A New York State of Mind

A good deal of my Route 55 journey so far has been by sailboat or motoryacht. Pleasure boats like these move slowly, break down at the most inopportune moments, are gut-wrenchingly expensive to own, and sometimes exude a nasty potpourri of diesel fuel, bilge odor, and head fumes. But they do offer a front-row seat at some of the most mindblowing shows in life. Here's one.



This is Manhattan as seen from the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. The setting sun's rays reflecting off glass-sided buildings made it look like a city of gold.





We were entertained by some of the best fireworks I've ever seen, and for good measure, a big summer moon slowly sailed by the Empire State Building's spire. At one point it looked just like a huge pearl onion on a toothpick like you'd put in a martini glass.



This sunset shot was taken in Baltimore's Inner Harbor. There is no place better than a boat to see the sun strut its stuff, I believe. I could make a book of all the gorgeous sunsets and sunrises I've captured on film, and maybe I will now that I have the time!

A Spring to Savor

1956 was the last time I was free to simply experience the tender days of April and tempting days of May without schedule or responsibilities. Unfortunately, I was only five and blissfully ignorant that starting first grade in the fall would drastically change my life. I never dreamed half a century would pass before most of my springtime daylight hours were no longer spent cooped up inside either a school or work building. Fifty Springs largely unobserved, barely enjoyed, hardly noted!

Life being what it is, the preoccupations of growing up and meeting an adult's endless obligations kept me so busy that I did not even realize what I had been missing. But this Spring, my Route 55 midlife journey ensured that I was present once again at long last, and now I shake my head in amazement. How could I possibly have borne such a long deprivation?

This year I noticed the first February morning that the crisp air floated birdsong to my ears. I was able to watch the gradual greening of lawn and trees around my home as the days lengthened. I was there to clap my hands in delight when the daffodils in my small patio garden unfurled their cheerful bright bonnets one sunny March morning. The jubilant shouts of vivid yellow forsythia hedges in our neighborhood seemed aimed at me this year: "It's spring! Life is good! Enjoy every minute!" they cheered.

Best of all, I was free to spend an entire weekday afternoon strolling through fragrant groves of blooming cherry trees right at their perfect peak in April. When my husband and I moved north to a new home near Washington, DC, we consoled ourselves for the loss of our beautiful Southern dogwoods and azaleas by thinking about the city's famously beautiful cherry blossoms. That first year, I begged off work for a couple of hours in the late afternoon during peak bloom week, and the two of us created a lasting ritual. Nature is its centerpiece, but we work in some patriotism too.

First, we ride the Orange Line Metro to the Smithsonian station, walk to the Tidal Basin, and mingle with the crowds walking around its periphery. We always pause at the Thomas Jefferson Memorial for a brief rest and to read yet again the inspiring thoughts carved there. Next, we hike to the Lincoln Memorial, where we linger and admire the glorious view down the Mall. Then, we troop by the eerily real Korean War Memorial (I always get goosebumps) to the place where we visit Maxie Williams, and finally, we end up at the Round Robin Bar in the Willard Hotel to consume a number of T&Ts while watching the politicos and power players who frequent the place. We weave and giggle our way back to the Metro and home well after dark. Ah, Spring has sprung!

A word about Maxie. No Spring celebration is complete without remembering him. Maxie Williams was a young Marine who died alongside my husband one Spring day in Vietnam. Rain or shine, our ritual always includes visiting Maxie's place in the Vietnam War Memorial. My husband stands lost in solemn thought for several minutes, but he says nothing; the emotions are too powerful for words. I press my warm palm over Maxie's name carved in the stone, the closest I can get to a hug. I close my eyes and silently thank Maxie for his service, his sacrifice, and his part in helping my Marine husband return home alive and safe. "It's a lovely spring day, Maxie," I tell him. "A spring to savor."

Cruising

Did I mention that I'm a sailor?

My husband and I own a 41' sloop, aptly named "Simply Irresistible" because once we'd seen her, we couldn't resist shelling out a lot of money for the privilege of owning her. We've had her for eight memorable years. Many happy days, and a few harrowing ones, have been spent within her spacious cockpit and cozy interior. Our dog Jake has legs just long enough to scramble up and down the companionway, and he is a good seadog with hundreds of open water miles to his credit.

Most people don't know how comfortable sailboats can be. Ours boasts a lovely teak interior, light leather settees, two queen sized staterooms, a full shower bath, and a galley as well equipped as any home kitchen, only smaller. We can live aboard her if we want to, and in fact have done so for several weeks at a time as we cruise our home waters and beyond.

The Captain (my husband) and I had planned to spend this year's entire sailing season aboard Simply Irresistible; traveling Route 55 was definitely going to have a lengthy water leg. That part of the plan has come to pass, even though we have only been on our own boat for about one week. As it turned out, Route 55's float plan calls for us to deliver other people's yachts all up and down the Eastern Seaboard and Caribbean this year. Though a little unexpected, these opportunities are too good to pass up -- we are actually getting paid to do something we love. Even better, we get to share our passion for boating with our clients, who are usually long on money and short on boathandling savvy. They both need and appreciate our help.

The Captain has been doing this sort of work for a few years already, and now that I'm on Route 55, I'm free to go with him as First Mate. This has been an interesting experience too. On our own sailboat, he's still the Captain and I am First Mate, but we share work and tasks much like we do at our house.....roles are fluid and whatever needs to be done, gets done when one of us can take it on. However, when we're on a client's boat I am First Mate foremost and Life Mate secondmost. I have a set of well-defined tasks to perform and a high standard to meet. He doesn't cut me any slack, and he can be scathing in his critique of my performance should I fall short of his expectations. Then again, he holds himself to that same standard.

By and large, we do well. I am a hard worker, I do love boats and being on the water, and overall it's fun. Doing this together has taken us from the Bahamas to Canada so far this summer, and in a couple of weeks we'll be heading to Maine with another client. When October rolls around, we'll still have a few weeks to enjoy sailing Simply Irresistible. Unless someone has a nice big yacht they want delivered to the Islands for the winter, that is!

Jake

Travelling Route 55 is more fun with my little buddy Jake along. No matter what happens, or how rattled I may get, he stays calm and keeps me focused on the really important things: food, sleep, and regular bathroom breaks. He doesn't criticize my driving ability or choice of itinerary, and best of all, he is ready to cuddle whenever I am.

Because it's been a rainy summer so far, outdoor travel and play is more infrequent than usual for us both. We resort to indoor games while the heavens are gloomy. Patience and adaptability is another lesson I learn from being around Jake, who (come to think of it) seems to understand that as long as you're with someone you love, any trip can be a good one.



RED SQUEAK BALL

Jake's a little restless today --
it's raining, and he cannot play
outside as he would like to do.

Never mind, I'm restless too.

Maybe we can entertain
ourselves by throwing the ball....again.

Over and over, the red squeak ball
gets tossed and bounces
down the hall.

Jake scrambles madly every time
to bring it back
(he knows it's mine).

He sits, and pants excitedly
to share again
a game with me.

Remembering Noah

It's been raining a lot this month. We had the wettest June in 51 years, according to the weather people. About two weeks ago, 12 inches of rain fell in just 48 hours, inspiring me to set a personal rainy day record -- 8 hours using the wet vac in our suddenly flooded basement storeroom. I'd never even turned the wet vac on before the afternoon when massive thunderstorms prompted me to walk downstairs and "just check". To my horror, I found standing puddles of water already in the storeroom, and the casement window looked like an aquarium: rainwater was two thirds up the windowpane and still rising. Water squirted through the window sill like some kind of bizarre wall fountain spraying onto the rivulets streaming from under the baseboard. As the deluge continued outdoors, I struggled to sop up water with dozens of towels before I remembered the wet vac outside in our detached garage, and braved the lightening and sheets of rain to drag it indoors.

Global warming, climate change, ozone layer depletion, over crowding, over fishing, overdevelopment.....these are among the complaints of environmentalists who warn of impending disaster. In my own way, I've been a life-long Greenie, and I believe that Mother Earth is suffering from a severe people infestation. My feeling is that some day, perhaps even the days in which we are now living, Nature will decide to take matters in her own hands. It won't be the first time, after all.



REMEMBERING NOAH

The heavens sobbed again last night;
rain torrents fled from barking thunder
and vicious lightning scorched the path
of laments falling from the skies,
as if Nature had only just learned
of long abuse by careless mankind
and, distraught, cried disillusionment
while reciting her loud recriminations.

A chaotic wind flailed weeping trees.
They rocked like women in wild despair.

Three nights and days has Nature raged,
pausing only to fill her lungs
before resuming her watery tirade.

Is this what Noah heard?

We too should listen with awe and fear
of what She will do
when She realizes all.

WHEN

One of the sadder sights on Route 55 is a matter of the heart. Sometimes this road takes even long-wedded couples so far from familiar territory that they begin to question everything, including if they still love each other. For some, maybe it's suddenly spending a whole lot more time together that creates opportunity for closer scrutiny than most marriages can afford. For others, maybe it's that only one of the two is able to accept that travelling Route 55 always changes a person, and that the roads of their shared past are no longer passable.

Regardless of cause, I have seen a few 50-something couples veer their vehicle onto the shoulder of this road, get out, and walk away in separate directions. Once I saw a car simply slow down just enough for a man to jump out, shouting and shaking his fist in fury at his fast-departing spouse. She didn't even glance in the rearview mirror; I rather think that relationship had just blown up like an overinflated tire speared by a large jagged piece of metal laying in the road.

One of my friends is experiencing this aspect of her Route 55 trip. She and her soon-to-be Ex have agreed their marriage suffers from a totally dead battery, she says, and her husband believes the best way to get juice back in their lives is for both of them to find someone new. She's not so sure. She wonders if she has any reservoir of juice left at all. She worries about who will want a woman in her fifties with bags under her eyes and cellulite on her thighs. She hasn't dated since disco was hot; she's quietly terrified by the prospect. She asks, plaintively, "Will I ever love again? Will anyone else ever love me again?" .

This poem is for her.


WHEN

It begins in the place where two people face
each other, most often by chance,
and a small inner voice whispers, "You've got a choice;
walk away, or begin a romance?"

We know love's unkind all too much of the time,
and we're scarred even though we survived
the hard knocks and losses and cruel double crosses
we didn't quite take in our stride.

Yet sooner or later (it's our human nature),
our hearts want to risk all again.
And willing or no, that's just how it will go --
the question's not "Will I?", it's "When?"


For it's true that occasionally I have seen Route 55 bring lovers together. Times when two cars, each carrying only one person, will suddenly pull over; one driver gets out, eagerly climbs into the other car, and a happy new pair proceeds together on their journey of discovery. That's something to smile about. I want my friend to know that even on Route 55, there's plenty of places to find love again. Some people just take longer than others to reach one.