Fishing The Well

The weight presses in on all sides. It comes first from the north. Soon there is equal force from the east, west, and south. She can feel the pressure but since it is all around, in ways it is offsetting. With each breath she lets out, the next is even more shallow as if a giant anaconda has her in its grip, squeezing, and slowly sucking the life out of her.

She needs air so she gulps but nothing comes in.

Down she slips and slowly slides, ever downward to a pit of unknown origin and hopeless retreat into an object of undefined uncertainty. A familiar place and despite darkness and the pressure, there is also some comfort. She has been there before. Doubt casts a pervasive shadow like showers of cold rain soaking through her clothing to her skin and to her bone. Fear is there lurking but not the surprising fear of horror and fright but instead the sulking, tepid and persistent fear that is ever present, able to hide in the shadow of the smallest pebble.

She twists slightly but not of her own control. Perhaps some creature, far away, has swished its tail causing a flow of movement that, after miles and miles of distance crossed, has brushed against her arm causing her floating body to slip to the side. The movement and motion reveals the pit that she slipped into. A deep well for which there is no bucket and there is no rope. A well, filled with thick fluid, like molasses that facilitates a pull to the bottom that is seemingly endless.

The pressure is complete and exhausting and she has quit fighting. That is a problem. She is allowing the fall to happen. She doesn’t enjoy it but she accepts it assuming that fate has laid this path for her, the path of joyless being and the fate of forgetting her love of life and accepting the mediocrity of living moment by moment of perceived failure.

There is a glimmer. It flickers there close by, seen but unseen, she knows that it is there but she is afraid to grasp it. Perhaps it will take her to a sludge that completely swallows her up suffocating her will and her breath but in retrospect, she is already in that place, deep in a well of sorrow and despair.

If she were to grab that light, where would it take her?

Uncertainty pulls her deeper down into darker levels of the well. The pressure grows like a vine around her lungs choking off the possibility of charity, of love, of hope. Eyelids heavy, breath almost exhausted, she senses the light’s flicker once again. It calls to her. A familiar voice, it beckons through the thick and foul sludge of doubt, fear, and anxiety like the ting of a crystal glass in an early morning forest.

A hand touches the light as it bobs up and down, tantalizing to the touch. It is her hand. It is her touch. She has reached out without thought or calculation. Risk was there but what was there to lose? It does not matter as she had nothing left to give. She had given it all up.

A kernel of hope hanging in the darkness of the ooze that enveloped and suffocated her every breath and her hand alighted enough to grip the lit feather attached to the hook. Its sharp prick gripped her finger and embedded into her skin giving her a painful reminder. “I am here,” it said.

The feather hid the hook and the hook was attached to a filament of thread that slowly pulled her up from the depths of the well. Skyward, she rose of a power not her own, pulled with care and ease but pulled with determination and great might; a constant tug against the morass of hate, morbidity and failure.

Emerging, the first breath fills her lungs like the joy of a spring day after a long, gray winter alone. She erupted into a world of bright greens, blues, and oranges that sprinkled the atmosphere in all directions. Sparks of light flitted about her head while the sound of babies giggling filled her ears placing a gentle but cautious smile on her face.

Landing, crouched on her knees, the hook left her finger and before her stood a small man of Asian descent. His wide brimmed hat shielded him from the brilliant sun that shone behind him. His warm smile and a gentle nod greeted her. A fishing pole rested in his palm.

“I am here for you,” he said with a nod.

“Thank you. Why did you save me?”

“Because you needed saving.”

“Are you an angel? Are you God? Who are you?”

“I am that song that comes on the radio that reminds you of your first dance. I am the smell of apples and cinnamon that reminds you of your mother who used to cook those splendid pies. I am the view of a young man with grease on his hands from tinkering with his automobile engine that reminds you of your father. I am the sight of that rocking chair that reminds you of the warmth of your grandmother’s knee and I am the sound of that chuckle that both your grandfathers used to make when you tried to tell them a joke. I am the coo of a baby that reminds you that you were once a child and you still possess the openness and careless love of a child. I am the essence of hope that you can have joy in your life once again. You just need to take that essence and do something with it. I am those moments past, present, and future that lift your spirit from the depths of depression.”

Unsure what to say, she just smiled.

“I am your brother, your sister, your mother, your father, a friend, an enemy, a husband, a wife or any number of people who interact with you daily that you could give hope to. You just need to give a smile without expectation of a smile in return. You just need to say ‘hello’ without any expectation of a ‘hello’ in return. You just need to give a gift of joy without expectation of receiving anything back. Put others first and you will find joy in every deed you do.”

“Why did you save me from the well?”

“I did not save you from the well; you saved yourself. I only showed you the way.”

The fisherman smiled and began to fade.

“WAIT!” she called out with desperation, “What if I find myself in the well again?”

“You will find yourself in the well again and I will be there to lure you out again. You can count on me to come from inside of you. Whenever you need me, hope, and I’ll be there.”

The sun shown over the waves blinding her to his presence and then he was gone. Or, was he suddenly everywhere? She didn’t know.

Secret Agent Man

The guitar rings out alone among a few background voices. Rapid strokes of the strings break out splitting the momentary silence. The bass joins in followed by a light drum accompaniment. When Johnny Rivers' voice joins, it is low but crisp and clear, "There's a man who leads a life of danger ..."

It plays in my head as we sneak out the front door of an old rental cape cod house located of all places ... on"old Cape Cod". I'd like to say that Patti Page was singing Old Cape Cod in my head but she wasn't, it was "Secret Agent Man" all the way.

We crossed the yard and turned the corner onto the darkened street. I followed my cousin Susan's lead as we lined up behind a telephone pole watching the object of our attention as they made their way down the street in pale moonlight.

Susan and I were fans of several books. I was never as learned as she was but I had read my fair share of Encyclopedia Brown mysteries. Encyclopedia Brown always solved the mystery that parents couldn't. We didn't have a mystery but there was nothing like looking for one when it is well past your curfew.

The family gathered at Cape Cod on a yearly basis. It seemed like we always went to Cape Cod for summer vacations, somewhere near Bass River on the south side. Far enough away from the hustle and bustle of Hyannis but close enough to get ice cream at Sundae School or dinner at the Wee Packet Inn.

My grandmother, whom someone before me named Nanny, usually ruled the roost with her quiet determination. With her was my mother, older brother Kenny, older sister Jeanne, older cousin Joanie, and older cousin Susan ... you get the picture, I was the youngest.

Joanie and Susan were sisters from Chicago and it always seemed neat to me that they flew in an jet plane to get to the Boston area; how extravagant! I often wondered if I'd ever get to fly in a jet plane and here they were, flying in for a few weeks during the summer every year.

The guitar solo played in my head. I was too young to watch James Bond but "Man from Uncle," "The Prisoner," and "I Spy" were on TV filling my head with how I should be ... a man of action, mystery, and intrigue!

Even so, Susan led the way. She was always smarter than me and would know what to do. We followed two young women staying in the shadow and when the shadow was not available, we pretended to be nonchalant ... though I didn't know what that meant. Susan explained it a few times but I don't think it got through to me. I'm sure that years later, I had a V-8 moment, slam the palm of my hand to my forehead and shout, "Ohhhhhhhhh THAT'S what Susan meant by nonchalant!".

The objects of our observance turned the corner onto route 28 and were quickly out of sight. We panicked and ran to catch up to the corner. Carefully craning our necks around a fence, we saw the two young women approaching a playground. The darkness was well set in as the hour turned to 9pm. They swung on the swings and talked in quiet tones about what, we certainly couldn't hear.

"We should get closer so we can hear!" I exclaimed much too loud. It brought an equally loud, "SHHHH!" from Susan. Thankfully neither of our outbursts were heard by Joanie and Jeanne.

Boys drove up in a car and hung out the window chatting to Jeanne and Joanie. Susan and I felt justified to be there now. What if these boys kidnapped Jeanne and Joanie? At least we could provide the police a description. We memorized the license plate of the car as it drove off without the girls.

Susan and I marched back toward the gray cedar shingle house convincing ourselves that we had protected our older sisters. "If the boys come back with friends, at least we know the license plate number!" I announced.

"You remember it?" Susan asked.

"I thought you memorized it." I responded.

"Me? No, you were going to!" she answered.

"Me? No, it was you. I swear, you said you could remember it!"

"Ok, well, it is gone now but at least we know what the car looked like," she laughed as we crossed the street and hopped the tired wooden fence into our yard.
"It was dark. What kind of car?"
"Plymouth? Chrysler? No, wait ... I think it was a Chevy."

There was a toe that was tapping on the front step of the house. That toe belonged to a very talented musician that I and my fellow grandchildren called "Nanny." Nanny never seemed to run out of patience. That woman of musical talent had an even greater talent for being kind, gentle and sweet. However, she wasn't tapping her toe to the strums of Johnny Rivers singing "Secret Agent Man." She wasn't tapping her toe to Patti Page's "Old Cape Cod" either. She was tapping her toe in frustration that two of her charges were out following around two of her other charges.

"Where have you two been?"

The look on her face was one that I had never seen. That look that occurs when a woman is angry, scared, relieved, frustrated, mad, and worried.

Susan, always quicker than me answered first, "You see," she started, "we were watching out for Joanie and Jeanne. We saw them sneak out and go to the beach."

"Yeah, we were worried about them!" I added.

"Sure, and we followed them," continued Susan, "We followed them down to the playground at the beach and it's a good thing we did! They were almost picked up by some boys!"
"Yeah, it's a good thing we were there!"

Nanny nodded and waited a moment to see if there was any more rope that either Susan or I wanted to put around out necks but we finally fell silent.

"You two didn't tell me where you were going. For that, you are both grounded tomorrow."

"WHAT???" we both exclaimed in unison. "We were protecting Joanie and Jeanne!"

"You didn't tell me where you were going. End of discussion!"

"B-but Jeanne and Joanie talked to boys!" I shouted.

"THEY," she smiled, "they told me where they were going and when they would be home. YOU did not! I had no idea where you were. If you want, I can make it TWO days!"

Nanny was through with us and we decided to take our lumps. Grounded for a whole day meant no beach time. It meant we couldn't go swimming. We couldn't build sand castles. It meant we couldn't hunt for crabs.

No one in the history of our family ever got grounded except for my older brother Kenny. Then again, he was always getting in trouble so that didn't count.

"Secret Agent Man" kept playing in my head as I crawled into a sleeping bag in the kitchen. We'd gotten caught and would pay the price.

The next day, Susan and I took 3 decks of playing cards and built the largest card house ever conceived by the human race. Ok, it wasn't that big but it did use 156 cards and grew to a height of 4 levels.

Surprisingly enough, Susan and I made it through our grounding just fine. We may have even enjoyed that day more than the others. That night we went to the Wee Packet Inn, ate fabulous food, got a spinning top at the end of the meal, and forgot all about our grounding.

2010 Cross Country Ski Trip

Jeanne and I drove south on Rte 93 back toward Massachusetts and Jeanne's home. She sat in the back with her left leg suspended on the seat beside her wrapped in an uncomfortable, Velcro laden, knee brace. Her knee throbbed with pain despite the ice and the ibuprofen.

We had started this trip meeting at the first rest area in New Hampshire. Three cars loaded with nine people and gear bound for an overnight cross country ski trip into Zealand Hut. For several of us, this was our 26th or 27th (we always forget) event since 1981 when we skied in and out in a single day for our first trip. For several others, it was their first trip and their first time on cross country skis.

Though the website said there was 70 inches at Zealand, I was disappointed at the lack of snow in southern New Hampshire. Brown ground streaked the countryside as we zipped by at 70mph. Turning onto route 302 always brings a different weather pattern. The gaps in the snow vanished becoming fields of white dotted with trees and brush.

We parked at Zealand Parking lot across from Zealand Road. A flurry of activity attempting to get the right gear on to keep warm but not too much gear to get sweaty. Mittens were put on but then that was too warm so gloves were put on. The food was distributed, packs were thrown on backs and we were off. We skidded and slid to the bridge where we took our skis off and looked dejectedly on the plowed and icy, paved road headed up the hill. Normally, this is ski-able.

We posed for a picture and someone made a crack that the camera only took a picture of our feet ... and the trip was on! :-). Kenny looked around at the beards on ALL of the males and quipped "How'd I miss the memo?"

Most of us hiked the 3 or so miles up the road. Some attempted to ski. It didn't matter. We were together and enjoying each others' company.

Kenny almost got it. A shaka pose.

Matt and Krista skiing along parts of the road that was passable.

At the trail head, we broke for lunch as is our tradition. Food always seems to taste better on one of these trips. I think we get it in our heads that it might be our last meal and our taste buds want to savor every bite.

Below, Krista looks sharp in a down vest her father wore for the first time for the 1982 trip. Yes, I must have been tiny to fit into that thing way back when!

Below, the wizened ones prepare for heading up the trail. The snow was deep and it looked challenging with all the ups and downs. A few of us teased Dave and Dave about their age on this trip. Whether by agreement or by coincidence, they scooted out rather rapidly showing all of us that skiing skill is faster than youth and energy! I'll stick with the "youth and energy" crowd.

With equipment adjusted and backpacks back on, we headed up the hills. Some ran up these hills stomping their skis into the snow. Others used a herringbone technique while still other sidestepped. I did some of each and eventually my knee got the better of me and I took the skis off for some of the steeper uphill climbs. Without the experience of skiing up the road, a lot of folks struggled up these difficult hills.

The ascent decreased and we found ourselves enjoying the skiing more and more ... at least those that I met along the trail said they did. Dave and Dave were well ahead of everyone still proving the point that skill and age beats youth and energy. :-)

The views were fantastic. I took a lot of pictures proving that I prefer the role of photographer over achieving the fastest time up to Zealand Hut. Dave and Dave must have some pictures someplace. Did they even stop to smell the roses?

The third Dave demonstrates the depth of snow. The signpost below him was almost buried. It was pretty warm and there was little wind. Most could ski without hats, gloves or coats.

Matt and Kenny continued in their youthful exuberance in attempting to catch Dave and Dave. They skied right by the turn to Zealand Hut and got to Whitewall Mountain before realizing their mistake and turning back around. So, Dave and Dave were the fastest up to Zealand Hut but Matt and Kenny skied the most distance. This would be akin to running a 4 hour marathon and saying you beat the 2 hour marathon winner because you ran another 50 yards at the end of the race ... ok, that's a cheap shot on my part but hey ... it's my blog. Let them take pictures and write a blog!

Below, Dave Horton, Tucker Cleary and I caught up with Kenny Cleary and Matt Cleary at the turn for Zealand Hut.

At the hut, all were warm enough. Matt and Jeanne share a hug.

Below, Dave and I pose for our 26th or 27th picture up at the hut.

Kenny and Matt got volunteered for water duty which involved taking several pots out to Zealand Falls and scooping up water for drinking, dinner, washing dishes etc. These guys were great as they got water several times.

I must say that our group of folks are the most sharing and caring people around. 'nuff said.

Dinner was great. Tortellinis with cheese, green and red bell peppers, garlic, in a pesto sauce. For those non-vegitarians, we added garlic and butter saute'd shrimp. Somebody cracked open the wine (4 bottles) and several of us imbibed.

As usual, the rest of the hut was envious. But we didn't stop there. We had Jeanne's phenomenal carrot cake complete with candles for me (3/5), Jeanne (3/7), and Kenny (3/8). We played cribbage and I'm sure Dave and Dave must have won. It was my birthday and I truly enjoyed it. We shared our food with others to lighten the load for the next day.

The sky was crystal clear and bright. the sun burned our retinas during the above picture. We basked in the 35+ temperatures. I reminded myself that the week before I was complaining that it was cold in Hawaii because of the 68 degree temperatures.

In the picture above, we chose to cross Zealand Pond. When I got halfway across, a brief wind whipped up reminding me why I don't like crossing Zealand Pond.

Skiing out was fantastic. It was fast and those hills we struggled up and hated on the previous day were now pushing us and helping us rapidly becoming our best friends. I'm sure each of us had our moments of thrill and adventure.

Personally, I'd taken a number of dives. Even so, I finally felt good and in control cruising down a long stretch right before the left turn at the river. Overconfident, I pushed extra hard with my poles loosing one to a burried stump and putting me on one ski. I overcompensated onto the other ski and headed for a faceplant. Then, I buried my ski into a snowbank which flipped me through the air and landed (thankfully) on my backpack. I then spun around and skidded like an upside-down turtle spinning and slamming my legs and skies into the snow. Bam! (For a moment, I thought that maybe I was a green turtle in MarioKart)

Dave Horton was behind me and given that he was a rookie and probably lacked control (who was I to talk??), I was seriously concerned about getting run over! I tried in vain to get up. I tried also to get my skis off. They wouldn't unbuckle. I yelled out to let Dave know that I was down and smack dab in the center of the trail. Next thing I know, Dave skis up behind me under complete control. "Hi John," he said with that Dave Horton smile. Mr. Horton, that is the last time I underestimate YOU!

I still couldn't get my skis off and still couldn't get upright. Suddenly, we hear Jeanne proclaim something about a "sweet ride!" followed by a thud and "Oh! Johnny! I broke my f&$%ing knee!"

David Horton has never moved so fast. I've checked the archives, he has never moved so fast. Out of his skis and up the trail he went. I got out of my backpack and was then able to get out of my skis and followed him up the hill.

There she was gripping her bent left leg. My lovely sister was somehow holding it together. She was angry and hurt but holding it together. Dave headed up hill to put up crossed ski poles so no one would ski down and run her over. Tucker skied down behind her. We assessed her condition, got her some ibuprofen and considered our options. She was in too much pain to carry her out by ourselves. I sent Tucker forward to catch the others and to call 911. He flew off down the hill. If he skied that fast on the previous day, Dave and Dave would have been far behind him!

Several snowshoers stopped by to offer help in one way or another and most were very kind as we waited. One special couple gave us their emergency "space blanket" which we put under Jeanne. Another gave her a scarf (I can't remember why). Matthew skied up to help and let us know that 911 had been called. We put my sleeping bag and Krista's sleeping bag around Jeanne to keep her warm.

The skiing was so tough that Matt had bent one of his poles. We broke it and using some duct tape created a splint to try to get some of the pressure off her knee. (See picture below). We all made jokes about Grampa Cleary and his "ditty bag" and why the hell was he in Florida when he was needed here??

Only Jeanne can say how she was feeling but from outward appearances, she was managing the pain extremely well. As we waited for help, we tried to keep her amused and the jokes and humor bounced around from Matt to David to me. An EMT named Jeremy arrived. He had run the mile from the road to our location. A genuinely great guy, he examined Jeanne carefully and decided that getting her out would require a sled. After a while we were all getting cold and we sent Matt and David on their way. If there had been a way of us carrying Jeanne out then it would have been useful to have Matt and Dave around but they were just standing there getting cold. Besides, their jokes were getting stale. I stayed behind because my jokes were still fresh! (ahh the joy of being the one to write the blog!)

The crew of volunteer firefighters from two different towns lumbered up the hill to Jeanne. For a while folks seemed to just mill about trying to figure out the best way to get her into the sled. "It's going to be a tough ride as there are some difficult bumps in the trail down there," one guy said as I remembered the trouble we had had coming up the previous day. "Bumps," of course was a classic New England understatement.

Jeanne thanked them profusely and expressed extreme embarrassment over and over again.

Loaded up in the sled, they tethered Jeanne to the backs of two strong young guys in front and another in the back and they dragged her down the hill. When they got to the "bumps," all twelve of them took turns and lifted her gently and carried her through thigh-deep snow sometimes falling in creeks and catching their shins on rocks and tree stumps.

Jeanne got to the hospital where she was treated very well. They X-rayed her there and found no broken bones. Examination revealed a best guess that she had ripped, torn or broken her MCL and perhaps her ACL. In addition, she might have also torn her meniscus. Jeanne and I both missed Truant's Tavern and hoped that the rest of the crew enjoyed their dinner there. We ended up eating a drive through Burger King meal that would never come close to Truant's Tavern.

I've thought about how to end this blog for the last 7 days. Jeanne is now walking around with a new brace on her leg that allows her to use only one crutch. She is adjusting her work schedule and making her way up and down the 3 flights of stairs at her office (no elevator). In addition, Nathan is helping about the house and her friends have gathered around her to help her day-to-day. She's met with a sports medicine orthoblahblahblah doctor and is scheduled for an MRI in a week or so.

Of all the pictures taken of the trip, the one below is my favorite. We all sit, bright and cheery, awaiting our future and attempting to keep our eyes open (despite the brilliant sunshine) for the possibilities of the day's adventures and we certainly had a grand adventure!

The crew from 2010 ... top row: Jeanne Cleary, David Richburg, Matt Cleary, Krista Cleary, David Cleary, and David Horton

Bottom row: Kenneth John Cleary, Tucker Cleary, and John Cleary

This crew was also known as "3 Daves and a bunch of Clearys."

Ok, actually, the picture below is my favorite picture ...

Welcome to New Hampshire!

A week ago I was in New England driving my rental car up route 93.It was early morning. The sun had just come up and Krista sat beside me snoozing lightly while Tucker sat quietly behind me. I have no idea what was going on in their minds but I was excited to get up to the north country of New Hampshire to cross country ski into Zealand Hut.

I had the rental SUV on cruise control as we wound our way around the hills of southern New Hampshire. We were in a loose caravan by our friends in two other cars loaded up with skis and backpacks. I just kept pace with them at about 70 mph.

There is a point in route 93 where the two lane road merges with another two lane road creating a four lane road which then splits up again into two lane roads. We're zipping along that section of road near Manchester, New Hampshire when I find myself side by side with a lone woman in a car.

She was on my left and I glanced over. She reached across to the passenger side fully extending her right arm and raising her middle finger at me. She didn't look at me but stared straight ahead. She held her arm and hand firm and still. No shaking and no wavering. Her middle finger was just standing there like a statue on one of any of New England's many commons.

I wasn't sure what to do. I slowed slightly to let her go by but by coincidence so did she.

Finally, I accelerated ahead and she pulled in behind me. Through my rear view mirror I saw her lean forward in her seat and raise her middle finger right up against the front windshield. She shook it this time back and forth. The anger in her face was there but not expressive.

She pulled to the right and from two lanes away, she switched hands on the steering wheel lifted her left hand and gave me the middle finger again. Her face was hard and mean and staring straight ahead.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and remembered the date, March 5th - My birthday.

I thought "Happy Birthday and ... Welcome to New Hampshire!"