Some Thoughts

A month ago, my father and I took a simple canoe trip:

Then I went up to Lake Champlain to enjoy a few days of solitude surrounded by peak foliage, some kayaking and canoeing, stars, fires, the sound of waves on the rocks, and to cap it all off, some family time, much of which was spent trying to repair plumbing and carrying heavy things up stairs. Also, there was no running water while we were there.

I didn't realize those storm clouds were portents of the storm building in my stomach that would make itself known the following evening. I would endure two days of fever, chills and aches, and then five days without a real meal because my gut wasn't having it. But nothing would stop me from seeing my favorite performer come back to New York for the first time in two years: HIROMI UEHARA!

After seeing four electrifying, soul-restoring shows, I had to go back to work, still without eating well. I had been tempted to call in sick, but I powered through the day, finally ate a real meal, and enjoyed reading in my journal that I had been working in this job for six years (after having previously never stayed in the same job for more than a year).

Maybe one would think that after all that I would finally enjoy a normal weekend where I could digest food and wouldn't feel pressure to go to some fancy club in Manhattan to take in a sophisticated musical performance that would bring me to tears at one point. I certainly wanted to. But I had made reservations to FINALLY camp on Long Island for the first time in my life. Even though my father (and his father... and his father before him... all the way back to Ezekiel Sandford, my first native born namesake ancestor, who was a wheelwright (built and repaired wagon wheels) that had moved to Bridgehampton from Hartford, Connecticut in the 1670's) had extensive experience in the Long Island wilderness, it had pretty much disappeared by the time I was born. Long Island was the birth of the suburbs, and home to plenty of urban/suburban sprawl. My grandfather helped build the first suburb, Levittown, just as Ezekiel had built the bridge that gave Bridgehampton its name (I'd never visited the bridge or even the upscale neighborhoods now known simply as "The Hamptons" until I made a point of visiting there two years ago). So I figured it was time I finally saw Montauk, the easternmost point of New York State, and camped at Hither Hills, the only state park I could find where you're allowed to camp. And it was just a simple three hour drive east of Manhattan.

I arrived at the lighthouse half an hour before closing, but three minutes after they stopped selling tickets. It would have been nice for the internet to have mentioned that. Even so, I got to walk around the rocks to the front of the lighthouse and technically touch the water at the easternmost point of the state. And the lighthouse was pretty large, so I still got to see it. Then I drove over to Hither Hills and camped for two nights and one full day.

I got beautiful stars much of the first night, and sparkling sun the entire next day before the clouds came in the evening.

Sunday morning was overcast, rainy, and VERY windy. I packed up my tent, showered, and then rode back in the rain for three hours.

Of course, there was one more adventure. I had to go back to Cambridge the next weekend to fulfill a plan I'd made with an old friend.

On Thursday, Halloween, I decided at the last minute to grab my Viking helmet from Halloweens past and do it again. I still had the hair and the beard, so why not? My colleague had told me he was going to repeat as Superman, so I figured I had the right. Most of the students weren't there the year before anyway. So I taught them about Viking history and mythology, including Odin, the one-eyed God of war and poetry who rules them all.

Afterward, I had a late drive home. The first hour was easy, albeit windy, but then it turned into a real ordeal. Intense winds were combined with a punishing rain which lasted the remainder of the drive. I had to go 45 to 50 on a 65 mph highway, and felt my tires slipping quite a bit. At one point I got a warning on my phone for a severe thunderstorm. But I made it home a little before 2 am. My mother had asked me to wake her up when I got home, and I didn't understand why. I figured she'd see my door was closed if she woke up and would be reassured. As it turned out, it wasn't about that.

She told me that I probably noticed my father's bed was empty. I figured he'd left a couple days early to go to the duck boat show on Long Island. As it turned out, his shooting days may be over. She gave the news well: "He's fine now and in good spirits, but he's in the hospital and coming home tomorrow because he had a tiny tiny tiny stroke [the day before Halloween], and he's permanently without vision in his right eye. He can still see fine in his left eye." My first question was if he would be able to shoot again. Hunting isn't my thing, but it's been one of his favorites for 54 years, and pretty much one of his main reasons for being outside family since his father and hunting mentor died eight years ago. Apparently his ophthalmologist also has one working eye and shoots guns, and assured him he'll be able to do pretty much all the things he used to, it will just take some time and readjustment. My next question was if he could still paint, carve decoys and build duck boats, and apparently that will be easier than shooting flying ducks without use of his right eye. So then I went to bed because I was exhausted and happy to be alive after that drive, with my parents still living.

The next day I was happy to greet my dad, that his stroke hadn't been worse, and that he could still see. He was already making cyclops jokes, and I told him his new nickname was Odin. He wasn't a professional warrior like my grandfather, but he sure shot a lot of ducks. And he's always been fond of reading poetry aloud. Then his two best friends showed up, including my "Uncle" Al.

On Saturday morning I woke up at 6 am, showered, ate, and drove to my friend Joe's house so we could ride another 2 hours to hike a mountain together for the first time in two years, and a high peak together for the first time in nine years. I hadn't been to the Green Mountains of Vermont in five years, so I was pumped. Also, seeing Joe reminded me how lucky I am to still have my dad, because his passed away many years ago. Joe is a strong man in many ways.

As an ode to my father, I decided to bring my plastic Viking helmet along. It was still Halloween weekend, after all. It was 32 degrees when we started, and 20 at the summit, but the sound of the streams, the trees, the quiet when we reached the evergreens, and the views from the top were worth the holes in my boots that made my toes a little extra cold. But my dad loves going out in the cold, and there was a sign on the way that said "Churchill" which reminded me we hadn't come that far because we were "made of sugar candy," so, like most of the month, I powered through. Also, I got some extra energy from the smiles/bewildered looks/obviously intentional attempts to look away from my strange Viking helmet, long hair and red beard. After yet another amused group approached on our descent, I said, "It's still Halloween, right?"

A woman replied, "Sorry, but I don't have any candy."

"You mean to say I just climbed a whole mountain with ice and snow, and I don't even get any candy?"