Dear You,
It has been observed that fish and visiting relatives have a similar shelf life. In three days, they smell, and I begin to wish they would be called away. Other guests, it seems to me, have an even shorter shelf life.
On the second day of a stopover by even good friends, the demands of hospitality seem to deepen and I find my smile becoming rather fixed. The happiness I experienced on first greeting these people is a memory that grows harder to imagine with the passing hours. Indeed, it is obvious that evening that the joy of parting -- when? how much longer? -- will truly be a delight.
While my life is not without at least a modicum of drama, I find I have only enough conversation to carry me for a few hours. And how many games of cards can I endure without being seized with a desire for solitude? "Well," I say, not stifling my yawn," I guess I'll turn in now." And I pick up my novel en route to the bedroom.
An ancestor is reported to have observed: "Blessed are the comers and goers, and damn the comers and stayers." Interesting to note how much one inherits.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Promises, promises
Dear You,
If I were to make such claims, I would be embarrassed. The wrapper for my sandwich said in part: " . . . roasted turkey and lean Black Forest ham that tastes like a slice of heaven" and "bread, freshly-baked right in the restaurant for a deliciously soft center and incredible, crusty top." (the hyphen was there -- I would not have used it)
The sandwich, of course, was not just ordinary; without that wrapper I would have dismissed it entirely. An unmet expectation is always what lingers, don't you think? Certainly I did not stop at that Wendy's restaurant along the highway because I was looking for a heavenly repast. I was hoping for something to stave off the pangs of hunger at that hour, as well as somewhere to relieve my bladder.
That's another chapter -- a sign in the restroom held spaces for the attendent to note when he cleaned; the expectation, judging from the chart, was hourly. It was otherwise unmarked. And nearby was posted a notice, something to the effect of notifying management if the room was less than clean. I would describe it here, but who am I to suppress your appetite? I made the room, like the sandwich before it, serve its purpose.
Wisdom suggests here that I am not the one to broadcast aspersion. Should I be foolish enough to hold up a mirror at this point, certainly I would see unmet expectations and broken promises crowding the view.
If I were to make such claims, I would be embarrassed. The wrapper for my sandwich said in part: " . . . roasted turkey and lean Black Forest ham that tastes like a slice of heaven" and "bread, freshly-baked right in the restaurant for a deliciously soft center and incredible, crusty top." (the hyphen was there -- I would not have used it)
The sandwich, of course, was not just ordinary; without that wrapper I would have dismissed it entirely. An unmet expectation is always what lingers, don't you think? Certainly I did not stop at that Wendy's restaurant along the highway because I was looking for a heavenly repast. I was hoping for something to stave off the pangs of hunger at that hour, as well as somewhere to relieve my bladder.
That's another chapter -- a sign in the restroom held spaces for the attendent to note when he cleaned; the expectation, judging from the chart, was hourly. It was otherwise unmarked. And nearby was posted a notice, something to the effect of notifying management if the room was less than clean. I would describe it here, but who am I to suppress your appetite? I made the room, like the sandwich before it, serve its purpose.
Wisdom suggests here that I am not the one to broadcast aspersion. Should I be foolish enough to hold up a mirror at this point, certainly I would see unmet expectations and broken promises crowding the view.
Uphill, all the way
Dear You,
The Fitness Center here is indeed a "clean, well-lighted place," full of marvelous machines, neatly stacked weights, carpeted floors and -- lest we forget reality altogether -- a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I spend these months in an age-restricted community; that means I don't mingle with very many people who have lived less than a half-century on the planet already, certainly I see none here this morning.
For awhile I walk the treadmill. If I press one button, I walk faster -- another, and I walk "uphill," although the view doesn't change -- I'm still staring at the big flat-screen television that hangs a few feet ahead and above me. That task complete, I do the circuit: a series of eleven cleverly designed machines that strains different parts of the body and in a scientific, orderly way. Each machine is a marvel of red plastic padding and stainless steel, with a variety of adjustments that tasks one's cleverness. When I am done, I see that I am back where I started. On to the rowing machine. Sit in the little bucket seat, hook feet into the straps, grab the "oar" and pull, pull, pull. Lots of motion, but again the scenery hasn't changed.
In my quixotic quest to regain the silhouette I lost long ago, I really am going nowhere. And I don't need to look into the mirrors to know that.
The Fitness Center here is indeed a "clean, well-lighted place," full of marvelous machines, neatly stacked weights, carpeted floors and -- lest we forget reality altogether -- a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I spend these months in an age-restricted community; that means I don't mingle with very many people who have lived less than a half-century on the planet already, certainly I see none here this morning.
For awhile I walk the treadmill. If I press one button, I walk faster -- another, and I walk "uphill," although the view doesn't change -- I'm still staring at the big flat-screen television that hangs a few feet ahead and above me. That task complete, I do the circuit: a series of eleven cleverly designed machines that strains different parts of the body and in a scientific, orderly way. Each machine is a marvel of red plastic padding and stainless steel, with a variety of adjustments that tasks one's cleverness. When I am done, I see that I am back where I started. On to the rowing machine. Sit in the little bucket seat, hook feet into the straps, grab the "oar" and pull, pull, pull. Lots of motion, but again the scenery hasn't changed.
In my quixotic quest to regain the silhouette I lost long ago, I really am going nowhere. And I don't need to look into the mirrors to know that.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Migrations
Dear You,
These past two days I was part of the caravan moving south with the changing season. Thousands of us were funneling our way through the mountains and along the rivers from the Great Lakes toward the Gulf of Mexico. Minivans, fifth-wheelers, RVs of many colors filling the lanes of I-79 in Pennsylvania and West Virginia, I-77 and I-26 in Virginia, I-95 through the Carolina and into Georgia before diverging for the coasts of Florida. The faces I scanned at roadside rests, fueling stations and restaurant tables were themselves topographical maps -- crenellations of age, some as craggy as the hills I saw outside my car window.
Ahhh, those hills. In late October, with cooler air and shortened days, the trees were in such splendor it made me wish I were a painter -- or at least a poet -- if only to capture them before the frosts turn them to drab and joyless stalks. Now, dressed like Joseph, they were indeed worth my envy.
The autumn of one's life can -- should! -- be so exuberant. Creation seems to have demanded that the stage before the finish should be a bursting forth of beauty and bounty. The sap of Spring and sun of Summer deserve no less. What had me wondering, then, was why so many of my fellow travelers on these highways looked so deflated . . . tired and unhappy and, well, old.
These past two days I was part of the caravan moving south with the changing season. Thousands of us were funneling our way through the mountains and along the rivers from the Great Lakes toward the Gulf of Mexico. Minivans, fifth-wheelers, RVs of many colors filling the lanes of I-79 in Pennsylvania and West Virginia, I-77 and I-26 in Virginia, I-95 through the Carolina and into Georgia before diverging for the coasts of Florida. The faces I scanned at roadside rests, fueling stations and restaurant tables were themselves topographical maps -- crenellations of age, some as craggy as the hills I saw outside my car window.
Ahhh, those hills. In late October, with cooler air and shortened days, the trees were in such splendor it made me wish I were a painter -- or at least a poet -- if only to capture them before the frosts turn them to drab and joyless stalks. Now, dressed like Joseph, they were indeed worth my envy.
The autumn of one's life can -- should! -- be so exuberant. Creation seems to have demanded that the stage before the finish should be a bursting forth of beauty and bounty. The sap of Spring and sun of Summer deserve no less. What had me wondering, then, was why so many of my fellow travelers on these highways looked so deflated . . . tired and unhappy and, well, old.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Go Phish
Dear You,
The Internet, said a workshop leader, is like the Wild West -- keep your gun handy. I was reminded of this today when I got a phishing email, supposedly from PayPal, the vendor I use to buy and sell with eBay online.
The mail looked legitimate. It warned me that there may have been illegal activity with my account, and would I "click here" to verify information to allow them to "unblock" it. When I clicked, I was taken to a web page that asked for several things -- in essence, my credit card information, security number and pin . . . everything you might like to have in order to go on a shopping spree.
Ordinarily, I'd just laugh, delete the message, and go on with my life. But this one made me mad. So I forwarded the email and the spurious URL to the boys at PayPal to track down the bad buys.
I write this not because I'm new to phishing expeditions -- I've had several in recent months -- but because of the unnecessary half-hour I had to put into the situation. Outside it's a beautiful day. But somewhere, really rotten and annoying people are working to spoil it. And I want them to pay, pal!
The Internet, said a workshop leader, is like the Wild West -- keep your gun handy. I was reminded of this today when I got a phishing email, supposedly from PayPal, the vendor I use to buy and sell with eBay online.
The mail looked legitimate. It warned me that there may have been illegal activity with my account, and would I "click here" to verify information to allow them to "unblock" it. When I clicked, I was taken to a web page that asked for several things -- in essence, my credit card information, security number and pin . . . everything you might like to have in order to go on a shopping spree.
Ordinarily, I'd just laugh, delete the message, and go on with my life. But this one made me mad. So I forwarded the email and the spurious URL to the boys at PayPal to track down the bad buys.
I write this not because I'm new to phishing expeditions -- I've had several in recent months -- but because of the unnecessary half-hour I had to put into the situation. Outside it's a beautiful day. But somewhere, really rotten and annoying people are working to spoil it. And I want them to pay, pal!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Ouch!
Dear You,
I read once that there is no such thing as a peripherally located ego -- each person, then, is egocentric. This is especially true in our beginnings. Indeed, I consider it a mark of adulthood when one starts to understand that he (or she) is not in fact the center of the universe.
It distresses me to encounter someone over the age of 30, say, who has not yet made such a transformation. A young woman of my acquaintance wears me out with her narcissism. This woman surely has difficulties -- don't we all? Her conversation rarely turns to the listener, who must patiently bear with the litany of her illness until he escapes. How refreshing, then, to talk with one who is sensitive to the world at large.
And it seems to me now that when one is so firmly fixated on the self, every pain -- every inconvenience -- every bump in the road becomes magnified. When someone is attuned to the sufferings of others it is easier to put his own into perspective.
I read once that there is no such thing as a peripherally located ego -- each person, then, is egocentric. This is especially true in our beginnings. Indeed, I consider it a mark of adulthood when one starts to understand that he (or she) is not in fact the center of the universe.
It distresses me to encounter someone over the age of 30, say, who has not yet made such a transformation. A young woman of my acquaintance wears me out with her narcissism. This woman surely has difficulties -- don't we all? Her conversation rarely turns to the listener, who must patiently bear with the litany of her illness until he escapes. How refreshing, then, to talk with one who is sensitive to the world at large.
And it seems to me now that when one is so firmly fixated on the self, every pain -- every inconvenience -- every bump in the road becomes magnified. When someone is attuned to the sufferings of others it is easier to put his own into perspective.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Caught red-handed
Dear You,
By all accounts, the lobster is possessed of a small and simple brain. But according to a book I've recently read -- The Secret Life of Lobsters by Trevor Corson -- lobsters have a remarkably complicated existence. Catching one is likewise a simple yet complex act: bait the cage, drop it into the water, wait, then haul it up. The cage is complicated, as are the decisions about when and where to place it, when and how to haul it back to the surface, which lobsters to keep and which to throw back into the water . . .
I thought of all that this morning, in conversation over a cup of coffee. Where was I at that moment, and how had I arrived at that time and place? I was struck by the image of a cone -- like that of the entrance to a lobster trap. Years ago I must have had quite a wide range of choices; one by one I narrowed my opportunities. And there I was holding that cup of coffee.
When the lobster enters the cone, it is in the kitchen, and that leads to the parlor. Isn't that an engaging image to explain the reality of the lobster's situation -- in effect, a trap? The point is that the lobster, and I, cannot go back and choose differently. We are where we are.
Well, all analogy leaks, my philosophy professor intoned one afternoon in 1962. So does this one. I'm not being prepared for a pot of boiling water . . .
. . . am I?
By all accounts, the lobster is possessed of a small and simple brain. But according to a book I've recently read -- The Secret Life of Lobsters by Trevor Corson -- lobsters have a remarkably complicated existence. Catching one is likewise a simple yet complex act: bait the cage, drop it into the water, wait, then haul it up. The cage is complicated, as are the decisions about when and where to place it, when and how to haul it back to the surface, which lobsters to keep and which to throw back into the water . . .
I thought of all that this morning, in conversation over a cup of coffee. Where was I at that moment, and how had I arrived at that time and place? I was struck by the image of a cone -- like that of the entrance to a lobster trap. Years ago I must have had quite a wide range of choices; one by one I narrowed my opportunities. And there I was holding that cup of coffee.
When the lobster enters the cone, it is in the kitchen, and that leads to the parlor. Isn't that an engaging image to explain the reality of the lobster's situation -- in effect, a trap? The point is that the lobster, and I, cannot go back and choose differently. We are where we are.
Well, all analogy leaks, my philosophy professor intoned one afternoon in 1962. So does this one. I'm not being prepared for a pot of boiling water . . .
. . . am I?
Monday, October 15, 2007
Our Lawn
Dear You,
Because I was away for the past two weeks, I returned to find a pile of accumulated mail and a lawn that resembled a meadow. The first was easier to deal with, since I could sit while I tossed credit card offers and solicitations for money in the wastebasket. The second, however, meant rolling up my sleeves.
I think it was the Stage Manager in Our Town by Thornton Wilder who observed that most men enjoy cutting their own lawns. No doubt he was saying something about the pride of ownership. In my case, however, having tended this particular lawn for the past 16 years, I really wouldn't regret to see its ownership passed to another.
Today I waited until the last sprinkle had faded and the sun had been out awhile before adjusting the wheels up a notch or two. Even so, I continually stopped, shut off the engine, tipped the beast sidewise and cleared the wad that refused to blow through the side discharge. An hour of that was enough -- the second hour challenged my fortitude.
There is something to be said about all manners of living -- and today I'm thinking how fine it is to have an apartment, leaving a landlord to cut the grass whenever he pleases.
Because I was away for the past two weeks, I returned to find a pile of accumulated mail and a lawn that resembled a meadow. The first was easier to deal with, since I could sit while I tossed credit card offers and solicitations for money in the wastebasket. The second, however, meant rolling up my sleeves.
I think it was the Stage Manager in Our Town by Thornton Wilder who observed that most men enjoy cutting their own lawns. No doubt he was saying something about the pride of ownership. In my case, however, having tended this particular lawn for the past 16 years, I really wouldn't regret to see its ownership passed to another.
Today I waited until the last sprinkle had faded and the sun had been out awhile before adjusting the wheels up a notch or two. Even so, I continually stopped, shut off the engine, tipped the beast sidewise and cleared the wad that refused to blow through the side discharge. An hour of that was enough -- the second hour challenged my fortitude.
There is something to be said about all manners of living -- and today I'm thinking how fine it is to have an apartment, leaving a landlord to cut the grass whenever he pleases.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Relaxation and Vacation
Dear You,
With the pace of travel I currently have set, I've been thinking about the process quite a lot. The past summer found me in Columbus, Seattle, Cheboygan, Long Island, Olean, Long Island again, Olean again . . . and I'm just back from two weeks on Cape Cod before heading south to Florida for three weeks. I write all this to remind myself where I've been and to know where I am.
Sure it's been fun, and it's always important to spend time with far-flung friends and family. But it's also work. At this moment bags are still to be unpacked and boxes emptied . . . before packing again for the drive south.
A few weeks ago I read through Austen's Pride and Prejudice, and what sticks are the visits made by the Bennett daughters. Travel was not at the distances I have recorded above, but they seemed much more leisurely and for longer periods. No rushing about. And when one of the girls arrived at her destination, the chief occupations seemed to be morning walks, afternoon talks, and long periods at the table, followed by cards or correspondence in the evenings. Books, for those who were literate and inclined to the life of the mind. Most notably, once arrived, they suffered no further expense.
These past two weeks tended to blur -- tickets on a boat or a train, meals at a variety of restaurants, browsing through one gift shoppe after another, "picking up stuff and talking about it" as I described to a relative. Yes, I took time to work on my aunt's quilt, and I very nearly finished a book -- The Secret Life of Lobsters. Relaxing? In truth, not enough to suit me. But soon I'm off again.
With the pace of travel I currently have set, I've been thinking about the process quite a lot. The past summer found me in Columbus, Seattle, Cheboygan, Long Island, Olean, Long Island again, Olean again . . . and I'm just back from two weeks on Cape Cod before heading south to Florida for three weeks. I write all this to remind myself where I've been and to know where I am.
Sure it's been fun, and it's always important to spend time with far-flung friends and family. But it's also work. At this moment bags are still to be unpacked and boxes emptied . . . before packing again for the drive south.
A few weeks ago I read through Austen's Pride and Prejudice, and what sticks are the visits made by the Bennett daughters. Travel was not at the distances I have recorded above, but they seemed much more leisurely and for longer periods. No rushing about. And when one of the girls arrived at her destination, the chief occupations seemed to be morning walks, afternoon talks, and long periods at the table, followed by cards or correspondence in the evenings. Books, for those who were literate and inclined to the life of the mind. Most notably, once arrived, they suffered no further expense.
These past two weeks tended to blur -- tickets on a boat or a train, meals at a variety of restaurants, browsing through one gift shoppe after another, "picking up stuff and talking about it" as I described to a relative. Yes, I took time to work on my aunt's quilt, and I very nearly finished a book -- The Secret Life of Lobsters. Relaxing? In truth, not enough to suit me. But soon I'm off again.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Those walls can no longer talk
Dear You,
For over twenty years I owned a cottage in New England. Ahh, the memories! At one point I even dreamed of retiring to live there -- a sort of poet's life. Very romantic, you know?
Dreams, however, are just that, and when the reality of My Current Situation sank in, the For Sale sign went up. The buyer seemed little interested in the story of the house, which was (to me) a very good one. The structure was nearing its second century. Built in 1910 from wood recycled from the old Harvard University football stadium, it had been the summer place for its builder and family for many years. Then a young couple bought it, winterized it, and added a dog and two children before out-growing the confines. I was the third owner.
I drove past it a year after the sale and found the house in a pile. Sticking out of one side was the vacuum cleaner I'd left behind; out of the other, the propane grill that I'd left on the porch. And nearby was rising the house that would replace the little cottage -- 4br/2.5b/2-car garage with pool in the back.
It's vanity to think we build monuments to ourselves. It is not, however, too vain to think that tangible evidence of our memories might last at least as long as we do. But not in this case, and not for me.
For over twenty years I owned a cottage in New England. Ahh, the memories! At one point I even dreamed of retiring to live there -- a sort of poet's life. Very romantic, you know?
Dreams, however, are just that, and when the reality of My Current Situation sank in, the For Sale sign went up. The buyer seemed little interested in the story of the house, which was (to me) a very good one. The structure was nearing its second century. Built in 1910 from wood recycled from the old Harvard University football stadium, it had been the summer place for its builder and family for many years. Then a young couple bought it, winterized it, and added a dog and two children before out-growing the confines. I was the third owner.
I drove past it a year after the sale and found the house in a pile. Sticking out of one side was the vacuum cleaner I'd left behind; out of the other, the propane grill that I'd left on the porch. And nearby was rising the house that would replace the little cottage -- 4br/2.5b/2-car garage with pool in the back.
It's vanity to think we build monuments to ourselves. It is not, however, too vain to think that tangible evidence of our memories might last at least as long as we do. But not in this case, and not for me.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Anchored
Dear You,
From a seat at a table near the window at Isaac's Restaurant in Plymouth, Massachusetts, on the waterfront, you look out at the harbor. Nearly any day, I am certain, even the most marvelous meal wouldn't keep you from turning your head toward that scene. This day I wished I were a painter. Anything to keep it in memory longer than the time it took to finish my broiled scrod and settle the bill.
Down the block was the replica of the Mayflower, where it has been about a half-century already -- streams of tourists waited to step aboard her to see How It All Began. Between it and the main pier, where they tie up the big Captain John boats -- the ones you can take to watch whales off Stellwagen Bank or go further out and try to catch a fish -- dozens of smaller vessels pulled at their bouys, swinging whichever way the wind and tide dictated. And farther out were the jetties that protected the harbor, and the islands beyond them.
This was a gray, October day. Rain sieved through overcast in a way that made motorists along Water Street uncertain where to set their window wipers, and pedestrians kept unfurling their umbrellas and then putting them away again. On another day, the colors would have been more intense -- this day all was muted. It was a day for solemnity, serenity.
I thought, not for the first time, that we are ourselves like those small boats, temporarily moored in the tides and changing winds of life, shifting first one way and then another, poised for the next ride to wherever, subject to forces so much larger than ourselves that we only rarely pause to consider them. And since I am neither the painter the scene required, nor a poet who might have put it here more properly, I took the cell phone from my pocket and used it to take a photograph.
From a seat at a table near the window at Isaac's Restaurant in Plymouth, Massachusetts, on the waterfront, you look out at the harbor. Nearly any day, I am certain, even the most marvelous meal wouldn't keep you from turning your head toward that scene. This day I wished I were a painter. Anything to keep it in memory longer than the time it took to finish my broiled scrod and settle the bill.
Down the block was the replica of the Mayflower, where it has been about a half-century already -- streams of tourists waited to step aboard her to see How It All Began. Between it and the main pier, where they tie up the big Captain John boats -- the ones you can take to watch whales off Stellwagen Bank or go further out and try to catch a fish -- dozens of smaller vessels pulled at their bouys, swinging whichever way the wind and tide dictated. And farther out were the jetties that protected the harbor, and the islands beyond them.
This was a gray, October day. Rain sieved through overcast in a way that made motorists along Water Street uncertain where to set their window wipers, and pedestrians kept unfurling their umbrellas and then putting them away again. On another day, the colors would have been more intense -- this day all was muted. It was a day for solemnity, serenity.
I thought, not for the first time, that we are ourselves like those small boats, temporarily moored in the tides and changing winds of life, shifting first one way and then another, poised for the next ride to wherever, subject to forces so much larger than ourselves that we only rarely pause to consider them. And since I am neither the painter the scene required, nor a poet who might have put it here more properly, I took the cell phone from my pocket and used it to take a photograph.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Fool's Paradise
Dear You,
I awoke today to a steady rain. Yesterday was cold and overcast as I prowled the Wareham Cranberry Festival, a cup of tepid coffee in hand. Today I may find myself on a train ride, bundled against the raw and looking out on dreary bogs as it chugs toward Sandwich.
Last week was mostly hot. I mean, "let's go for a ride in the car and turn on the air" sort of hot. This rented house in Brewster was poorly equipped for heat -- the little window air conditioner units were already in the closets.
In a note about travel, Emerson looked around at the sights and said he was unimpressed. One takes his giant with him wherever he goes, he observed. And here I am on Cape Cod to learn it is so. Uncomfortable bed (it sags), uncomfortable couches (nowhere to stretch out), uncomfortable toilet seat -- it's flimsy and shifts sideways! What a grouch I am, I think. I'm in a tourist mecca and yearn for home.
Perhaps around the next corner something will be revealed to make all this time and expense worthwhile. Perhaps on my gravestone someone will chisel: "He's still looking around the corner." Optimism, too, may be a fool's paradise.
I awoke today to a steady rain. Yesterday was cold and overcast as I prowled the Wareham Cranberry Festival, a cup of tepid coffee in hand. Today I may find myself on a train ride, bundled against the raw and looking out on dreary bogs as it chugs toward Sandwich.
Last week was mostly hot. I mean, "let's go for a ride in the car and turn on the air" sort of hot. This rented house in Brewster was poorly equipped for heat -- the little window air conditioner units were already in the closets.
In a note about travel, Emerson looked around at the sights and said he was unimpressed. One takes his giant with him wherever he goes, he observed. And here I am on Cape Cod to learn it is so. Uncomfortable bed (it sags), uncomfortable couches (nowhere to stretch out), uncomfortable toilet seat -- it's flimsy and shifts sideways! What a grouch I am, I think. I'm in a tourist mecca and yearn for home.
Perhaps around the next corner something will be revealed to make all this time and expense worthwhile. Perhaps on my gravestone someone will chisel: "He's still looking around the corner." Optimism, too, may be a fool's paradise.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
The Tides
Dear You,
I'm staying in a rented house on Cape Cod, and Sunday's sermon at Our Lady of the Cape was a troubling one. The readings concerned a rich man, who had the best of everything all his life, and on whose doorstep was a poor man with sores all over his body. Ultimately they died, and the rich man saw from his place of eternal torment that the poor man was at the side of Abraham. The Bible is full of related lessons about the rich and the poor.
A couple of days later I took the ferry to Nantucket, seated in the first class cabin where I enjoyed coffee on the way out and wine on the way back. And in both directions my eye fell on hundreds of luxury boats -- at this season sitting at anchor where they probably won't be moved for weeks at a time. And I thought about the poor who were, as usual, invisible in my range of vision, but who must have been nearby somewhere -- there are so very, very many.
Some economist -- a Presidential advisor, I seem to remember -- justified the programs that benefited the rich by saying that a rising tide lifts all boats. And as I looked at the vessels around the ferry, I knew that to be so. The problem is that not everyone has a boat, and far too many will never have the means to get one.
I'm staying in a rented house on Cape Cod, and Sunday's sermon at Our Lady of the Cape was a troubling one. The readings concerned a rich man, who had the best of everything all his life, and on whose doorstep was a poor man with sores all over his body. Ultimately they died, and the rich man saw from his place of eternal torment that the poor man was at the side of Abraham. The Bible is full of related lessons about the rich and the poor.
A couple of days later I took the ferry to Nantucket, seated in the first class cabin where I enjoyed coffee on the way out and wine on the way back. And in both directions my eye fell on hundreds of luxury boats -- at this season sitting at anchor where they probably won't be moved for weeks at a time. And I thought about the poor who were, as usual, invisible in my range of vision, but who must have been nearby somewhere -- there are so very, very many.
Some economist -- a Presidential advisor, I seem to remember -- justified the programs that benefited the rich by saying that a rising tide lifts all boats. And as I looked at the vessels around the ferry, I knew that to be so. The problem is that not everyone has a boat, and far too many will never have the means to get one.
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