7-25-2024

7-24-2024

 

Chicago was a great place to grow up. There were few cars on my neighborhood’s two-way streets. Only the oil and garbage trucks drove in the alleys. For us kids it was an open landscape. We took off in the morning, came home for lunch and dinner, and maybe to bandage a mishap. 

 

Until 4^th grade Aunt Sarah walked me and my cousin to school. The reassuring crossing guard on Lincoln Ave. between Bryn Mawr and California was a big red faced Chicago cop. There was bakery, a sweet shop and a drug store where I bought Hot Rod magazine. The local gang, The Corner, were more a nuisance then a danger.

 

By eleven years old I had a big boy’s single speed bike and used it to travel 3 miles east down side streets to Montrose Harbor. Once there I helped a friend’s father crew his 26’ sailboat named after a Vietnamese Sea goddess. By eight grade I had saved up enough cash cutting grass at Rosehill Cemetery to buy a 10 speed racing bike. It was a Peugeot PX-10 that weighs 21lbs. I still have it. 

 

It opened the world up to me. Depending on the wind direction I’d either ride downtown along the lake front or through the northern suburbs to Highland Park. It took me years to notice, that during my rides I had soaked in the natural beauty of Lake Michigan and the intellectual grammar of architecture.

 

High school, at least the 3^rd and 4^th years, were an academic bust. That said, they changed my world view and left me with a football injury that I am still nursing. College was another bust, but again it exposed my weaknesses and gave me a direction towards self-improvement that decades later bore fruit.

 

I apologize for subjecting you good people to a memoir. It was not my intent. While tied to a float in Belfast I became reminiscent as I looked out of Carrie Rose’s pilothouse windows southeast on to West Penobscot Bay. I thought how did I find myself here. Suddenly it seemed important to recognize the process. Afterall, it is the details that make up a life. 

 

Belfast is a quaint village at the northern end of West Penobscot Bay. We arrived the day before The Belfast Celtic Festival began. The festival is free (donations appreciated), and mainly outdoors. There is one indoor location where workshops are held. This year I attended the fiddle and accordion workshops. 

 

The town appears to be populated by folk musicians and they fully embrace the festival. Their positive energy is palpable. Though my fiddle expertise comprises of a stirring rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, I found the fiddle workshop’s quirky teacher’s discussion of bowing enlightening. The local “beginners” group managed to learn two songs in the space of an hour. I was humbled.

 

On the second day of the festival, The Atlantic Challenge began. It is made up of long narrow wooden gigs that recreate the 18^th and 19^th century boats that were used to transport naval officers around the fleets they commanded. The boats are rowed and sailed by spirited young adults representing 6 countries. From Carrie Rose we could watch the crews compete in sprints, accurate rowing and docking.

 

For most of the above activities the weather held but now we have entered a Maine Rain cycle. The rain begins aggressively with wind and waves and fog. Then it settles in for several days or like last year, a month. We know it is raining but it is hard to see. It is visceral rather than palpable. I imagine this is the world that far ranging pelagic birds live in. 

 

One of the things that makes Carrie Rose such a forgiving vehicle is her Newport by Dickinson propane cabin heater. In a couple of minutes, a cold wet cabin becomes warm and cozy, enabling us to hide out, read, cook, complete projects, and of course, write this blog post.