A Letter To Roderick

       This is the season of rebirth,,, of course after everything first goes crackly and dead. It is in some strange way the season of love, and hope, and understanding,,, of course if one has several dry cords of hardwood and a vast array of canning jars of summer goodies stashed for the winter. The air is full of the aromas of rosemary, cinnamon, nutmeg, apples, and cloves,, and they work their aroma therapy. People look up into to the clear october skies to see the constellations like familiar fleets hovering in the dark bay. The night sky is illuminated by a billion defective chinese lanterns and we remember,,, and feel disposed to tell those who live in our golden memories that theirs and our hearts are locked in an eternal embrace. As we touch souls and assure one another that we will keep the flame alive another year we affirm our human condition.

Dear Roderick,

     One Saturday, when I was living in Unity you visited. I don't remember what was the impetus but that particular afternoon you were on a rant about Maine and all its defects. You had a rancor about its remoteness. I remember thinking that Maine is just Maine it can't be any more or any less. I suppose that attitude comes from the odd peace I made long ago with my mother after I moved here and we did not speak for nearly four years. I needed the time to break her character up into parts then consider each part with reverence. Each part was separated from the complete unpenetrable organism. It was the only way to understand how the parts skewed me for better or for worse. That particular saturday after listening to you for a while I said, "Let's go see the steam engine". You were always easy to distract with a little trip. We arrived at the station in Unity and watched the steam show. The engine was on the roundtable being turned.  Remember how you immediately transformed? Something about all the raw power of that bygone epoch,, of all that enlivened iron that rattled your memory. You were beautifully hypnotically agitated, moving here and there, cigarette between the fingers, immersed in memory. The engine hissed all the while as it was being aligned to begin the replica of its journey from Unity to Burnham. I said, "Let's go to the trestle to watch it pass". Of course with gusto you agreed and we took off to meet the train where it crossed a corner of Unity Pond. We arrived at the trestle, and saw the puffs of smoke clearing the trees before we could hear the sound. There was a silence between us as it passed like an ancient promise. 

    You asked me on the phone, "But why Mexico". There was that knowing sarcasm in your voice. The Mexico you knew was from your army days when you crossed the border in Arizona with a group of friends and all the cliches were confirmed. The border is a lie that is all I can say. When I came to Tenancingo,,, caught somewhere between the 1300 and the 1990, and I saw the sunday marketplace for the first time, covering 6 square blocks of the city, like something out of Tenochitlan, and I found myself drowning in the sounds, and smells, and choice. I was irrevocably hooked. It brought back another type of memory for me.  I never had a marketplace with which to compare it,, just A&P.