Alexandersmap

    Month: March 2018

    • Clusters

      I read a great book called Geography of Genius that focuses on the tendency of communities of like-minded people to form and thrive, often changing the course of history.  Essentially people feed off each other, and are inspired by the geniuses around them to do more in their own lives.  Rome, Athens, Vienna, Edinburgh and other places are covered in the book.

      It got me thinking about the clusters of geniuses in the northeast.  Maybe we didn’t have Beethoven, Mozart and Freud running around Boston as Vienna had, but we sure had Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Louisa May Alcott and Nathanial Hawthorne roaming around Concord, Massachusetts at roughly the same time, and all are buried at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord.

      Down in New York in another Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, you have the titans of industry Carnegie, Rockefeller, Chrysler all clustered in their final resting place after building empires just down the river from Tarrytown.  The New York Sleepy Hollow Cemetery is where Washington Irving, writer of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, is buried.

      In Boston, you can visit the graves of Sam Adams, John Hancock, Paul Revere and other notable figures from the Revolutionary War at the Granary Burying Grounds.  They fed off each other in life, building on each other’s ideas, one-upping each other.  In death, they’re still neighbors.

      Down in Hartford, Connecticut you had Mark Twain living right next door to Harriet Beecher Stowe.  Talk about a literary one-two punch.  While the neighborhood has changed significantly, becoming grittier, the homes of these two literary giants remain much as they were when they lived there.  I’ve toured the Twain house, and will carve out time for Stowe another time.

      As the weather gets warmer, I’m going to spend a little more time visiting the homes of notable people.  Walking around the homes of Robert Frost and Mark Twain reinforce that they were just regular people with extraordinary talent and the grit necessary to produce.  Visiting their graves reminds you that their time was brief, and so too is ours.

    • Blackbirds

      They’re back.  The rebel bike gang of the skies have come back to New Hampshire.  Where I once filled my bird feeders once or twice a week, I have to fill them daily when these swarms of Red Winged Blackbirds and Common Grackles come to town.  They swarm the feeders and you can almost watch them empty in moments.  There’s no taking your fair share and moving on with these thugs – it’s all or nothing.

      I’ve read up on changing up the feed, putting chicken wire around the feeders, or buying new feeders that they don’t like to go to.  But I’m not spending money or time on that.  With a snow storm coming in tonight, I’m not taking down the feeders either.  I’m going to fill them up and let them run out – quickly mind you, but unnaturally natural.  Maybe the desirable birds will get their fill too, maybe not.  But sometimes you need to let nature decide.  The feeders come down in a month.  I’ll continue to feed the bluebirds, which has been a pleasant success in the yard.  Maybe even the finches, depending on how quickly they blow through the thistle.  But the cardinals, jays and other birds are going to have to live off the land once the snow melts.  For now it’s ever bird for itself.

    • Kills or Creeks

      New York, and particularly the Hudson River Valley, was once part of the Dutch Colony of New Netherland.  Manhattan was once New Amsterdam, and the region is sprinkled with names that hint at the Dutch influence.  As a New England, I’m always intrigued by the unique names in the Hudson Valley.  Towns like Rensselaer, Guilderland and  Watervliet have distinctly Dutch names.

      Perhaps no place name turns the head more than Kill.  It means body of water, and you’ll see it used often in the region.  Peekskill, Fishkill, and from my rowing days the Schuylkill River.  Normans Kill, Fall Kill, Owl Kill, Batten Kill, Saw Kill, Fall Kill….  and so on.  I drive by these places and wondered for years what this kill thing was all about.  Google and Wiki solved that mystery for me.

      Doing business in the Hudson River Valley, I run into people with Van in their name, which is uniquely Dutch.  Rip Van Winkle is a character right out of this valley.  I’d imagine that if old Rip were to wake up now he’d hardly recognize the towns, but he’d know from the river and the hills exactly where he was.

      The Hudson River Valley remains a strikingly beautiful corridor despite the encroaching development of the region.  For Henry Hudson and other explorers to this region, it must have been an extraordinary trip up the river.  The Dutch were a relatively small footnote in the settling of North America compared to the English, French and Spanish, but they picked a region that strongly influences the rest of the country.  New York and Pennsylvania hold on stubbornly to the Dutch cultural influences.  One could say you can’t kill it off.

    • Cellar Holes

      New England is full of ghosts.  A walk in the woods will bring you across old stone walls by the mile.  In places that you feel like you’re the first person to ever walk in a place, you’ll come across hard evidence to the contrary.  Settlers and the farmers who came after them cleared this land, raised crops and the next season did it all over again.  New England’s gift to these farmers were the stones that would come up with the frost, which the farmer would toss drag to the edge of the field to build stone fences to mark the property line, or the line between crops and grazing fields for livestock.  It was a hard life, compounded by hard winters, disease, wars with the native population, and a whole host of other things.

      These early residents lived in modest houses built over stone cellars.  The houses are mostly long gone now, and many of the cellar holes are too.  But many remain to tell their story.  Coming across an old cellar hole in the woods is like a telegram from the people who once lived in the house it sat on.  Cellar holes and the stone walls are often the only thing left to mark the existence of these people.

      This cellar hole in Hampstead, NH was once the foundation of the house that Job Kent lived in.  Job was born in 1743, bought land from his father to farm, and built a house on this site around 1770.  Job fought in the Revolutionary War as a Sergeant in the Northern Army, and he died in 1837.  He’s buried in the Town Cemetery in Hampstead, making his stay in town permanent.  Today his farmland is conservation land, hopefully making the land a permanent monument to what once was; forest and, for a time, farmland.  The stone walls criss-cross the land marking the fields that sustained Job and his family at a significant time in our nations history.  The walls and his cellar hole marks where he lived his life.  Quiet now, this cellar hole was once the foundation of a busy family enduring the struggle of living off the cold, unforgiving New Hampshire land.  Job Kent didn’t make a large dent in the universe, but he lived a life of significance, fought for our nation’s independence, and returned to his farm afterwards to work it season after season.

      I spent a little time inside this cellar hole and walking around the woods in November 2016.  I didn’t hear ghosts calling out to me at the time, but this hole and the man who built it still stay with me 17 months later.  Almost 52 and I’m still building my stone walls.  I’ve got a good foundation beneath me, and hope to make my own dent in the universe, however modest that dent might be.

    • Starting Again

      I started a new job two weeks ago, which coincides with my last post on this blog.  It’s not that I didn’t have the time, it’s that I didn’t have the focus.  I was starting again, and there’s a lot to think about when you start again.  New processes, new names and faces, new technology to learn, new relationships to build and old relationships to re-kindle.  When you sell technology some people want to dance, and many others don’t.  My last company had a lot of the latter.  I saw it early but wanted to see it through.  My reward was some interesting travel but not a lot of money.

      Money.  I went to my previous company because I was running away from a dead end and chasing the big money.  Bold claims of big commission dollars and what looked like a strong and differentiated product.  But the timing was bad, the market said no thanks and so here we are.

      In a better place, with a culture of longevity and great leadership.  Drinking from the fire hose, but mostly around product differentiation and such.  The rest I know.  I’m starting again, but its not such a climb this time.

    • Walking in Circles

      In my attempt to keep some frail momentum going in my 21 day challenge to work out every day, I got up early and walked the circular driveway that rings the front of the Sheraton Mahwah.  I’m not a runner.  Walking is my thing and I managed to get about 2 1/2 miles or 5000 steps in before I had to come back in to get ready for the day.

      The show at 5 AM is unique, the darkness is different from the evening walks I take with Bodhi as you start to see a gradual brightening of the sky to the east (obviously) and the celestial show has shifted completely.  This March 6th sky in Mahwah brought the march of the planets, as Jupiter, the star Antares, Mars, Saturn and Pluto followed the moon from right to left across the Southeastern sky.  I’ve been guilty of geeking out over stars before, and this morning was no exception.

      Thankfully there were no witnesses in the cold dark circle.  Well, except for three wild rabbits who glanced at my warily as I marched past them every ten minutes.  The Mahwah Sheraton sits in a bowl rings by hills, with I-287 cutting through the valley on one side and the Ramapo River doing it for a lot longer on the other side.  The hotel sits prominently in the valley, pointing towards the sky.  It’s a classic 1980’s hotel style; bold glass and steel that looks out of place in this beautiful valley.

      Back on my walk, I run through my checklists of things to do today, take stock of a few aches and listen to the constant rumble of trucks and cars grunting along I-287.  The highlight was the march of the planets, gradually fading in the coming day.

       

    • Wentworth-Coolidge Mansion

      The first Governor of New Hampshire was a real character.  Benning Wentworth Colonial Governor from 1741 to 1766, granted the governorship by Great Britain to settle a business deal with Spain that went south when the two countries got into one of their many disputes.

      As Governor, Wentworth had a damn the torpedoes approach that fits well with the Live Free or Die state motto that was adopted later.  One of the most controversial things Wentworth did was grant land in what is now Vermont to settlers, even though New York claimed the land as theirs.  Naturally this eventually led to hostilities between the two, most famously with Ethan Allen.  That’s a story for another day.

      Wentworth requested that a capital building be built in Portsmouth, but the New Hampshire General Council denied his request.  So Wentworth built a council chamber at his 100 acre farm instead.  It was here that he did most of the governing of the state.  It’s also where he sprung another controversy on his guest one night when, as a widowed 64 year-old, he married his 23 year-old servant.  It seems Wentworth was a player.

      The farmhouse is actually four or five buildings tacked together.  According to the Wentworth-Coolidge mansion web site, “The property became the center of political and social life in the colony. The Mansion is historically significant as the only original surviving residence of a Royal Governor in the United States”.  Interestingly, the first lilacs planted in the United States were planted here and the oldest in the country.  So New Hampshire has potatoes in Londonderry and lilacs in Portsmouth as two firsts.

      The house was eventually sold off a couple of times, remaining a farm for some time but gradually falling into disrepair until it became the summer house of John Templeman Coolidge III in 1886.  The Coolidge family, wealthy Bostonians, restored the property and likely saved it from oblivion.  The family hosted wealthy friends and artists from Boston each summer, and the area thrived.  His widow donated the mansion to the state in 1954.

      Today the property is a state park, surrounded by some pricy real estate.  I did a first day hike here to mark the New Year, 2018.  It’s a property I’d love to explore sometime, and dig into the history a bit more.

    • Trolley Parks

      Canobie Lake Park is dormant now, this first day of March.  But spring is in the air, and we’re close to turning the corner on another winter.  Soon the gates will open for another season for this salty veteran.  Canobie Lake Park is a survivor, one of a baker’s dozen trolley parks still in existence today.

      Trolley parks were built in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s as a destination at the end of the trolley line to give people a reason to use the trolleys on the weekend.  After a long week of commuting to the mills, you needed a good reason to jump back on the trolley on a Sunday afternoon after church.  Trolley parks were a destination.  Set out in the countryside, next to a lake or along the river, it gave families a fun place to picnic and play together.  Adding rides, a midway and a dance hall expanded the appeal.  With more people came more money.  And these people were coming in cars.

      The 1920’s saw the rapid decline of the trolley.  And over the next few centuries the decline of the original trolley parks followed.  I remember going to Whalom Park in Lunenburg, which closed in 2000 after a 107 year run.  It was once celebrated as one of the oldest trolley parks in the world.  The site is now condominiums and most of the rides were scrapped or sold off.  I’m sure the condos are lovely but I don’t ever want to see them.

      Back at Canobie Lake Park, you enter a time warp when you walk in and stroll past the original Looff-Dentzel Carousel from 1903, past the Yankee Cannonball, bought from another dying trolley park and installed here since 1936.  According to Wikipedia the roller coast was named to commemorate the Civil War, and was painted in blue and gray, united on the red, white and blue superstructure.  That color scheme is long gone, but the Yankee Cannonball survives.  And walking through the park you can see the old charm in the picnic grounds, midway, Dancehall Theater and the old pine trees that have seen a lot of thrill seekers over the years.

      There were another 15 or so trolley parks that have faded into history over the years, just as the trolleys that spurred their construction faded.  Time marches on, and with cars and relatively cheap flights going to Six Flags or the parks in Orlando are within reach of most families.  I’m glad that Canobie survives and thrives.  Right down the road from Canobie are the grounds of Rockingham Park, opened just a few years after Canobie, but closed permanently and bulldozed into history for condos, retail and restaurants.  Time passed Rockingham by while the old trolley park up the road marches on.

    • March

      March

      The full moon tonight brings with it a different kind of sky watching.  The wind and dropping temperatures signal a front moving through.  The clouds at 10 PM are wispy, but there’s a haze developing in the sky and it won’t be long before it’s overcast.  We have weather moving in.

      Going out for a walk when you’ve settled in after dinner is a mental hurdle akin to getting up and doing a workout.  You’re always happier for having done it, but every day is a test of willpower.  Bodhi is a creature of habit though, and that’s usually enough to push me out the door.  Thank you for that Bodhi.

      The breeze sounds different in winter than it does in the summer.  The oaks, maples and poplars are still bare and largely silent save for the clickity-clack of high branches fighting for space.  In winter the white pines sing alone with the breeze.  Pine needles shush like a parent coaxing a baby to sleep.  Ponderosa Pine needles in the southwest are bigger and make an assertive shushing sound in the wind.  Eastern White Pines, with their smaller needles and taller reach for the sky, offer a hushed shush.  Some of the trees in my neighborhood are mature, likely in the 120-130 foot range.  And at these heights the needles tango in the breeze, producing the nights music.

      The full moon backlights the clouds as they sprint across the sky east to west, offering a muted kaleidescope of white, grays and navy blues.  As the haze develops so too does a halo around the moon.  There’s an old expression; “ring around the moon means rain soon”.  Rain is certainly in the forecast.  It seems our ancesters know what they were talking about with those expressions.  In this developing haze, most stars concede the night to the moon, but Sirius, Procyon and Capella hold their own.  Such is the sky on this March 1st evening in New Hampshire.