Alexandersmap

    Author: nhcarmichael

    • The Secret Burial of Colonel Westbrook

      In the middle of the night 275 years ago a group of family and friends buried the old Colonel in an undisclosed location to keep his body from being dug up and used as a bargaining chip by creditors.  That this war hero was in this position was regrettable, but 1744 Maine was a hardened world not prone to sentiment.  The final years for Colonel Thomas Westbrook were spent in a battle with his old business partner and fellow soldier.  And it was that battle that brought his family and friends out in the middle of the night to bury him, keeping the location of his grave a closely held family secret until the Bicentennial in 1976, an anniversary that settlers in 1744 couldn’t even conceive of.  They were far more concerned with the very real threat of the French and Abenaki than they were about breaking from Great Britain.

      It’s understandable if you have no idea who Colonel Thomas Westbrook is. Frankly I didn’t know who he was until 10:15 this morning, when I passed a sign for the Colonel Westbrook Executive Park on Thomas Drive (well played).  Being in Westbrook, Maine I was curious about a man who accomplished enough in his time to warrant a town being named after him. Which brought me to discover blueberry cheesecake ice cream. But perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself.

      Colonel Thomas Westbrook famously raided the Abenaki village at Norridgewock in search of Father Sebastien Rales (or Rasles, depending on whether you read the English or French description of the man).  Rales led Indian raids on English settlements in Maine (then part of Massachusetts), and by 1722 the English had had enough of it.  Enter Colonel Westbrook who raided Norridgewock but failed to capture Rales.  He did manage to confiscate Rale’s strong box, which had incriminating evidence of coordinating with the Abenaki to raid the English settlements.  This evidence became gas on the fire, igniting more hostilities between the French, English and Abenaki.  In 1724 another raid on Norridgewock resulted in the massacre of 100 Abenaki and Father Rales.  Westbrook wasn’t involved in that event, though his confiscation of the strong box provided plenty of motivation for those who did.  This was indeed a violent time in Maine, with atrocities committed on both sides.  Norridgewock was yet another example.

      Searching for information on Westbrook while I waited for my lunch appointment led me to an article about the discovery of his gravesite, which led me to Smiling Hill Farm, where I asked for directions to the grave site at the ice cream stand along with what their favorite ice cream was, which led me to that blissful blueberry cheesecake ice cream, which – finally – led me to a brief visit with the Colonel. Once again I found myself off-roading in dress shoes. I should really keep some old running shoes in the car for these unplanned detours… but I digress.

      The gravesite sits between a large grass field and a paved lumberyard. Colonel Westbrook was once the Royal Mast Agent supervising the harvest of white pines for the Royal Navy, so I think he’d get a kick out of the ongoing lumbering activity feet from his final resting place. He may be staring up at the planes taking off from the Portland Jetport wondering what the heck is going on in the world though.  Jet engines roar over the white pines that were once the critical material for the cutting edge transportation technology of the 1700’s.  Times have changed, but on the whole the place he’s buried would be familiar for him.  Smiling Hill Farm remains largely as its been for generations, operated by the Knight family since 1720.  They surely know a thing or two about Colonel Westbrook.

      I walked the dirt and gravel road (mostly a pair of tire tracks) around the front of the lumber yard and there it was, a small white sign in front of a patch of woods marking a quiet, overgrown grave.  This was the site that was revealed to the public in 1976 during the Bicentennial, making Colonel Westbrook famous throughout the area.  There’s a good article that helped me greatly commemorating the 40th anniversary of that Bicentennial celebration posted in the Portland Press-Herald on August 4, 2016.  Two years later it seems the Colonel has been largely forgotten again, at least judging from the overgrown condition of his gravesite.  There’s a replica of Father Rale’s strong box next to the grave site, slowly returning to the earth in this shady nook.

      If you go to Smiling Hill Farm, I recommend trying the blueberry cheesecake ice cream, served with a wooden spoon.  Then walk a bit of it off with a five minute walk to visit the Colonel.  He could use some company.  I may have been the first person to visit in some time based on the path to the grave, but perhaps other history buffs have preceded me.  Those that come after me will see the site in the same condition, as my footprints didn’t make much of a dent in the weeds.  But I paid my respects, dress shoes and all, and got on with my day.  Slightly more informed about events 275 years ago on a quiet hill in the middle of the night.

       

    • Empty Nest

      Sunday night. Terminal E, shipping off our daughter to London.

      Bags checked.

      Checklists checked.

      Dinner done.

      Last minute advice.

      Hugs and love expressed.

      Pictures.

      It’s time.

      Fly.

    • Burpees Before Bed

      The other night I lay in bed, mind racing. My streak of burpees every day was in jeopardy. A busy day, missed opportunities along the way, and to be more honest, procrastination had delayed me until now, 11 PM, a couple of adult beverages into the evening and ready for sleep. Except there was no sleeping with the thought of breaking the streak here. Look, I know it’ll happen eventually, but not this way. Not because of a lazy mind. So I got up, did a dozen burpees to meet the minimum and got back in bed, heart still racing, and slept like a baby. Another link in the chain.

    • Falmouth Road Race

      The race started at one bar and ran to another bar seven miles away. It’s started in 1972 with less than 100 runners and has grown massively popular, with a lottery to get in. The bars have changed, but they’re still there. I used to visit the Captain Kidd before it changed, but never got to the Brothers Four before it became British Beer Works; a place I’ve been known to frequent when down here.

      For the fifth year in a row I drove runners to the Lawrence School in Falmouth to catch the bus to Woods Hole for the start. I’ve experimented with staying in Falmouth and going to a local diner, but three hours is a lot of time to kill and this time I end up coming back instead. Today I came back to Pocasset for breakfast with my son before returning to watch the race. Each year I stand near the Falmouth Heights Motor Lodge, which offers both an excellent view of the runners and a quick walk to the finish line where you can see your favorites again as they cross the finish line.

      This year was hazy, hot and humid. The crowd supporting the runners ebbed and flowed in enthusiasm (try clapping for an hour straight), spiking for larger clusters of runners, wheelchair competitors, children, and cheerleader runners (the runners who raise their arms and prompt the crowd, igniting roars). I tracked my favorite runners on the app, and helped others to my left and right find their favorites on the course. What did we do before apps? We waited and wondered, that’s what we did.

      Runners train all year for a race like Falmouth. Spectators don’t, but maybe we should. Spectaculars shuttle those runners to the buses, fight the crowds for a glimpse of their favorites, then try to find them in the sea of humanity at the finish to shuttle them home. There’s no glamour in being a spectator, but it has its rewards. For me it was the swim after we returned. Hours of madness to earn a ten minute swim in Buzzards Bay. But it works for me.

      So another Falmouth is in the books. It’s become quite a family tradition, as it is for so many others. I’m not a runner, but if I were going to be this would be the race. Seven scenic miles, throngs of cheering spectators, elite runners mixed with the couple next door. Yeah, this is the race I’d run, if I ran. Maybe next year.

    • Dog Days

      This is the big weekend on the Cape, with the Falmouth Road Race pulling in thousands of runners. It’s big in Pocasset too this weekend, bursting at the seams. The house was full of dogs this morning. And people. But the dogs steal the show as usual.

      Beach work and gardening to earn a swim. Tread water for 20 minutes, bobbing like a buoy on the rollers. Summer days of salt, sun and sand. Sailboats quietly cruise by. Power boats buzz by too, with too-loud conversations over the engine noise. Yes, sound carries over water.

      A moment of quiet now, waves lapping on the beach, deck umbrella creaks as it twists to and fro, runners gone to check in and pick up numbers. Half the dog population and their people have gone home. A few of us remain, holding down the fort. Witnesses to the parade of boats floating back and forth. Sun warming all. These are the dog days of summer. They never last, and changes are coming too soon. Today is all we have, and with that in mind, it’s a lovely place to spend it.

    • Pizza Box Magic

      Pizza is a wonder food for the delight it brings in such a simple formula. A little dough, a little sauce. Top it with a few favorites and you’re on your way to blissful eating. But the most extraordinary, magical thing about pizza is the preservative effect it has on the whole. Think about it, if you left a dish full of cooked meat on the countertop all night you wouldn’t eat it cold the next morning. More often than not you’d throw it away! But not so that same meat on a pizza. You’d eat it without blinking an eye, sometimes cold, and sometimes a second day later. Try that with a piece of bread left on the counter.

      Maybe it’s pizza’s version of the Holy Trinity. Instead of onions, peppers and celery it’s dough, sauce and cheese preserves a pizza indefinitely. But then again maybe it’s something else, hiding right under our noses. I think maybe the box holds the secret. There’s magic in that box; fending of bacteria, staleness and hungry cats alike. A cardboard force field keeping evil at bay. Want to live forever? Move into a pizza box. But please, hold the anchovies.

    • A Successful Repetition

      I was chewing on a page in an old book last weekend that’s stayed with me.  The words don’t flow, but the concept is profound.  Consider:

      “What is a repetition?  A repetition is the re-enactment of past experience toward the end of isolating the time segment which has lapsed in order that it, the lapsed time, can be savored of itself and without the usual adulteration of events that clog time like peanuts in brittle….  Nothing of consequence would have happened because [something] was exactly as it was before.  There remained only time itself, like a yard of smooth peanut brittle.”  – Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

      This concept of what Percy calls a repetition interests me.  In a generally accept it as fact because I’ve experienced it myself sort of way.  Something of a time warp, it places you and an object of focus together at two moments in time, sometimes decades between.  It’s visiting the neighborhood you grew up in twenty years later and seeing things are largely the same, but knowing there’s been millions of changes in the world in between previous and present time.  The reaction of walking into a room and saying “wow, this place hasn’t changed at all.”  Cleaning out the attic and coming across some object of affection from thirty years ago that immediately reconnects you to that moment as if the previous you reached through the object and pulled you in.

      This isn’t a same time next year phenomenon, that’s too short a time span. No, better to have a couple of decades elapse and then boom! It hits you. Serendipity plays a part – there are many places I envision as they were, and going back to them now only highlights the changes. No, this is the realization that smacks you in the forehead as you look at something and fly back in time to that previous you that experienced it then. A bridge between times if you will.

      I’m working through this theory as a couple of catbirds mock me with their cries. Nothing is the same of course!, they cry.  We change both physically and mentally, and even an object of focus has changed at some molecular level. More brittle perhaps. But, I counter, on the whole the same. The same in relation to the rate of transformation in the world.

      The catbirds grow louder. Bear with me I want to tell them (I’ve learned they pretend not to care what I say). Think about a moment when you’ve seen an old friend you haven’t seen in decades, at a funeral or wedding. You’ve both changed in countless ways, but in that moment of reconnection nothing has changed. It’s as if you were resuming the conversation you ended on way back when. And that moment of reconnection becomes a successful repetition. Time evaporates, things are as they were, and will be forever… or at least until the next successful repetition.

    • Groundhog Day

      The signs were there.  Half-eaten tomatoes still hanging from the vines.  I knew you were back.  Still, I was optimistic there might be a few left for me.  Alas, after being away for a week almost all of my tomatoes were wiped out.  All that remains are the cherry tomatoes, which apparently you aren’t interested in, and a few small beefsteak tomatoes too high for you to reach.  And this morning you didn’t even try to hide your face, but looked right at me as if to say “What are you gonna do about it?”  Yeah, I know that look buddy.  At least your chipmunk friend looked a little afraid as he skittered off with a cherry tomato, dropped it in horror when he saw me, then timidly ran back and picked it up before running away.  Not you.  You just stand there, as if waiting for me to plant more tomatoes for you.

      This is my version of Groundhog Day.  Plant tomatoes, leave them unfenced for aesthetic reasons.  Lose most of the crop to mocking mammals.  Repeat.  It’s what I get for sticking vegetables in a flower garden and leaving them to fate.  I swear I’ll learn from this next spring.  Next year will be different.

    • Felling the Tree

      “Every action you take is a vote for the type of person you wish to be.” – James Clear

      This morning the snooze alarm went off well before I was prepared to get up. I don’t use the snooze button mind you; don’t believe in it. You’re either sleeping or you’re getting up. But my wife uses the snooze button often as part of her wake-up routine. Thankfully most days I’m up well before her alarm would go off. Today was an exception. Feeling a bit worn out I was going to sleep in, until the second snooze convinced me it wasn’t possible.

      This morning I operated in slow motion. Foggy and some aches and pains. I slowly dressed to work out, walked downstairs and drank a pint of water. The internal dialogue trending towards bagging the morning workout and doing it later in the day.  I’ve heard this song before and point my feet towards the basement door, down thirteen steps and onto the erg for a row.  I row 500 meters to warm up and assess my overall condition.  My assessment isn’t good, but I stand after 500 meters and warm up the shoulders.  More aches…  but I ignore them and drop down for the burpees, slower than usual but complete, row another piece and call it a workout.  I’ve done the bare minimum, cast my vote and I’m back upstairs.  I hear the snooze going off upstairs and look at the clock.  60 minutes of snooze buttoning.  Yikes.

      On to reading stoicism, a bit of an article on Ben Franklin in London, and a bit of writing this before my wife is downstairs and off for her commute.  Habits carried the morning for me even as the mind rebelled.  The James Clear quote above stays with me more than anything else in his excellent book.  Simple, memorable wisdom in a bite-sized chunk.  I wish I’d written that.  Instead I write other words, casting votes for the type of person I wish to be.  I’m closing in on 100,000 words written in this blog, and a few thousand burpees.  I need to move beyond the bare minimum workout, which means changing other habits later in the day.  Win the morning, lose the evening and it’s a wash.  Life is too short for a wash.  With only 142 days left in 2019 there’s so much to do still.  Why settle for the bare minimum?

      I joined a group challenge with co-workers.  We all travel, and we all struggle with the balance of exercise versus caloric intake that the job seems to demand.  We’ve all agreed to lose ten pounds by the time we reach a trade show in Chicago next month or pay $20 bucks and hear about it from those who were successful.  Nothing focuses the mind like peer pressure, so I’m all in on this challenge.  But I noticed I gave myself a pass last week (after all I had five weeks to complete the challenge).  I recognized this trend – it reminded me of pulling all nighters to complete papers in college.  Wait until the last minute, then put yourself through hell to reach a goal.  You won’t fell the tree with one swing of the axe…  I like the more intelligent approach of consistent, daily action and the compound effect, and so an incremental increase in daily workload to reach the goal is in order.  Keeping it going for the rest of the 142 days offers a head start on 2020, a nice round number with some big moments scheduled.

      I’ve always been intrigued with the concept of accelerating through the curve.  In racing that means slowing down in the first half of the apex and accelerating in the second half. Using momentum to your advantage.  In life momentum starts with casting consistent, daily votes.  That applies in your career, with exercise and weight loss, and writing.  The lack of momentum also applies in each of these areas, so why build anchors when you can build kites?  Or to return to that zen philosophy, you need to chop for a long time to fell the tree, you can’t do it with one swing.

    • An Infinite Sea

      When I was 17 I was sure I’d found my vocation. I’d become a draftsman, and the drafting table was a place where time flew by in a blur. But even then the ripples of change were in the air, and CAD (Computer-Aided Design) was taking over. Pencils couldn’t keep up with programming, and I opted for college to find a wider channel.

      Each man has his own vocation.  The talent is the call.  There is one direction in which all space is open to him.  He has faculties silently inviting him thither to endless exertion.  He is like a ship in a river: he runs against obstructions on every side but one, on that side all obstruction is taken away and he sweeps serenely over a deepening channel into an infinite sea.  This talent and this call depend on his organization, or the mode in which the general soul incarcerates itself to him.  He inclines to do something which is easy to him and good when it is done, but which no other man can do.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

      Emerson witnessed the American Industrial Revolution happening all around him in Waltham, Lowell, Lawrence, Fitchburg and other mill towns. The pace of change was extraordinary for the time, and still inspires awe. Cities bursting upwards from ancient land, transformed forever from ancient forests to quiet farmland to bustling brick and steel blocks as far as the eye could see. Timeless rivers dammed and diverted into canals that fed in turn the turbines and the looms and the mill workers and most of all the mill owners and investors. Railways and highways built and expanded to move goods efficiently from place-to-place. Neighborhoods creeping ever outwards to house the workers. The transformation is ongoing in an ebb and flow of maddening hunger for more and more.

      Mixed into this crush of transformation was the pressure to keep up, leading to consumer debt and then student debt. Shackled to interest payments, how does a young person navigate the obstructions on all sides and find the channel that brings them to the endless sea? The system is set up to feed the beast, not the soul of the worker. The futility of this leads to anxiety, blame and rage. Look around in America today and you see it everywhere. The dream lives on, but obstacles clog the channel. That channel is there, if only we break free of the obstacles. Too many never do.

      “Just as a well-filled day brings blessed sleep, so a well-employed life brings a blessed death.” – Leonardo da Vinci

      I’m further down the river, but haven’t reached that infinite sea. The writing feels like a better channel, though it’s currently a hobby not a vocation. I’ve sprinkled long form writing into many career stops down the river, but one man’s channel is another’s obstacle. In business long form writing gets swept aside for quick sound bites of absolutely necessary information and then on to the next thing.

      Better to find a better audience, and technology allows for that to a degree, even as it eliminates other opportunities. The proverbial river has changed since Emerson’s America, narrower channel in some places, wider in spots, but dammed up in others. Opportunities to find your way to that infinite sea have never been more available, just stop bouncing from shore to shore trying to find the channel and the journey will be a lot easier. There’s no serenity out of the channel (where too many find themselves), and the sea awaits.