Dichroic Reflections

secretly Canadian

Isaac Asimov wrote in one of his autobiographies that while his genes were Russian Jewish, his intellectual heritage was mostly English. I had thought the same was true of me, with a strong Celtic admixture, but I'm feeling at the moment that maybe my id is actually Canadian, or at least from the whole Canadian-Maritime-through-New-England fishing area. Of course the strong English-Irish-Scots heritage in that area would easily masquerade as an Anglo orientation.

As usual, this small shift in my thinking is due to the words currently coming into my brain, though some of it is of long duration. Two of my favorite wordsmiths in the world for years have been the writer L.M. Montgomery and the singer and songwriter Stan Rogers. I'm also fond of Stan's brother Garnet, of Gordon Bok from Maine, and of the band Great Big Sea, who hail from St. John's, Newfoundland. And I'm happiest around water - one thing I loved about our trip to Antarctica last December was just being on the sea for 11 days.

The Maritime influence has been intensifying lately though. The two books I read on our trip to Natchitoches (where, of course, I spent nearly 6 hours on a small boat) were The Lobster Chronicles by Linda Greenlaw, and Frankie's Place by Jim Sterba. I had realized both books were set in New England somewhere but hadn't known in advance that they were from adjoining Maine islands. Greenlaw lives on Isle au Haut (about which Goron Bok has two songs, one of which is quoted on the book's frontispiece; Sterba and his wife Frankie have a "camp" on Mt. Desert Island. Acadia National Park stretches across parts of both islands and a few others. In fact, I've been on Mt. Desert myself, a few years ago. Also, I'm listening to Stan Rogers' first album Fogarty's Cove at the moment - the liner notes say that Fogarty's Cove is an imaginary place on the coast of Nova Scotia. Gordon Bok's CD Schooners is queued up next, full of boats and sailing songs.

This happens to me every fall from the time the L.L. Bean Fall and then Christmas catalogs start arriving, full of wool and fleece, rubber boots and harvest colors. I start wanting to be in a place where leaves turn red and gold, where apples are ripening, where the sea is starting to whip up foam, and the people are wearing wool over flannel because snow will fly sooner than later. I don't really have a favorite season; because I enjoy change, I love the beginnings of all of them and get tired of their soggy ends, looking instead of the promise of the next one. If I did have a favorite, thoough, it would be Fall, for the first chill in the air (and because out here the heat finally starts to go away), the colors of leaves and clothing, and the promise, no matter how stormy it gets, of eventually getting to come in from the cold and wet. And every fall, no matter how Eatern-European-Jewish my body's heritage may be, in my head "my fathers knew of wind and tide and my blood is Maritime." Fisherman's Wharf) At least for this season.

Also, I want to live somewhere where there are kitchen parties where people sing.