was almost time to turn around. This would also be a good trip to bring company on who come to visit our area. Its a trip we'll always remember.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Natural selection is self limiting. As non-random selection occurs from generation to generation the inherent variation from which the selections are made decreases naturally limiting how far things can go. Random mutation is the hypothetical mechanism of creation of new variation that biology teachers invoke to cover this gaping hole in the theory of evolution. They spend little time analysing the science that supports the viability of such a mechanism.
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