Still, at Sunset

Here's a Monday rest for your eyes.  For those in the mid-Atlantic and on the East Coast, nope, I sure didn't take this picture this weekend.  Hope those of you in the severe storm area are safe, warm and shoveled out.

Happy Monday.

Contrasts

I took this picture during my last foggy outing.  Disappointed when I downloaded it, I gave it a pass, wishing I’d captured the still boats without the restaurant in the background.

On second glance, I liked the deep red hull, (the boat is called “Prime Ribs,” by the way), juxtaposed against the gray of the building and the toothpaste green of the boat beside it.  I gazed at it a while before understanding my photo displays more than one kind of contrast. 

 

About fifty yards down the street from the building you see above, there's a two story shed of a place where lobstermen offload their catch. I have no idea what the men who climbed into those boats at dawn and hauled traps out on the churning sea receive as their per-pound price.  But the last time I drove by, a sign out front announced the retail price of Lobsters as $4.99 a pound. So if I had a hankering to buy a couple to take home and steam, that’s what I’d pay if I walked in off the street.

The restaurant, a lovely, white table cloth, fine dining establishment lists a 1 ½ pounder on its menu for $26.   No villains here.  I get the cost of running a business.  A successful eating establishment needs to charge something like three times the cost of food to make money.  I just happened to capture two different ends of that spectrum, overlooking each other in our harbor.  

Sometimes a picture is something pretty to look at.  Other times, it tells a story.

The Curiosity Chain

My father was an interested man.  Note, I did not say “interesting” (which he was), but “interested,” meaning he was intrigued by things he didn’t know about, and eager to explore.  If there was a road he’d never been down, he’d drive it.  If there was a house being built, he’d climb into it.  When a home he’d summered in as a child was torn down and rebuilt, he marched up the walk, knocked on the door, introduced himself to the new owner and received a guided tour.   I know these things because often I was with him when he decided to “investigate.”

I thought of that today, while I taking an early morning walk past our harbor.  The wind was blowing right into my face as I approached the private driveway leading to an 8.5 acre property on a bluff overlooking the water, which is my turn around point.  Usually I walk several yards up the driveway and inhale the view of the harbor for a few minutes, before turning back the way I came.  But for the first time I remember, a chain with a "Do Not Enter" sign dead center, linked the two stone pillars marking the entrance. 

The estate, called Bellarmine, is owned by the Jesuits of Boston College and used as a retreat for priests and students of the school.  It was last open to the public for a historical society fundraiser four years ago (How did I miss that?).  Before then, it had been 18 years since the public had been invited in. The residence was apparently designed by one of the most renowned architects at the time, although without Google, I’d never know.  The driveway curves, trees block what is beyond, so all we see is a roof and a couple of windows when we sail by in the summer. 

In my father’s curious vein, I have wandered a ways up the driveway before, and visited a stone boathouse on the property, but while I’ve never had the nerve to go near the house, I took that chain as a personal affront.  The pull of the unseen estate yanks at me, but I draw the line at trespassing on priests.  The chain however, hurt.  To console myself this morning, I reminded myself of all the places I have explored since life freed me to do so a few years ago. 

I’ve caught snow dusted lobster boats at dawn in winter, and the moonset when the temperature has registered less than 0.  I’ve caught deer stepping through the woods, coyotes cavorting in a field and turkeys in my yard. I’ve viewed the peaceful serenity of two dinghy’s drifting on an eddying tide, a celebrated Boston museum that sat on the top of my “bucket list,” and a tiny little maritime museum located in my own home town.   

I’ve watched the sunrise behind a lighthouse on Christmas Eve, and a sunset over a bay amid a pack of Harley Davidson riders.  I’ve sat on the deck at a nature reserve and listened to the ripple of a salt water river flowing by. I have even power-walked, oh, OK, trespassed, on a remote private property with panoramic views located on the other side of the harbor with a friend—though when a caretaker kindly suggested we turn around, we heeded the warning.

Over the past few years, time and the curiosity inherited from my father has allowed me to experience so many things I’d missed before.  Believe me—I’m aware how I’ve been blessed.  

If I ever make it into Bellarmine though, we’ll call it a minor miracle.

The View From Bellarmine Driveway.  The boat belongs to the property.

 (You've seen this picture before, but perhaps a repeat will help you understand my thoughts on that nasty chain.)

Happy Weekend Folks!