Category: New Hampshire

Yes, that’s what it is. Snuggled among the pine and hemlock on a piece of land slanting down to the shore of Lake Winnipesaukee, stands this simple cottage, built by my parents in 1951 before the onslaught of fourteen grandchildren, and it has been expanded to become a family gathering place ever since. Just one hour away from the White Mountains, it is also our New England base camp for wilderness exploration and hiking.

On my last day before returning to Whidbey Island I looked at the lake, longingly, and with a touch of sadness. Early each morning I would swim way out until I could see the sun streaming through the tallest pine. I’d float in the water letting it bathe me in its warmth.

On this day I had just finished my swim when a huge storm loomed over the distant hills and made its way down the wide stretch of lake we call “The Broads,” bending branches and knocking down power lines in its wake. Boy, did I run up that hill fast!

It is only now, nine hours later, that the electricity has returned. But in the meantime the storm left a turbulent lake with ocean-like waves, which I played in, as I have each summer for the past sixty-five years.

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I’m sitting on the dock, shielded by a breakwater that protects me from the ferocity of the waves, and looking out at Barndoor and Rattlesnake Islands one hour before sunset. What a kaleidoscopic day—from calm silver gray to bright blue to heavy clouds dusted with pockets of charcoal.

It’s wonderful to come in from a brisk swim to my favorite rock and be tantalized by a sun that is playing peek-a-boo with those heavy clouds. First you see me—then you don’t! But where does the pink glow on the water come from? How can a white glaring sun, fighting an onslaught of wispy gray clouds, produce pink sparkles in a triangular swath of water? And how can this be reflected onto an island that seems totally unconnected to the process?

Maybe if I were a scientist and knew the answers it wouldn’t be so amazing. Instead, I am in thrall and watch until that white ball turns the pink water to deep blue crystals and the pink finds a new home under another cloud bank.

As a child I was fascinated by cloud formations, which I anthropomorphized. But now they are not people or dogs or dragons. They are paintings and ships and tumbling patterns. And, as is happening tonight, they seem to open magically at the last moment before the white sun turns to a red ball and disappears behind the hills, leaving yet another unfolding pattern, this time of radiant color.

Sunsets are like fires. We never tire of looking at them, analyzing them, and seeing a world of symbolism in their infinite formations.

No last day is complete without a farewell fire.

For me, this is the end of summer. After eight hours of flying cross-country from Manchester to Baltimore to Seattle I was greeted by Mt. Rainier, glorious in the sunset, and seeming to follow the plane right onto the runway. I now know which side of the plane to pick for a perfect view. It’s the left behind the pilot going west and the right going east. Pretty good for a lady who is directionally challenged!

Complaints! Complaints! Complaints! That’s all we seem to hear about travel these days. No longer the rush of excitement as the plane revs up before lifting off and heading for 30,000 feet, or the cloud banks stretching below like cotton batting blanketing the earth, or the deserted mountain ranges that conjure up the beginning of time.

It’s just constant bellyaching  about long security lines, too many people, invasive searches, and delayed flights. And I was right there with everyone else in the Seattle airport in a line that seemed to stretch all the way to Tacoma, when I began to notice little acts of love and kindness that are also a part of the mix…

A grandfather calling his little grandson over for a final hug (“Aren’t  they wonderful?” he said as he saw me smiling. “Oh, yes they are!”), a security person who apologized after the third pat down (could my body lotion have set off an alarm?) and a waitress in a bar, where I had asked for water because I couldn’t find a fountain. She directed me to a fountain but it was too far, and my plane was boarding. As I stood in line, she rushed over with a giant cup of water and a straw and said, “M’am, you forgot your water.” “You are an angel,” I said. She had been concerned and chased me down. How sweet was that!

During the flight I was sitting next to two loquacious ladies who were unaware that I had gotten up at 3:30 AM to make my airport shuttle and desperately needed my sleep. An hour into the flight they were still talking. Sleep was impossible. I made my way to the steward’s station and explained my predicament, asking if any single seat was available. Eureka! An aisle seat was found next to two sleeping passengers. The remainder of the trip was spent in heavenly silence.

One last gesture of kindness came my way as I was trudging between gates in Philadelphia, hurrying to make a close connection. A gentleman in a motorized cart stopped and offered me a ride, taking me what seemed like 2 miles to my gate, and waving any gratuity. Just being kind. It seemed to please him and it sure pleased me!

This is what I took away from my cross country flight from Seattle to Manchester, New Hampshire. And now, as I sit on the dock looking out at the islands and enjoying the serenity of Lake Winnipesaukee, I temper my upset at the turmoil and incivility rampant in my country, and think of those little kindnesses that jumped out at me when I least expected them. And I am filled with appreciation and hope.

This was a busy month! On July 10 Son Robert married Gwen Abel at our cottage on Lake Winnipesaukee, surrounded by Gwen’s relatives from California and Rob’s from all over the place. It was a simple, beautiful ceremony under the pines by the lake. We celebrated for two days with friends, including Judy Wyman and John Kelly and their two daughters, Sarah and Leah. Then we climbed as a family up to Greenleaf Hut, the AMC (Appalachian Mountain Club) hut on Mt. Lafayette, up over the Franconia Ridge, and down the Falling Waters Trail (in a thunderstorm, I might add). This and the next hike are the two that I take every year without fail. A week later we climbed to Crag Camp (a Randolph Mountain Club hut) in Kings Ravine, up the Spur Trail to Thunderstorm Junction and over to the A.M.C. Madison Hut. The grandchildren and I took Valley Way to the Appalachia parking lot, while daughter Martha and her friend, Gary, went down the more exposed Airline trail. The rest of the month was spent enjoying the coolness of good old Lake Winnie, until, with a jolt, I was back in sweltering New Jersey. A week later I was in Stockholm, where it was cold and rainy for a few days, but a welcome relief from N.J. heat. ( click here for pictures)

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