Very soon after I met George, it was important to me that he and my oldest brother Kevin meet. (George had actually met my mother before he met me, as a work study assignment at the prison; she took good care of his skinny boned body by regularly feeding him sandwiches and other tasty morsels from the maximum security kitchen). Kevin would say that I had, up to that point, made unwise decisions where it concerned boyfriend choices. More accurately put, he would have used descriptors such as “asshole” or “puke” or “moron”. He took seriously his responsibility to look out for me, and, really, what did I know about what was good for me. . . beyond my academic record, that is? And academics were always a most serious part of my life, but more on that later.
It wasn't a bromance that I would have predicted. These brothers-in-law shared a few key characteristics that should have made them constant irritants to each other; both were assertive, stubborn, opinionated, and first-born sons of large families. Taking each other’s measure, they each recognized in the other a kindred fierceness that gave reason for eager expectation of fun times ahead, fun being a relative term; I invite you to imagine feisty, sometimes gloves off, intellectual jousting, ever more satisfying when you have an audience of conflict-averse siblings and in-laws. From the beginning, and throughout their friendship, their interactions relied upon healthy, vigorous debate. Those two could debate till the cows came home! And with such fervor! It took me a while, but I learned that their spirited discourse was a sign of mutual admiration, not displeasure. The ways in which Kevin and George communed relied upon a couple of traits that they shared and which defined their close relationship: passion for analysis and problem solving, and a love of being on the water. . . or ice.
A new boat and a new truck...
No sooner had George and I said, "we do", then the first gauntlet had been tossed down. We had a brand new truck coinciding with one of Kevin's shiny new boats. My boys were overly-excited to get over to Lake Nippenicket and spend a blissful day of escapist activity. Let's pause here for what should be obvious clarification. Deep within the brain stem of the average fisherman is an instinctual impulse; they must, I mean, absolutely MUST, be launching their vessel before daybreak. And, also typical of fishermen (or so I imagine), is a reason-deprived state of mind that accompanies such an early hour. Being men, they would not have paused to reflect on the nutritional returns of a balanced breakfast. They would have instead sprung directly from bed to driveway, each expecting to be occupying the driver's seat in mere minutes. Pre-daybreak tranquility was punctured by each of them forcefully claiming his right to drive the truck. "It's my truck!" alternated with "It's my boat!" And thus began a nearly forty-year partnership, one could say defined by a ball hitch.
Time can't diminish a true bond...
Summer 1978 sits apart in my memories for so many reasons, most of them really good. It wasn't the only period marked by pre-dawn exchanges between George and Kevin, but, as years passed and "family generation" became the top concern for both families, their escapades became more episodic. Sometime after 2006, however, when face-to-face time became more exquisitely consequential, the two friends renewed the taut bond that had always tethered them together.
"Hard Water" on a Plymouth Lake...
Kevin's latest amusement was ice boating. Being the engineer, it made perfect sense that he would design and build his own ice boat. When Kevin invited George down for a day careening across his lake, that boy was out the door before there was even a tiny suggestion of sunrise. With no experience, and perhaps with scant operational understanding, he was nevertheless an eager accomplice. He came home at the end of that weekend with a clearly defined rectangularish bruise on his left buttock, having landed hard on his wallet as his only way to stop the dern thing. (I've always felt that where it concerns Kevin, my dear husband was willing to abandon his wary approach to life; he trusted him unwaveringly. Not a bad thing, really.) Naturally, George’s adventure had thrilled and energized him, and he quickly jumped on board the design craze, excited to plan and construct his own boat. Somewhere around this same time, my other brother Chris and his wife Priscilla gave him a retired sail that had already been idling away the years in their Berkshire lake cabana.
George imagined a much different outcome than Life had in store for him. Racing unfettered across a lake in Plymouth was as liberating an experience as one could hope for. A small rectangular bruise was a welcome price to pay. (Kevin, you can be a pain in the ass at times, but my heart pinches just a bit when I contemplate the special friendship that you and George had, and the one-of-a-kind experiences that only you, and I mean, ONLY you, could concoct for him.) Sadly, the red and white furled sail languished for twelve years in our garden shed. I just couldn't part with it, but I had no idea what to do with it. An iceboat was not one of my plans.
A brittle and stained sail...
I have followed the success of the Sea Bags line for years now. They make sturdy totes out of upcycled sails. One day when they were but a dewy-eyed start-up, I peered through their windows in Portland Maine and considered their future. Because I saw their trajectory as not so different from my own, or at least what I imagined as my own, I privately prayed for them to "make it". They HAVE made it. I haven't...yet.
When my daughter Megan and I lowered the little red and white Berkshire sail from the rafters of our shed this week I was so hopeful that there was sufficient life in it so that it could be molded into something new. I gambled and put it through the wash, and set it out to dry. In the end, there was precious little to be redeemed. Most of it was too brittle and stained to be of any use.
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| Berkshire sail cum picnic bucket |
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