This morning’s view is a study in gray with steel blue waves slicing into the light smoke of the horizon. Closer to the ship, gray puffs of rain-making clouds close in on us. I pray these lighten by noon, before we reach Hubbard Glacier.
Though the ocean is smooth, I feel a slight sway ever so often. If I were to relax into it, I could fall back asleep. But I’d rather not. Morning is my best time to think and to wonder in the quiet – to write and to pray.
Though I had no intention to, I picked up a couple of books at the Denali Park bookstore. Books are my particular weakness; yet they also serve as sacred souvenirs of travel. One I’ve been enjoying this morning comes from an 1879 travel journal penned by John Muir, where he writes about his first experiences of Alaska. I enjoy pondering the thoughts of this man, described as part-naturalist and part-poet, who served as the Sierra Club’s first president.
Here’s a passage I particularly like for this first morning at sea:
“The scenery of the ocean, however sublime in vast expanse, seems far less beautiful to us dry-shod animals than that of the land seen only in comparatively small patches; but when we contemplate the whole globe as one great dewdrop, striped and dotted with continents and islands, flying through space with other stars all singing and shining together as one, the whole universe appears as an infinite storm of beauty.”
My husband and I are friendly types, though not overtly so. We smile when smiled upon. We do our part in picking up a dangling comment on the weather whenever a stranger volleys one in our direction. We graciously respond to questions about the place we call home. But never do we initiate contact – especially when on vacation.
We don’t travel to strike up temporary friendships with fellow travelers. People, like my husband — who still works full-time — travel to get away, to enjoy a little down-time. So we’ve never felt a need to converse with strangers, maybe because from where we come from, strangers want to stay that way. But if today’s train ride into Denali Park is anything to go on, our “not-overtly-friendly” years may be drawing to a close.
This is a big year in our married life since we both turn 55. Alaska is our ‘bon voyage’ into what we hope will become our golden travel years. But today taught me I’ve got to ‘up’ my game if I want to make it on the senior travel circuit. Fifteen minutes out of the train station, as my husband and I were quietly studying our Alaska Rail travel brochures, I heard a woman with a Texas drawl come up the aisle visiting with the mostly senior crowd. When she reached our row, she began talking with the couple sitting across from us. She squealed upon learning they too were from Texas.
“Whereabouts in Texas?”
“Crawford. You know, where President Bush has his ranch.”
“Do you know him?”
“No. These days we don’t even know when he’s at the ranch. No helicopters, you know.”
From there, the conversation took off. I tried not to eavesdrop, but when I heard they came from Texas, I got interested in spite of myself. And when I heard the lady from Crawford tell her new found friend that her husband once worked for Dow Chemical in Freeport, I found myself blurting out, “My husband does too.”
My faux pas broke their momentum a little. But it wasn’t any time before they were back on track. Until the woman sitting mentioned she was a retired CPA … and of course, I butted in again. “I’m a CPA too.”
“Where did you work?
“Well, I worked at Arthur Andersen for a number of years, but I ended up at Intermedics when I moved to Texas.”
“You are not going to believe this….but I interviewed at Arthur Andersen too. But when I graduated in 1962, Arthur Andersen hired only men. They apologized to me, but that’s just how it was back then. I understood.”
Well, from there, our conversation took off. We talked about everything: Stock investments…surgeries….religion.
There’s really not a long story short when traveling in senior circles. Preliminaries like the weather and exchanging hometowns are merely appetizers to the main course, where nothing about one’s life is considered sacred. Who know what heights we’ll reach if we reconnect in a couple of days – would you believe we’re taking the same cruise?
“I am a home movie, with endless shots of friends and relations.”
— Frederick Buechner, Alphabet of Grace
A summer frolic between young cousins changes to winter play without fanfare. The young actors and stage are constants. But key scenery changes unlock the passage of time — green grass fades to yellow, a young girl and boy trade lawn cotton costumes for blue winter coats.
In my youth, the stage for Sunday afternoons was always Granny’s front yard and porch. Old fashioned games of hide and seek, Easter egg hunts were all held there. I can recall many baseball games held there too that divided our large family in two. Granddad always played and all the kids and their spouses. Trees subbed as running bases while appropriately, home base rested near the steps of Granny’s front porch.
The preliminaries involved Southern scratch cooking at its best. But we grand-kids never lingered over our plates. Without guilt of leaving food behind, we’d rush out the side screen door to play. I imagine that cold February day caught on film was no exception. That day we were celebrating my young aunt’s birthday. Seven years older than I, my aunt is closer in age to me and the other grandkids than to our parents, her brothers and sisters. Was Jane turning eleven or twelve that day? I can’t really say. I’d guess the year as 1959, judging by my own appearance — with hair tied back in a pony tail, wearing that blue coat over a standard home-made dress, I look to be no more than four.
Much like the young girl I was, the camera buzzes around the action without ever landing. In its greed to capture the big picture for posterity, the action blurs; most subjects are in and out of the frame before eyes can discern their presence. It doesn’t help that images of vintage film grow faint, that they go gray and grow lines with age. Was that cousin Mike? Or Pat? I can’t really tell. It all goes too fast.
What I know for sure is that my Aunt Jane had just received a brand new bike for her birthday. Her first bike, because times and finances were tough for Granny and Granddad. And for some reason — I don’t know why — my young father was teaching Jane to ride her bike, while my mother captured the event on film. Who bought the bike for Jane? Was it my parents? Was it a joint gift from the family? I don’t really know — these details were not important to me then.
The rolling images of vintage home movies cannot tell a story alone. Spliced together without conscious editing, scenes require narration from one who lived through the event. Preferably the storyteller is one who can recall vivid details since it’s details that make stories come alive.
That’s why it helps to focus in on smaller pictures. In our story telling, it helps to content ourselves with telling little slices of life in great detail. Come in late. Leave early. Don’t over stay our welcome.
So here’s one smaller picture from that home movie where I hit the pause button: My young father balancing me on the handlebars of my young aunt’s brand new bike.
The handle bars are cold and hard. The grass makes for a bumpy ride. But I don’t care. I’m happy to take a spin with my father on my aunt’s new bike. I always found Daddy handsome — it’s a shame he didn’t learn this until lying on his deathbed. I hope he found the information “better late than never;’ I was just glad to remember to tell it.
But what I didn’t remember were times like this, when Daddy was nothing more that a big playmate. Surely with a child’s wisdom, I knew this fifty years ago, before Father Time dinged up my memories.
This then, is how I wish to remember Dad: braving the February cold to play the hero, teaching us kids a few new tricks.
an everyday life 