The Most Ancient Towne

Kit's heart sank.  This was Wethersfield!  Just a narrow sandy stretch of shoreline, a few piles sunk in the river with rough planking for a platform.  Out of the mist jutted a row of cavernous wooden structures that must be warehouses, and beyond that the dense, dripping green of fields and woods. 

 
 Thank you, public television!

When I traced how I found out about a recent destination, the source was a program aired on Connecticut Public Television sometime late last year.  I somewhat flippantly thought to myself, 'Thanks, PBS!' but then I considered that "Rick Steves Europe," not to mention "Doc Martin" and all of the thousand British crime shows we watch, air only on PBS stations.  So, in all sincerity, thank you, public television.  And if you're in a position to do so, please support your local station(s) so they can keep providing educational, informational, entertaining content.

I heard about Wethersfield, Connecticut, because of its cemetery.  My aunts saw a program about it in the fall or winter and visited in December, sending me a few photos of graves there.  With the weather finally nice, I decided to drive down on a Sunday afternoon.  I invited the aunts to meet me there, and they agreed, though I showed up earlier for two reasons: it's a shorter drive for me, since the town is not far at all from Hartford, and I wanted ample time to explore the cemetery without having to worry about them waiting for me.

At least it looked solid and respectable, compared to the cabins they had passed.  Two and a half stories it stood, gracefully proportioned, with leaded glass windows and clapboards weathered to a silvery gray.

I didn't do much reading-up before I went, but I'm glad I at least looked at the Historic Wethersfield website, because it clued me in to an important thing.  On Broad Street, near the cemetery and a block or two from Main Street, there is a house called the Buttolph-Williams House.  It looks fairly unremarkable, just three stories of dark-weathered wood and a few windows, but it was the inspiration for the family home in Elizabeth George Speare's The Witch of Blackbird Pond.  It's been so long since I read it that I hadn't realized that the book was set in colonial Wethersfield, so it was fun to go see the town and those buildings and homes that likely would have been around at the time Kit lived there.  (This write-up was delayed by the fact that it was harder than it ought to have been to procure a copy of the book to see how Kit described the town.)

The long rows of onions looked endless, their sharp green shoots already half hidden by encroaching weeds.

Considered one of Connecticut's very first towns, Wethersfield was also the home to Silas Deane, a diplomat during the Revolution, and Washington and Rochambeau met up there to plan the battle of Yorktown (which did not happen at the Yorktown in New York, as we thought, but at the one in Virginia).  With all of this history and culture, it's no surprise that the town's emblem is a red onion.  Apparently the Wethersfield red was for many years an integral part of the local economy.

The town also has the Grand High DMV of Connecticut (a.k.a. the department's state headquarters).  It is very much the most stately DMV building I've ever seen.

As promised, the cemetery had a bunch of colonial graves.  It was also interesting to see the newer markers near some graves noting in which wars the deceased had fought, because they were not limited to the Revolution; they included the War of 1812, the Civil War, and such lesser-known conflicts as Queen Anne's War and King George War, parts of larger European conflicts carried out in their colonies.  Other somewhat unusual bits of note: the grave of a Mr. Boyssou de Monplaisir of Guadaloupe, the names Salmon North and Zechariah Bunce, and the number of skulls that look like concerned lightbulbs.

It's fun to drive or walk around the historic neighborhoods and admire the 18th- and 19th-century houses.  Though this bed and breakfast isn't that historic, it is really beautiful.  Wethersfield was quaint and perfect for a pleasant Sunday afternoon out.

Leaving Home, Coming Home

I'm leaving Tisovec tonight; I'm leaving Slovakia tomorrow morning. Right now I have no words of my own to tell you what this means to me. I can't believe this day has come. I don't yet entirely believe that I won't be back in six weeks. I'm ready to see the people I love in the States, but I'm not ready to not see the people I love here.

As always, in the absence of my own words, I turn to someone else's. From The Prophet, here is Kahlil Gibran's "The Coming of the Ship" from Juan Cole's website.

Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn unto his own day, had waited twelve years in the city of Orphalese for his ship that was to return and bear him back to the isle of his birth.

And in the twelfth year, on the seventh day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he climbed the hill without the city walls and looked seaward; and he beheld the ship coming with the mist.

Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.

But he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart: How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.

Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret?

Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.

It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands. Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst.

Yet I cannot tarry longer. The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark. For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.

Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?

A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.

And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.

Now when he reached the foot of the hill, he turned again towards the sea, and he saw his ship approaching the harbour, and upon her prow the mariners, the men of his own land.

And his soul cried out to them, and he said:

Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides,

How often have you sailed in my dreams. And now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.

Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.

Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,

Then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.

And you, vast sea, sleepless mother, Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream,

Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade, And then shall I come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.

And as he walked he saw from afar men and women leaving their fields and their vineyards and hastening towards the city gates.

And he heard their voices calling his name, and shouting from the field to field telling one another of the coming of the ship.

And he said to himself:

Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?

And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?

And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough in midfurrow, or to him who has stopped the wheel of his winepress?

Shall my heart become a tree heavy-laden with fruit that I may gather and give unto them?

And shall my desires flow like a fountain that I may fill their cups?

Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me?

A seeker of silences am I, and what treasure have I found in silences that I may dispense with confidence?

If this is my day of harvest, in what fields have I sowed the seed, and in what unrembered seasons?

If this indeed be the our in which I lift up my lantern, it is not my flame that shall burn therein.
Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern,

And the guardian of the night shall fill it with oil and he shall light it also.

These things he said in words. But much in his heart remained unsaid. For he himself could not speak his deeper secret.

And when he entered into the city all the people came to meet him, and they were crying out to him as with one voice.

And the elders of the city stood forth and said:

Go not yet away from us.

A noontide have you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us dreams to dream.

No stranger are you among us, nor a guest, but our son and our dearly beloved. Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.

And the priests and the priestesses said unto him:

Let not the waves of the sea separate us now, and the years you have spent in our midst become a memory.

You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our faces.

Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled. Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you.

And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

And others came also and entreated him.

But he answered them not. He only bent his head; and those who stood near saw his tears falling upon his breast.

And he and the people proceeded towards the great square before the temple. And there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose name was Almitra. And she was a seeress.

And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had first sought and believed in him when he had been but a day in their city.

And she hailed him, saying: Prophet of God, in quest for the uttermost, long have you searched the distances for your ship.

And now your ship has come, and you must needs go.

Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you.

Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth. And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish.

In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep.

Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between birth and death.

And he answered,

People of Orphalese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving your souls?

Thanksgiving

I am thankful that it's finally snowing in Tisovec.

I am thankful for my health and safety.

I am thankful for my students (like my beloved third years), who are funny and smart and kind and frustrating and always surprising.

I am thankful for Hobbits—the kind you eat, not the kind you walk into Mordor with.

I am thankful for the Middle Ages.

I am thankful that we just celebrated 21 years of the fall of Communism in the former Czechoslovakia.

I am thankful for Johann Sebastian Bach.

I am thankful that I have eaten halušky at 10:30 PM and kapustnica at midnight.

I am thankful to be teaching history again, and I am thankful for my old Barron’s AP European History study guide.

I am thankful for bryndza cakes, and those little meringues with the chocolate cream.

I am thankful that I don’t have to use the ř.

I am thankful for my past and present friends/colleagues/traveling companions/co-conspirators.

I am thankful for my family. I am really very spoiled by them.

And I am super duper thankful for the lovely, effective new dryer in the basement.


One day my life may actually get hard, but it hasn’t yet, and I’m thankful for that.


i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
--e.e. cummings

Autumn Has Arrived

In the trees, at least; the weather was cool for a few days, but the temperature has climbed back up again. If you know me, you know that I love fall. I think this comes of having lived in a Mediterranean climate for so long. Palm trees don't change, ya know. So one of the highlights of my year is when the weather gets cooler and the leaves start to turn. They're not amazing here yet, but still pretty nice. Observe:

Cows & tractor! (This should probably be the name of a band.)

The above was taken from my kitchen, while the following three were taken hanging out of windows at school today.

And for a poem apropos to the subject, I give you "Pied Beauty" by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Back to the Future

Once again I am preparing to leave for Slovakia. I've had a good six weeks here at home, and had a pretty boss going-away party thrown for me. We packed a lot into these weeks, though I still could have used more time. I will miss my family, my friends, my cheeseburgers. But there is Kofola waiting for me on the other side of the ocean, so it's not all bad.

Today's literature for traveling is "Prayer of Columbus" by Walt Whitman.

A BATTER’D, wreck’d old man,
Thrown on this savage shore, far, far from home,
Pent by the sea, and dark rebellious brows, twelve dreary months,
Sore, stiff with many toils, sicken’d, and nigh to death,
I take my way along the island’s edge,
Venting a heavy heart.

I am too full of woe!
Haply, I may not live another day;
I can not rest, O God—I can not eat or drink or sleep,
Till I put forth myself, my prayer, once more to Thee,
Breathe, bathe myself once more in Thee—commune with Thee,
Report myself once more to Thee.

Thou knowest my years entire, my life,
(My long and crowded life of active work—not adoration merely;)
Thou knowest the prayers and vigils of my youth;
Thou knowest my manhood’s solemn and visionary meditations;
Thou knowest how, before I commenced, I devoted all to come to Thee;
Thou knowest I have in age ratified all those vows, and strictly kept them;
Thou knowest I have not once lost nor faith nor ecstasy in Thee;
(In shackles, prison’d, in disgrace, repining not,
Accepting all from Thee—as duly come from Thee.)

All my emprises have been fill’d with Thee,
My speculations, plans, begun and carried on in thoughts of Thee,
Sailing the deep, or journeying the land for Thee;
Intentions, purports, aspirations mine—leaving results to Thee.

O I am sure they really come from Thee!
The urge, the ardor, the unconquerable will,
The potent, felt, interior command, stronger than words,
A message from the Heavens, whispering to me even in sleep,
These sped me on.

By me, and these, the work so far accomplish’d (for what has been, has been;)
By me Earth’s elder, cloy’d and stifled lands, uncloy’d, unloos’d;
By me the hemispheres rounded and tied—the unknown to the known.

The end I know not—it is all in Thee;
Or small, or great, I know not—haply, what broad fields, what lands;
Haply, the brutish, measureless human undergrowth I know,
Transplanted there, may rise to stature, knowledge worthy Thee;
Haply the swords I know may there indeed be turn’d to reaping-tools;
Haply the lifeless cross I know—Europe’s dead cross—may bud and blossom there.

One effort more—my altar this bleak sand:
That Thou, O God, my life hast lighted,
With ray of light, steady, ineffable, vouchsafed of Thee,
(Light rare, untellable—lighting the very light!
Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages!)
For that, O God—be it my latest word—here on my knees,
Old, poor, and paralyzed—I thank Thee.

My terminus near,
The clouds already closing in upon me,
The voyage balk’d—the course disputed, lost,
I yield my ships to Thee.

Steersman unseen! henceforth the helms are Thine;
Take Thou command—(what to my petty skill Thy navigation?)
My hands, my limbs grow nerveless;
My brain feels rack’d, bewilder’d; Let the old timbers part—I will not part!
I will cling fast to Thee, O God, though the waves buffet me;
Thee, Thee, at least, I know.

Is it the prophet’s thought I speak, or am I raving?
What do I know of life? what of myself?
I know not even my own work, past or present;
Dim, ever-shifting guesses of it spread before me,
Of newer, better worlds, their mighty parturition,
Mocking, perplexing me.

And these things I see suddenly—what mean they?
As if some miracle, some hand divine unseal’d my eyes,
Shadowy, vast shapes, smile through the air and sky,
And on the distant waves sail countless ships,
And anthems in new tongues I hear saluting me.


I have chosen this picture to sum up my summer. Thanks to everybody who was here and made it great. Until I see you again, don't stop believing.

Deep Thoughts

"What is the best of the American way of life?"

At the beginning of the year, I asked all of my first year students (that is, the freshmen) to write five questions they had about life in the United States. I wanted to gauge their facility with English, but I also wanted to see what they were interested in knowing. Many of their questions were things like "How many people live in the US?" and "What is the US like?" but some of them were funny or intriguing. One girl wrote, "What kind of boys are there in California?" One boy asked about trucks, another about why the US uses 110 volts while everywhere else uses 220. The funniest was, "Are refrigerators in the US bigger than in Europe?" (Yes.) But one of the questions I like the best was the one above.

I know it's worded a little awkwardly, but it sounds like an NPR question that way. And it made me wonder, what is the best of the American way of life? How can you describe to students all the great things about our country? I don't really know where to begin; In-N-Out keeps springing to mind, but that's only the tip of the iceberg. In-N-Out, county fairs, Fourth of July concerts, apples at an orchard market, tons of little things that you take for granted. So here's my question to readers: What, in your opinion, is the best of the American way of life? I doubt I'll actually get any responses, but I'd appreciate anything that comes this way. At the very least, I hope you all consider the question carefully, without cynicism or political bias.

And now here's a little Walt Whitman for ya.

1
A song of the good green grass!
A song no more of the city streets;
A song of farms--a song of the soil of fields.

A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork;
A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.

2
For the lands, and for these passionate days, and for myself,
Now I awhile return to thee, O soil of Autumn fields,
Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to Thee,
Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart,
Tuning a verse for thee.

O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice!
O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths!
O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb!
A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.
--from "A Carol for Harvest, for 1867"

And We're Off

In just a few hours I'll leave for a galaxy far, far away. I'm going to Slovakia--Bratislava for a week and then Tisovec for the next ten months. I'll be teaching English at a bilingual high school there. 'Who moves to Slovakia to teach English?' you're asking. Well, me, obviously, and about 12 to 15 volunteers a year in this particular program. Tisovec is pretty much right in the middle of the country, lengthwise. It's a smallish town, and the pictures I've seen are pretty. There are mountains, and it will snow. As you can see, Tisovec is underneath the K, and a little to the left.

It's not going to be an easy trip, and truthfully, I'm not entirely looking forward to the traveling part. Once I actually get there everything will be fine, but right now, it's not looking too good. I haven't flown this long one way since I came back from Europe last time. First I have to fly to New York; then I have an eight-hour layover; then a 4,000 mile flight to Prague; then a five-hour layover; then a one-hour flight to Bratislava. I'm going to leave my house at 9 PM Friday and get to Bratislava at 12:30 PM Sunday.

I don't know much about Bratislava, but I am pretty much prepared to promise that it is nothing like the depiction in "Eurotrip." I will be on the lookout for small dogs holding human hands, though. I will also do my very best to update here when I'm gone. I really want to go to Spišsky Hrad, which is pretty much the most famous castle in Slovakia.

So I'm off, on the Big Time. I will leave you an Anglo-Saxon metrical charm, as per usual. It was translated by Gavin Chappell. I thought it was pretty apt, and it's always good to throw medieval literature out there for more people to read.

A Journey Charm
I circle myself with this rod trust to God's grace,
Against the sore stitch, against the sore bite,
Against the grim dread,
Against the great horror that is hateful to all,
And all evil that enters this land.
A victory charm I sing, a victory rod I bear,
Victory of words, victory of works. May they assist me;
So no lake hinder me, nor loathed foe oppress me,
Nor my life be fraught with fear,
But keep me hale, Almighty, Son and Holy Ghost,
Worthy Lord of all wonder,
So I have heard, heaven's creator.
Abraham and Isaac
And such men, Moses and Jacob,
And David and Joseph,
And Eve and Anna and Elizabeth,
Sarah and also Mary, mother of Christ,
And also the brothers, Peter and Paul,
And also thousands of your angels,
I call on to defend me against all foes.
May they guide me and guard me and safeguard my path,
Maintain me entirely and administer me,
Directing my works; may the host of holy ones
Be the hope of glory, the hand over head,
The host of triumphant, true-hearted angels.
I bid them all, in blithe mood,
That Matthew be my helmet; Mark my byrnie,
Light, life's strength, Luke my sword,
Sharp and sheer-edged; John my shield,
Gloriously adorned, angel of the track-way.
I fare forth; I shall meet friends,
All glory of angels, the lore of the good.
I pray now to the God of victory, for God's mercy,
For a good passage, a peaceful and light
Wind from these shores. Of storms I have heard
That wake swirling waters. Always secure
Against all foes. May I meet with friends,
So I may dwell in the Almighty's peace,
Protected from the loathed one seeking my life,
Established in the majesty of angels,
And in the holy hand of heaven's ruler,
For the span that I stay in this life.
Amen.

Books and Maps and Lists

Part the First

I've seen a few discussions online recently about "books that changed my life" and I thought I'd like to include my two cents. I'll limit my responses to "books that changed my life in terms of the theme of this blog." I don't know that "changed my life" is the best phrase, but we'll leave it at that.

The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis from "The Chronicles of Narnia."
This is one of the first books I remember my mom reading to us before bed. Three children go from England to Narnia, where they join young King Caspian X on the Dawn Treader. He is traveling the seas of his realm and searching for a group of nobles who disappeared during his predecessor's reign. There are dragons and sea-serpents and mysterious islands and the Dufflepuds, who are people with only one leg and a huge foot, and when he naps, a Dufflepud lies on his back and uses his foot as a shade.* Furthermore, Reepicheep is in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and he has one of my favorite lines in the whole series: "If you are a foe we do not fear you, and if you are a friend your enemies shall be taught the fear of us."

They Went Whistling: Women Wayfarers, Warriors, Runaways, and Renegades by Barbara Holland.
Holland gives short biographies of women who did what they wanted to in times when women were supposed to do what society wanted them to. My favorite woman in the book is Grace O'Malley, the Irish pirate queen; other women Holland describes include Joan of Arc, Belle Starr, Mother Jones, and Daisy Bates, a Victorian Irishwoman who moved to Australia and studied and lived with Aborigines for much of her life, all the while wearing proper Victorian dress, down to the petticoats. After reading They Went Whistling I am always filled with a desire to do something strange and important. It's not long, and it's a very engaging read that I recommend to everyone.

The Travels of Marco Polo and The Travels of John Mandeville.
Since I cannot properly explain my awe at imagining what Polo and Mandeville experienced on their journeys, I won't even try. Leaving aside academic discussions of whether or not they actually went, I am amazed at their courage.^†

Part the Second

Yesterday I bought the National Geographic Atlas of the World, Seventh Edition, because it is wonderful and it was on sale for $9.99. Now I have more maps than I really have use for. Now I can take pictures of the maps of the places I'm describing in my posts! I realize that my excitement is pretty dorky, and I am unashamed. But it's ironic, because I'm not especially good at reading maps. And I'm still not convinced that my compass actually works.

I hope National Geographic doesn't sue me.

Part the Third

This week's place I must now visit: York, England. I have rather a long list of places that I want to visit and things that I want to see, which I will try to find and post at a later date; York is now on that list. Before yesterday I knew that York has a very famous cathedral, York Minster, and that it's in northern England, specifically Yorkshire, where people have charming accents, according to movies such as "The Full Monty" and "The History Boys." I also vaguely knew that the Roman name for York was Eboracum. (I think we should start calling New York Nova Eboracum. Take that, New Amsterdam!) That was all I knew, though. Yesterday I found myself on the York Tourism board website, where I found out about all the historic sites in York. I learned that York is a walled city--walled cities are automatically cool. Clifford's Tower was built by William the Conqueror. There is a late-medieval building called the Merchant Adventurers' Hall. York is the site of the Viking Age city Jorvik; there's now a museum/visitors' center about Norse life. If I go, I promise not to annoy anyone about the word "Viking." All of the pictures of York make it look like my kind of place. I'll let you know when I get there.

Footnotes

*If you don't want to have any childhood illusions smashed, do not read the following.
The Dufflepuds were taken directly from ancient and medieval literature. There they are called "sciopods." They're in Polo and Mandeville and possibly Pliny's Natural History and lots of other sources. Lewis was a professor of medieval and Renaissance literature at Cambridge. While the modern reader might view this use as something akin to plagiarism, in the Middle Ages writers frequently borrowed from other sources without giving credit (see Chaucer's Canterbury Tales and Boccaccio's Decameron).^†
†Want to know more? Ask me about my thesis!