Alexandersmap

    Author: nhcarmichael

    • Rolling Luggage and Dress Shoes

      Read enough business books and you’ll hear the story about the invention of the Rollaboard, the first luggage with wheels and a telescoping handle. It was invented by an airline pilot named Robert Plath in 1987. Prior to that an inventor named Sadler had developed luggage with wheels that you towed through the airport, but it was the Rollaboard that revolutionized the luggage industry.

      The point of the story inevitably comes around to why did it take so long to come up with something so simple? Usually the biggest innovations are right in front of you waiting to be discovered. Luggage was a common problem and adding wheels was inevitable, yet it still took decades for it to happen.

      Savvy travelers would pack lightly for long trips, wear the suit they’d use in the meeting, and take advantage of the curbside luggage for those bulky bags you couldn’t avoid. Now we max out the space available and buy scales to ensure we don’t go over the weight limit. The idea of hauling 50 pound bags around the airport today without wheels is ludicrous. How quickly the norm has changed from “keep it manageable” to “jamb it all in”.

      I’m on a three day business trip. I drove down to New Jersey last night with twelve million other people. Since I was driving I gave myself the luxury of an extra pair of shoes. One pair of dress black and one pair of dress brown shoes. Putting those in my small bag required creative packing but I’m a veteran carry-on traveler so no big deal. But then I remembered I needed to bring running shoes for exercise and a team-building event of some sort to be named later. I could have driven in any of these three pairs of shoes but dress shoes with shorts went out of style in 10,000 BC, and everybody knows you don’t wear your running shoes when you drive, so another pair of shoes was absolutely justified. For those keeping score that’s four pairs of shoes for a three day trip. I blame the luggage wheels for bringing me to this point.

      Luggage wheels solved a first world problem, but created another with the average weight of bags going up. There’s a direct link between luggage wheels and the ubiquitous storage units popping up all over the country. Wheels lead to more stuff, more stuff leads to maxing out the capacity of the attic and garage. Pretty soon people are renting storage space in some row of metal garages that used to be a cornfield. Progress? I think not. So this morning I have to choose between brown and black dress shoes. So much for keeping it simple.

    • If I Should Fall Behind

      Wedding songs are funny things. A lot of them are grand and lovely things indeed. Others are glimpses of look what we found! blissful young love. I cherish some of these songs and cringe at others. Such is the optimism of the wedding song. It captures a moment in a relationship that can be challenging to sustain over a lifetime.

      For me, at 25 years into a relationship and almost 24 years into our marriage, our choice of wedding song still resonates as a guide for marriage over the long haul. I first heard it on the radio driving around in the Amherst, Massachusetts area where I was working as a rowing coach. I’d started dating Kris, who lived closer to Boston, earlier in 1994 and we both knew early on that this was the one. I still remember the moment when I latched onto the lyric There ‘neath the oak’s bough soon we will be wed and focused on the rest of the song intently. This was before Shazam so I wrote down what I Bruce Springsteen and some of the lyrics to try to find it later. I wish I still had that scrap of paper. Technically I was still married to someone else and the divorce wasn’t yet finalized. The betrayal, embarrassment and shock of that divorce were still fresh in my mind as they surely were for Bruce Springsteen when he wrote these words:

      We said we’d walk together baby come what may
      That come the twilight should we lose our way
      If as we’re walking a hand should slip free
      I’ll wait for you
      And should I fall behind
      Wait for me

      We swore we’d travel darlin’ side by side
      We’d help each other stay in stride
      But each lover’s steps fall so differently
      But I’ll wait for you
      And if I should fall behind
      Wait for me

      Now everyone dreams of love lasting and true
      Oh, but you and I know what this world can do
      So let’s make our steps clear that the other may see
      I’ll wait for you
      And if I should fall behind
      Wait for me

      Now there’s a beautiful river in the valley ahead
      There ‘neath the oak’s bough soon we will be wed
      Should we lose each other in the shadow of the evening trees
      I’ll wait for you
      Should I fall behind
      Wait for me
      Darlin’ I’ll wait for you
      Should I fall behind
      Wait for me

      Yeah, I’ll wait for you
      Should I fall behind
      Wait for me
      I’ll wait for you
      Should I fall behind
      Wait for me

      These lyrics aren’t young love idealism, it’s hard-earned realism with a commitment to making it work. Springsteen wrote this song for Patti Scialfa after living through his own divorce, and the place he was in at the writing of the song was very similar to where I was when I first heard it. I’m not in that place now, but the funny thing about If I Should Fall Behind is that it grows with you like an old friend and mentor, offering guidance in the down moments and a warm embrace in the good moments.

      I’m not sure what the next 25 years will bring, but I’m optimistic about the future. The ebb and flow of life together offers challenges and opportunities alike. You and I know what this world can do, so let’s make our steps clear that the other may see. I’ll wait for you, and if I should fall behind, please wait for me.

    • Two Views

      This morning I had the opportunity to sail on Fayaway from the Merrimack River to (almost) Isle of Shoals. Lucky to have Chris and Kelly local a bit longer than expected. These days are truly bonus days. This stretch of coastline looks complete different than it did 300 years ago, but looks exactly the same in two ways.

      The ridge line is largely as it was in 1719, save for a few water towers breaking through. But just below is a continuous line of beach houses, hotels and condos. And below that, on this beautiful July day, was a similar continuous string of people occupying their own square of beach sand. No, the similarities end at the tree line.

      But turn 180 degrees and the view is as it’s been for millennia. The Atlantic Ocean guards what has always been from humanity’s constant change. two views offer different perspectives on the last three centuries. Thankfully the Atlantic is resilient in the face of human impact. I do love the view east. May it always be this way.

    • Part of the Eternal

      “Putting things off is the biggest waste of life: it snatches away each day as it comes, and denies us the present by promising the future. The greatest obstacle to living is expectancy, which hangs upon tomorrow and loses today. You are arranging what lies in Fortune’s control, and abandoning what lies in yours. What are you looking at? To what goal are you straining? The whole future lies in uncertainty: live immediately.” – Seneca. On The Shortness of Life

      I was listening to a podcast interview with Elizabeth Gilbert where she discussed the death of a woman she had a relationship with, and the words she heard from another writer friend, Ann Patchett, who told her:

      “[Your loved one] belongs to the eternal now, and someday soon you will too.  And that’s true for all of us.  You have an infinite amount of time to belong to the eternal with her.  But you only have this tiny bit of time to have this experience as a human being on Earth.  Don’t lose it by trying to merge with her now.  Merge with this, what’s here, the people who are here, what’s in front of you.  The weird, strange, heartbreaking thing of being mortal.  Do that….  This moment of being human is not to be wasted.” – Elizabeth Gilbert/Ann Patchett

      I write about death.  Not because I’m in a hurry to get there, mind you, but because it’s a reality for all of us, and embracing stoicism means embracing the concept of Memento Mori; remembering that we all must die.  By acknowledging that you set yourself up to make the most of the time you have here.  The alternative is to deny that it will ever happen and not make the most of your time.  Seems a waste, really, to not get every bit of marrow out of the bone.  Take the highlighter out and brighten up the daily pages.

      “We ought to hear at least one little song everyday, read a poem, see a first-rate painting, and if possible speak a few sensible words.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

      Being part of the eternal, the infinite other that we’re all heading towards, makes me focus more on living.  I think I’d like to make a run to 100 and put that eternity thing off as long as possible.  I have a lot of people to reconnect with whenever I get there. Then too, if this side offers a brief window of time to experience living, isn’t it essential to play your cards with some enthusiasm?  It’s Friday once again.  Another string of days has passed.  Surely we owe it to our eternal selves to make the most of this day ahead.  The infinite might just nod its approval.

    • 37 Miles

      I’m currently 37 miles from my first appointment in Boston. At the moment Waze tells me it will take me 69 minutes to reach my destination. In reality it’ll be closer to 90 minutes because it makes little sense to arrive at an appointment 90 minutes early, but it’s unacceptable to arrive 5 minutes late. Such is the mental math of a commuter to Boston. If there’s a benefit to my career it’s not having to do this every day. No such mental math occurs in a trip to Maine or Vermont. But Boston, well, that’s a different story. I choose to avoid peak traffic times whenever possible. Today it’s not possible.

      “… the few that make it to the top of their ambition through a thousand indignities realize at the end it’s only for an inscription on their tombstone” – Seneca

      As I write the predicted commute has inched up another ten minutes. Best to get on my way soon… but then I hear a couple of hot air balloons flying nearby and walked out to see where they’re heading. They often land on our street because the power lines are underground here. But it looks like they’re heading to another neighborhood this time. The brief interruption was welcome as it broke my focus on incremental time units for a 37 mile drive. It’s funny what we focus on, and how unimportant most of it turns out to be in the end. But we also have means to an end to consider, and so it’s time to get moving once again.

    • It’s in the Blood

      I’ve been told by the American Red Cross that I’ve donated more than 3 gallons of blood in my lifetime.  That’s both a lot and nowhere near what some people donate.  Considering the average man has 12 pints of blood, that equates to roughly two guy’s worth of A negative blood that’s come out of me and into other folks.  Lately I usually donate “Power Red”, which seem to be particularly helpful because I’m donating 2x the needed red blood cells.  In the process of donating they separate what they need and return the rest along with some saline solution.  It takes a bit longer but nothing too crazy.  Apparently not everyone can donate them, so since I can I do.

      At one point in my life I tried donating platelets, and did it maybe 4 or 5 times.  But the amount of time needed to donate was prohibitive for me, particularly when they closed the place right down the street from me and centralized platelet donations in select locations (Manchester, New Hampshire or Boston, Danvers and Dedham, Massachusetts that surely are convenient for a lot of people but not me.  If there’s a national emergency declared and platelets are urgently needed then call me up – otherwise take my Power Reds and I’ll see you in a few months.

      There’s really nothing to donating blood or Power Reds.  I know there are many people who can’t donate for health reasons or because of lifestyle choices like living in a certain foreign country for more than five years.  Donated blood has a shelf life of 42 days.  Apparently only 37% of the population can donate, and only 10% do it annually.  I’m somewhere in the 3 to 4 times per year range.  So I may not be perfect, but I do bleed and clot well, and have been told I have “good veins”, so I donate when I can.  Perhaps I’ve saved a life or two as the campaigns say, or maybe not and just made it a little easier to save a life.  Either way I’m all in.  How about you?

    • Narraganset Bay to Lake Champlain

      I drove the 310 miles between Newport, Rhode Island and Burlington, Vermont in two legs, with a brief nap at home in between. Heavy rain and a relentless, brilliant lightning display will be what I’ll remember about the first leg, and the mist covered Green Mountains of Vermont surely will be the thing I remember about the second. It occurred to me that this journey 250 years ago would have been very different indeed. Instead of driving up I-93 to I-89, my options would have been to sail south to the Hudson River for an arduous journey upriver, a risky portage to Lake George, and another between Lake George and Lake Champlain or alternatively taking the northern route up to the St Lawrence River over to Lake Champlain. Either proposition was shorter and safer than the overland I did would have been.

      Sometimes we take for granted just how far we’ve come in such a short amount of time. I’ve come to appreciate our collective technological advancement more through reading history and traveling from place to place. Communication has advanced along with the roads, and now I have the ability to talk to anyone in the world in seconds. How awed King George would have been, and what a difference good roads or communications would have made in the wars fought along the shores of Newport and Lake Champlain. That route from there to here seems a lot further given the hindsight of history.

    • Crows Never Forget a Face

      Sunday morning, while writing yesterday’s blog post, I observed a murder of crows, or four of them anyway, fly into the trees in my yard and start communicating with each other in that caw caw way.  Like a biker gang walking into a Friendly’s, the other birds in the vicinity grew very quiet when the crows announced they were crashing the party.

      The crows split up, with one flying behind me to a tall tree in the front of the house.  Two of them remained on a branch on an oak tree deeper into the woods.  And the fourth ran point and flew onto a branch of an oak tree that reached out over the lawn in the backyard.  I saw right away what he was doing.  There was a birds nest on the branch and he bounced over to it, cawing all the time, head bending side to side as he inspected the nest.  The pair of crows in the woods observed and cawed their feedback.  When point crow reached the nest he started pulling it apart and dropping bits of straw down to the ground, digging into the nest looking for chicks or eggs to eat.  After a couple of minutes he determined there was nothing there worth eating and he flew off, with his mates joining him.

      Crows are both fascinating and annoying creatures.  Like [most] humans, they’re highly intelligent and social, and they’re omnivores.  Crows are symbolic of death in mythology, like vultures, but they’re really just opportunistic hunters and gatherers.  You see them all the time bouncing over to roadkill, but they’re smart enough to gauge the speed of the car coming at them and avoid becoming roadkill themselves.  I read that if a crow is killed, other crows will gather around it to determine what killed it, and then like a lynch mob go after the killer.  Crows apparently never forget a face, so if you go out and chase away a murder of crows or throw rocks at them they’ll mark you as a dangerous character.  Given what they do to crow killers I’d say be on your best behavior with them!  With an average lifespan of 7 – 8 years, they have plenty of time to develop a plan to deal with you.

      There are apparently 30 different species of crows out there, ranging from magpies to ravens.  I know that the crows flying about in the woods of New Hampshire are smaller than the crows flying around on Buzzards Bay, but share similar hunting and communication traits.  I can admire crows but still wish that they’d shut up when I’m trying to sleep in when I’m on the Cape.  They aren’t just bigger down there, they’re also louder and early risers.  Maybe they’re trying to tell me something:  Caw! Get up!  Caw!  Life is short!  Caw!  There’s so much you can do with this day.  Thanks for the reminder.  Best get on with it.

    • Honing a Curious Mind

      I’ve been trying to figure out who is singing in the neighborhood for the last six weeks. I make a point of being outdoors whenever possible in the early morning (New Hampshire summers are very short after all). Some singers are obvious, others are more evasively unfamiliar to me. I regret that my education never included identifying birdsong. But as with many things I’ve made it a point of my adult learning path. I’m currently in the 101 level birdsong classes.

      I tried an app that analyzes bird song, but the bluebirds always sing at the same time as this character and tend to confuse the analytics. It keeps think its a mockingbird when I can hear the differences clearly. Eventually I came to the conclusion that this was a Brown Thrasher. In the process of figuring that out I’ve come to learn the songs of another half dozen birds I’ve heard in the background music but never took the time to learn about. I’m far from an expert on any of this, but the path is more vibrant.

      In the last 18 months I’ve learned about or reacquainted myself with local and world history, stoicism, transcendentalism, world religions, the power of habits, physiology, native trees, horticulture, birds, bugs, the environment and other diverse (eclectic?) side paths on the route from here to, well, there. Side paths lead to other side paths and before you know it maybe you’ve accumulated something meaningful in the old brain. You can’t write about what you don’t know about, and this cajoles me from tangential interest to deeper learning about topics. As a side benefit I’ve become better at writing too… you’ll see it eventually.

      “The discipline of sharing something daily is priceless.” – Seth Godin

    • From Pemaquid to Andover: A Tale of Abenaki Revenge

      On February 22, 1698 a group of Abenaki warriors raided Andover, Massachusetts and killed five people and two more (Haynes and Ladd) in Haverhill.  Raids like this were somewhat common in the Merrimack River Valley at that time, as it was the frontier and friction between settlers encroaching on the lands of Native Americans who had lived there for generations was an unpleasant reality for everyone living in this area.  What was particularly interesting about this raid was who they killed, which leads to why they chose this place for a raid in the first place.

      Two years earlier at Fort William Henry in Pemaquid, Maine, Captain Pasco Chubb commanded a garrison of 60 soldiers who were stationed here, tasked with defending this relatively new stone fort from the French and Abenaki who would prefer to have them elsewhere. This site, on a point of land jutting out into Johns Bay at the mouth of the Pemaquid River, wasn’t particularly strategic, but it represented what was meant to be a permanent foothold on the coast of Maine (then part of Massachusetts) and the northernmost settlement by the English. Fort George, A wooden stockade on this spot hadn’t fared well just a few years earlier, so in reconstructing the fort the British stepped in and built it of stone and armed it with 15-20 cannon. It was completed in 1692 and held by a garrison of 60-90 men.

      There were at least three critical weaknesses with Fort William Henry. First, it was isolated and any reasonable hope for reinforcements was small. Second, the small stone and lime walls were not particularly strong, making them vulnerable to the cannon the French would bring. And third, and an unforgivable mistake given the other vulnerabilities, the supply of drinking water was outside the fort walls! So a siege of any length would prove highly effective as water in the fort was depleted.

      Ongoing tensions with the French and Native American population almost guaranteed that a siege would eventually take place.  And Fort William Henry was indeed besieged on August 14, 1696 by 100 French and 400 Abenaki. Prior to the siege, two Abenaki chiefs named Edgeremet and Abinquid went to meet with Captain Chubb under a white flag to inquire about some fellow Abenaki captured by Chubb’s predecessor and shipped to Boston. The goal was a prisoner exchange with the British.  Chubb and his men raised their guns and shot Edgeremet and two of his sons. Depending on the account you read, Chief Abinquid may have escaped. Either way this act of cowardly violence against Abenaki tribal leaders under a white flag enraged the besiegers. They wouldn’t forget Chubb and the British betrayal.

      The Abenaki wrote a letter that demonstrated their rage and feelings of betrayal.  It would set the table for later violence against settlers:

      “Lord who write at to me, listen and understand what I am about to say, аnd write, to you. Thou wilt easily recognize my words, and why wilt them not recognize them. It is thou (so to express myself) that furnishest them to me. Writing with too much haughtiness, thou obligest me to reply to thee in the same style. Now, then, listen to the truths I am about to tell thee of thyself; of thee, who dost not speak the truth when thou sayeth that I kill thee cruelly. I never exercise any cruelty in killing thee, [a*I kill thee] only with hatchet blows and musket shots. Thy heart must have been еvеr addicted to wickedness and deceit. No other proof is necessary than the acts last autumn at Saco and Pemkuit, taking аnd detaining those who were going to obtain news from thee. Never in the universal world has it been seen, never has it been related of a man being taken prisoner who bears a flag [of truce] and goes to parley on public business. This, however, is what thou hast done; in truth, thou bait spoiled the subject of discussion. Thou hast covered it with blood; as for me, I could never resolve to act in that manner, for therein I have even an extreme horror of thy unparalleled treachery. How then dost thou expect that we would talk. What thou sayest I retort on thyself. There, repent and repair the grave fault thou hast committed; seize those who killed me at Saco, and made me prisoner at Pemkuit. I will do the like by thee. I will bring thee those who killed thee when I shall be able to find them. Fail not to do what I require of thee; of this, I say, who killest me without cause; who takest me prisoner when I am off my guard. – Abenaki letter, written by French missionary brothers Vincent and James Bigot, in response to the treachery at Pemaquid

      The French weren’t as surprised, writing in an account of the events that day that “It is to be hoped that the Abenakis will not place any confidence hereafter in English promises.”  

      The English were disgusted with Chubb for quickly surrendering the fort and fleeing back to Boston.  He was thrown in jail for months when he was set free, and only freed when he wrote a petition to the Court.  In it he wrote the following:

      “And whereas ye petition is a very poore man, having a wife and children to look after with by reason of his confines & poverty are reduced to a meane and necesstous condition, having not wherewith all either to defray his prison necessary charges or to relieve his indigent family…”

      Chubb would indeed be released from jail and return to Andover to be with his wife and child.  It was there that a party of 30 Abenaki warriors led by Chief Escumbuit from Big Island Pond would become reacquainted with Pasco Chubb, killing his wife and child, and paying extra attention on Chubb, shooting him several times to ensure he was dead.  Sweet revenge, perhaps, but with the loss of innocents as well.  Chubb has largely been forgotten in the early colonial history of America, and when his name is mentioned it’s appropriately with distain.