Annular Eclipse

Today there was an annular eclipse. You can see the upside down image of the sun between my fingers. Notice the little crescent shapes between my fingers. It was a lot of fun to see it. And if any of you are ignorant like me annular means ring shaped. If we had been in a prime location the moon would have appeared to be in front of the sun and there would have only been a ring of light left.
Also, if you didn't notice, this is a bonus post. I will be gone for several weeks on an Archaeology Field school. I will have only occasional access to the internet (and showers for that matter). It should be interesting, but I might be a little sporadic on here, hopefully not too bad.

Anchors, Part 2

The day after dawned bright and cold. Fall was coming. Mama asked me to milk our goat.
        “That’s Nate’s chore. I won’t do it.” I told her.
        She looked at me, sighed and then went outside. Little Paul trailed after her.
        That goat is disgusting, I thought with its stringy fur and mean little eyes. Let them do it. But as I cleaned Johnny’s face I heard Little Paul’s voice through the open door. “Look Mama, I’m doing it!”
        As soon as Johnny and Tommy were playing happily together, I crept to the door and peeked out. Sure enough Mama had her back to me, and Little Paul was sending jets of warm milk from the goat into the cracked wooden pail. I slid out the door and down the trail towards the ocean.
        That night when I finally came home and the boys were all in bed, Mama told me to come with her.
        She took me outside where we stood together. The night skies loomed over us. Beside Mama I felt tall; her head came to my chin. It made me feel strong.
        “Hope,” she said, grabbing me by both arms and looking into my eyes. “I need your help. Before, I had you and Nate. Now, if you keep running off and shirking your duties, I don’t know what I’ll do.” She reached down to lay a hand on her stomach.
        I hated when she made me feel guilty. I couldn’t meet her eyes as I answered her. “Yes Mama.”

        Months passed. I washed bowls, did some of the mending, and fed the fire. But every time I didn’t have a specific task set for me, I fled. I went to the beach and jumped between the ice cakes, or huddled at the base of the leafless trees Nate and I had always pretended were masts. Little Paul kept caring for the goat, and Mama taught Tommy how to feed the chickens.
        One cold day in January I left Mama sitting by the fireplace looking exhausted, teaching Tommy his letters. I wandered down to the shore and walked among the barnacle encrusted rocks. The air was so crisp and clean I could see the trees on the Marblehead Peninsula to the south. That was about the furthest I’d ever been from home. We’d gone there two summers before with Papa.
The wind whipped around me, tearing at my shawl and I jumped off the rock I had been standing on and stood behind it instead. It broke the wind for the moment. I stared at my protection, it was flat and grey. From my apron pocket I pulled out a bit of charcoal, I rolled it between my fingers letting it blacken them.  I drew a couple of scratchy lines, the charcoal crumbling against the rock.
“Hope!” I heard someone yell my name.
I added a few more touches, but my hands were getting too cold to draw.
“Hope!”
I peeked above the rock. Oh, it was just Tommy. “Come look at the parrot I drew.” I waved him over, but he didn’t move. His hands were on his knees, and he was breathing hard. Dropping my charcoal I dashed across the rocks and sand that was between us. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he gulped; tears were streaming down his little face. “Mama just told me to come get you.”
I swallowed too. “Where’s Little Paul?” he was the one Mama usually sent for me.
He looked at me, his hazel eyes, watery.
“Ok. Let’s go.” I said, he didn’t look like he could run any farther so I boosted him onto my back.
When we got home, Mama was standing leaning against a chair, her face pale.
“Mama.”
She looked up, her dark eyes tight in her face. “Good you’re here. Paul went to town to get the midwife.”
I let Tommy slide to the floor. Johnny sat nervously on the edge of the bed, his chubby face worried.
“The baby’s coming.” Mama grimaced again.
“What do I do, Mama?” I was old enough to remember when Johnny was born, but it had been in the summer and Papa had been home. Nate and I had brought the little ones on a picnic and when Papa came to bring us back we had a new baby brother.
“Put some water onto boil, it’ll be fine.”
I stumbled out to the well, slopping water across my skirts in my haste. Time ticked by and still the midwife hadn’t come. If only I had been there, I run faster than Little Paul. I wiped my nose with the corner of my shawl, and looked at Mama. She was as calm as the waves before dawn. “I’m sorry Mama” I whispered.
Just then, she tensed her whole body, her knuckles went white around the back of the chair.
I shooed my little brothers up to the loft, they usually weren’t allowed up there.  I tried to make it seem like a treat, but I think they could feel the fear in my words.
“When she gets here, I want you to take them all back to Ipswich, you can stay at Aunt Mary’s.”
I would have agreed to almost anything. “Yes, Mama.”
The water was boiling; I took it off the fire and poured it into a waiting pan. I went out to the well again, I didn’t know what else to do. When I came back inside the midwife was just running up. She took off her shawl as she walked in the room, hanging it over the back of the door. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun.
“You lie down,” she ordered Mama, and then turned to me, “Go fill the wood box.”
“Yes, ma’am” I murmured, and went outside again. Tommy came to help me, half the time I stumbled over him as he walked through the doorway but I didn’t want to make him stop. Moving helped. Some. As soon as we finished, I got Johnny down from the loft, and held him on my hip, he squirmed at first, wanting to get down, but I wouldn’t let him, he was comforting in my arms. I took Tommy by the hand and together we walked the trail to Ipswich.
We spent that long day with Aunt Mary and her children. I drew pictures of trees, and dogs, and babies to amuse my brothers and cousins. Finally, in the morning, all of us went back home. Aunt Mary came with us, to see Mama.
        The new baby was a girl. Mama named her Sadie. She was green-eyed and healthy. Mama was not. The day after Johnny was born Mama had been out of bed, almost back to her normal self. Not this time. She hardly left her bed. Aunt Mary came over when she could, but it wasn’t often.
Three weeks later Mama was still in bed, she looked so pale, lying there with Sadie’s dark hair shadowy against her arms. I stood there watching them sleep. A lot of the chores had fallen to me. I cooked the meals, and sent the boys outside when they got too noisy. I swept the floor, and chopped the wood. Once after a big storm, I spent a whole morning shoveling paths to the well and the animals. Mama’s eyes fluttered open. “Hope.”
“Yes Mama.”
“You’re a good girl.” I brought her a bowl of soup. She sat up, leaning against the wall. She handed Sadie to me, and began to eat.
“Mama, are you gonna get better?”
She smiled. “Course I am; I’m just tired.”
“If Papa were home he’d know what to do for you.”
“You’re doing perfect. Besides,” she winked at me “your Papa doesn’t know anything about making soup.”
        “Mama, how do you do it?” I asked surprised at her continual good nature.
        “Do what?”
        “Papa’s gone all the time. You know, for months. Don’t you miss him?”
        She closed her eyes, “Yes.”
        “Oh.” I turned away, enjoying Sadie’s warmth in my arms.
        “It’s hard.” Her voice startled me; I’d thought she was falling asleep again. “Every time he leaves, it starts all over, the waiting. After my brother, your Uncle Will, was lost at sea I wasn’t sure I could ever let your Papa go again. But I did.”
“But it’s boring here. Nate gets to do all sorts of things. He gets to explore. Didn’t you ever want to go with them?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t that. “You did? But, but you always seem so happy at home...” I trailed off, and sat on the edge of her bed. Mama opened her eyes again and reached out towards me. I passed Sadie back to her. Mama cooed at her for a moment then abruptly spoke.
“Sadie, you and Hope and I are the womenfolk here. You’re going to grow up and be left behind too.” Sadie gurgled.
“But Mama, how do you do it?”
Her gaze shifted back towards me.
“Work hard, and hope they come back. And then they do, mostly.” Her voice fell, as if she was far away, lost somewhere inside of herself. “When Will first went to sea I wanted to go with him, just as much as you wanted to go with Nate. But then I realized: who would take care of the goat and chickens and my mother and sisters. Who would take care of home? Someone has to be their anchor.” She touched the necklace at her throat.
Johnny tumbled over to us from where he had been playing by the door. “Ope, is Nate big like you?”
My nose tingled as I looked down at my little brother. As Mama fell asleep again I told him about the time Nate and I gathered shells for him. Someone had to help Mama raise these little boys.

Only a week later Mama was up and about. But I didn’t go back to escaping every chance I got. Mama taught me how to make bayberry candles. We put the first one in the window facing towards the sea.  

* * *

        The seagulls call raucously as I finish tying my own braid with a ribbon. Sadie and I stand up. The sun shines down on us, but the constant breeze keeps it cool.
        “I just want them to come home soon.” Sadie sighs.
        Johnny runs towards us “Come on Sadie, let’s go play.”
        She looks at me. I nod, “You can go.” She runs off. She doesn’t get it yet. But she will. I hear Johnny say something about climbing masts. Sadie claims the crow’s nest.
        I walk down the little path towards the cottage. Mama stands in the doorway, her hair tied back in a gray knot. We share a quiet smile as she fingers the tiny ivory anchor at her throat.

Anchors, Part 1

So I was looking at some old books, classics. A lot of them were written in serial form, so here is a taste of a short story I wrote... in serial form. Half this week and half next week. I mentioned some of the ideas in it in an earlier post (in March) "Patience and Waiting." Enjoy.

Anchors

        The ocean reaches out in front of us towards the rising sun. The waves catch the sunlight in a reflected path of gold leading across Massachusetts Bay. I’m perched on the rocks, my little sister, Sadie, sits cross-legged in front of me. She’s five this year. The wind blowing off the water makes braiding her hair difficult, but I’m glad to spend this brief moment out here.
        Somewhere out there in a merchant ship is our father and two of our brothers. This is the first full year that Paul has been gone too. I look down at Sadie as I loop a bit of ribbon around the end of her brown braid. She leans back against me, her head warm against my breast.
        “When will they be back, Hope?”
        “I don’t know, soon.” I say. They’re gone on one of their long winter journeys but the crocuses are in bloom. They’ll be back. “Come on, it’s time to go help Mama.” We stand up, balancing on the rocks.
        “Do I have too? “She wraps her thin arms around my legs and looks up at me, her green-eyes big.
        My mouth twitches “We’ll see.” I rub the small ivory pendant around my neck with my thumb. The small anchor is warm to the touch. As we return to the house my mind wanders back to the autumn I was thirteen. That was the year Sadie was born.

* * *

        Papa, tan and lean from his summer voyages, had been home for a couple of weeks. During the summer trips he rode the coasts going down to Salem and Boston, and he was home for weeks between. I loved the summer because of it. He would show me how to draw with charcoal and tell his stories about strange sea creatures and exotic people. But orange streaks were beginning to appear on the pumpkins. He would soon be heading out to sea again for the long winter trading, that’s when he would be gone for months at a time, traveling to far off places, to trade for sugar and rum.
Nate and I had been climbing our favorite tree. “Land ho!” He called, his freckled face half hidden by his spyglass that he had crafted out of a tube of birch bark.
I climbed up beside him “What do you see?” He pointed towards the town of Ipswich, in the opposite direction of our home, only a few plumes of smoke visible from this far away.
“They must be savages, Cap’n.”
“You’re right. They must be the ones who took Little Paul, the cabin boy.”
We heard a bell chime on the wind. I climbed to the ground. “Come on Nate, we have to go.”
He kept staring through his birch bark.
“Come on!”
“Alright, alright.” He slid down the trunk, ripping the leg of his pants in the process. We gathered up the pile of branches that stood at the foot of the maple tree. We had been out gathering wood. We raced homeward.
        “Ha! I have more,” I called over my shoulder, arms filled with wrist sized branches.
        “Mine are bigger.” Nate ran past me on my right, but stumbled, his feet no longer on the path. He regained his footing just as I brushed past him, the rough bark of the maple logs pulling at his homespun shirt.
        We thundered to a stop next to the woodpile that was partially protected by the eaves of our little cottage. The chickens scattered at our approach. Our loads fell from our arms as we hurried to stack them neatly. We could smell Mama’s stew cooking. With the last log in place we tumbled inside, shoving each other through the doorway.
“I won,” I said.
“Did not.” Nate pushed me once more.
        “Settle down you two,” Mama said as she spooned stew into the smooth wooden bowls. “There’s enough for all.”
        My glare of triumph subsided into a smile as Nate and I sat down on the edge of the bed. Papa and Mama sat in the two roughhewn chairs. Little Paul and Tommy climbed up beside us, and Johnny, the smallest, a chunky two year old, sat on Papa’s knee. The stew was delicious, but we ate it as fast as we could. Sometimes after dinner, Mama would let us play hide and seek at dusk. After we finished I gathered up the bowls to wash them. She rested her hand on her barely swollen belly; with the new baby coming she was extra tired by the end of the work-filled days.
Papa placed Johnny on the ground to play with a pile of seashells, and went to stand behind Mama. With his hand on her shoulder he spoke.
        “Nate, your Mama and I think it’s high time you came to sea with me.”
        Nate’s face broke into a giant smile. “Really Papa, me? You think I’m ready?” He jumped to his feet making Tommy and Paul rock as if they were at sea in a storm.
        Papa nodded his head and smiled at Nate. Did I get to go too? I dropped the bowl I was holding. It skittered across the floor until it hit Johnny’s shells sending them cascading across the floor. He started howling. I didn’t care.
        “What about me, Papa?” I asked, looking up into his dark windblown face.
        His lips tweaked at the corners, like he was going to laugh, but when he glanced down at Mama who had reached over to Johnny, he stopped.
        “Hope girl,” he said, “the sea isn’t the place for you.” His voice was gentle, the way it was when he dusted Tommy off after a fall. I hated it.
        Nate danced over to me “I’m going to sea!” He grabbed my hands and tried to pull me into his dance, but I wouldn’t let him. I pushed him away.
        “It’s not fair. I’m older.”
        “But I’m a boy, silly.” Nate grinned. I pushed him again, making him step back. His smile slipped, and he stepped back again, his eyes serious and sorry.
        “Hope, don’t push your brother like that,” Papa said, his eyebrows lowering.
“But Papa. I’m better at hunting clams then he is, and I can climb any tree faster.”
Little Paul and Tommy’s eyes were huge looking at me.
“That’s not the point. You need to stay home with your mother.”
I stuck out my jaw. “It’s not fair. It’s boring here. I want to go sailing with you!” I looked around the room my eyes catching on the rough charcoal drawings of foreign flowers and strange fish that Papa had drawn. Evidence of his adventures. I pointed to my favorite drawing of dolphins jumping in moonlit waters. “I want to see it.”
Mama looked up at me from where she sat on the ground with Johnny. “Hope, that’s enough. You’re staying here with me.”
I stepped forward, my hands balled into fists. Papa looked at me so hard I felt as though I had been pierced by a knife. Something leaked out of me. I turned my back to my family and picked up another bowl. I swished it in the pail of water and scraped it and my hands against the cleansing sand.
I felt like a Nor’easter was howling through the cottage. But, besides Johnny whimpering, nothing else was heard.

        The morning Papa and Nate left I moped around. Nate tried to talk to me, and so did Mama. Papa gave me the occasional sad look, but I ignored them all. The moment they were out of sight down the path towards the ocean I followed. Behind me I heard Johnny and Tommy crying. Mama was hushing them.
        I didn’t heed any of it. My feet pounded the trail that Nate and I had come up together so often before. Now I ran alone. He was leaving and I wasn’t going with him. Veering from the main path I headed towards my favorite climbing tree. It was a large maple, with a trunk thick as a mast and branches where old blankets hung like sails. Grabbing the lowest branch I swung myself up. I crouched there for a moment, caught my breath and then climbed upwards, away from my world. The rough bark caught at my hands as I climbed carelessly; it gave me a reason for the tears that threatened my eyes. Twigs pulled at my hair, but I climbed on until the main trunk swayed and I could see out towards the ocean. Nate, Little Paul, Tommy, and I had climbed trees for years, especially this one. We pretended they were the rigging of the ships Papa sailed. We had great adventures in foreign lands together. I had always known that someday Nate would go off to sea too, but somehow I always thought that I would go with him. We did everything together; gathered wood, taught Little Paul how to hunt for clams, fed the chickens, and played King of the Mountain. I always got to do what he did.
The wind blew and my legs started to shake from the strange position. I rearranged myself, no longer looking outwards to the setting sun. I lay my head against the bark. Mama never went to sea. None of the women did. Why would I be any different? I wished I had thought about this before, so I could have known what to do, how to feel.
        I sat there crouched against the swaying tree.
My tears stopped, and I scrambled out of the tree --out of the rigging. My sleeve was wet from rubbing it against my face. I walked home slowly. When I got there Mama stood at the fireplace. She hugged me, but didn’t say anything; neither did I.

Anthropology's Ultimate Dichotomy: The Humanities and the Sciences.

So here is a part of one of the essays I wrote for my final. Most of it was pretty dense, but I thought some people might find bits of it entertaining so here is the Introduction and Conclusion.

 Archaeology has intrigued me since I was eight years old. Unsurprisingly this has led me into the wider field of Anthropology, it seemed the perfect fit for me because of how it combines the sciences and humanities. My father is a research physicist, thus it is unsurprising that I grew up with strong scientific modes of thought. In high school I took several math and science classes which I enjoyed but I also excelled in art, history, and literature. There was always underlying tension between the recognized value of the sciences versus the humanities. As I study Anthropology I have found this same underlying tension. Claude Levi-Strauss said that “Anthropology is, with music and mathematics, one of the few true vocations; and the anthropologist may become aware of it within himself before ever he has been taught it.” It is intriguing that he chose to mention both music and mathematics. These two disciplines are often viewed as completely opposite or even incompatible, which is just one line drawn in the sand that separates the humanities and the sciences. The question then, is whether Anthropology should be considered a hard science, or part of the humanities.
This conflict is deeply ingrained in Western culture, and anthropology as a child of the west (Pandian 13) is inexorably entrenched as well... The more I come to understand these dichotomies the more I see that they are more or less divided along the same lines as the sciences and humanities...

 Though there are a wide range of dichotomies in anthropology the one between the humanities and the sciences appears to be overarching. The paradigms inherent in these disciplines lead to, or at least encompass, the other debates. C. P. Snow in his article The Two Cultures addresses the almost impenetrable wall that has been built between the sciences and humanities, and although he recognizes the oversimplification of limiting it to two, he also explains that by doing so, it addresses the problem in a more direct fashion (Snow, 9). Hence, I have followed Snow in dividing anthropology into two camps. These two paradigms are considered incommensurable by some. This divisiveness threatens the effectiveness of anthropology as a whole. On the other hand Lett argues that science and the humanities can be complementary, and anthropology is a “humanistic science” (Lett 121). To be holistic, each individual anthropologist does not need to be an expert on every aspect of the field, indeed that would be impossible. Instead, to achieve holism it is necessary for Archaeologists, Linguists, Cultural, and Biological anthropologists from all different paradigms need to stop “crash[ing] in the night” (Harris). Communication between these groups is what we should work towards. In Robert Frost's poem, The Mending Wall, he writes of two farmers repairing a stone wall and their conversation about the need for the wall. “He is all pine and I am apple orchard./ My apple trees will never get across/ And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him./ He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.” Although there is no logical reason for a wall, the one farmer insists repeatedly that “Good fences make good neighbors.” Perhaps, this is an attainable solution for anthropology. If the line is left drawn between the sciences and the humanities, then it can make good neighbours between the “Two Cultures”.
As I began to draft this paper I wanted to portray both sides fairly, not belittling science or the humanities. During the process I noticed myself almost unconsciously using words and phrases that reflected a stronger connection to the scientific paradigm. At first I fought against these tendencies because I felt that if I chose one side I would be unfair to the other. As I continued however, I decided that it is not wrong to choose a side, in fact therein lies the power. Excepting that the questions I ask and my way of looking at the world fits within the science of culture, gives me leeway to pursue the questions that can be answered by such a paradigm. Understanding the strengths of the humanities is helpful and reveals possible weaknesses of bias, but ultimately accepting my own scientific paradigm opens up the questions and answers that come with the rest of the baggage.  

(I warned you it was dense)

Summer Meanderings

Ahh. So I'm a slacker. I apologize two whole weeks without a post. Don't worry I will "repent, and change my ways." So I just finished up finals. Sometimes I miss having test finals, mostly I had papers due instead. But I'm done now. Hurrah! Which means I will have a whole summer filled with free time, and naps and getting everything done that I want. Haha. Not really. I have this bad habit of putting things off and then saying that I can do them all during the break (Spring Break/Summer/etc.). But there is just so much to do, the problem is I have a lot fewer deadlines. I work well with deadlines. So my plans for this summer are to do some cleaning, write a book, do some gardening, and some painting. And of course spending time with my family. Now I have written it down and have some accountability. Let us see how I do. Happy Summer all. Enough rambling.