Seeds

My friend Dave emailed today asking for the lyrics for the song "Seeds." Pastor Dave, as he's known to his congregation in Connecticut, noted the Parable of the Sower is coming up on the church lectionary and was reminded of the song.

I get more requests for this song than any other and have been asked on more than one occasion if I wrote it. It was written by Pat Alger and Ralph Murphy and recorded in the early 1990s by Kathy Mattea.

I recorded "Seeds" with A Bunch of Guys for an album called "Take a Breath," a fundraiser for ELCA World Hunger. Dave Piper and Knute Ogren did a fabulous job of producing and promoting "Take A Breath' and "Enough," and the success of the fundraising was gratifying to all involved. For more on ELCA World Hunger, see: http://archive.elca.org/hunger/swa.html

If you're interested in a copy of the CD, contact me.

Here's a link to "Seeds:"

http://www.box.net/shared/l6bk9ohkw0

Happy Anniversary!

While we were in New York City last week, I received word from my distant cousin* Rennie that Sunday, June 22, 2008 was to be a big day for the couple pictured above. Rennie's parents, Jack and Helen Bremner were married on June 22, 1943 and last weekend celebrated their 65th Wedding Anniversary! Rennie noted that they were married on Jack's final leave before he went overseas to war. Last week, the family arranged anniversary messages on the local radio stations and had How Great Thou Art dedicated to them on one.

*Rennie, Graeme and Trevor are distant cousins in more ways than one. By my calculation, we're 5th cousins, as my great-great grandfather Johann Karl Ludwig Maddaus was the brother of their great-great-grandmother Johanne Christiana Maddaus Winterhoff. Johann and Johanne were born in Hamburg, Germany but their progeny is spread across the globe. Johann moved to Riga, Latvia in the mid 19th century and his son Oscar W. Maddaus eventually settled in Brooklyn, NY, USA where he raised 6 children, including my grandfather Ingo Maddaus, Sr. Johanne's daughter Adolphine Dorothea Caroline Winterhoff migrated to Peru in South America where she married Robert Reid. Jack's parents Christina Adolphina Reid and George W. Bremner started their family in Peru but moved to New Zealand shortly before Jack was born. (If you're following this you're doing well!) Jack and Helen live outside of Dunedin, New Zealand---my distant cousins are 9,500 miles (over 15,000 kilometers) distant. (An additional note: Trevor lived in Anchorage, Alaska the last I knew.)

During my 5-month teaching assignment in New Zealand two years ago, I had the opportunity to see Jack, Helen, Rennie and Graeme and his family, relatives I didn't know I had until shortly before leaving America. We were connected by their first cousin Eileen Reid Marcil, who lives outside of Quebec City and managed to track down a variety of Maddaus ancestors through the wonders of the internet. My last weekend in New Zealand, we had a gathering at Graeme's house and found we shared a love of music and it was a grand time!

So, even though I'm four days late (It's tomorrow in New Zealand), I wish Jack and Helen a Very Happy Anniversary and many more! And thanks for treating me to that Southern Cross hospitality.

Brooklyn Heights

This past Saturday, the Yankees Friday night loss a distant memory, we took the # 4 Subway from Union Square on 14th Street in Manhattan, changed to the A line at Fulton Street (we thought it was the #2, but we're from Maine), traveled one more stop, under the East River, and emerged in Brooklyn at High Street. I wanted to see if I could identify the neighborhood my father's parents lived in back in the 1950s. I'm not sure if I ever visited them there but I remember one time we saw Dad's Aunt Freida, who lived down the street.

The neighborhood is called Brooklyn Heights and the street, Columbia Heights. I recognized the promenade first and the view of Manhattan immediately; Battery Park at the South end of the Island is to the right and Staten Island and the Statue of Liberty can be seen in the distance. To the north, the Brooklyn Bridge dominates the East River and the Empire State Building and Chrysler Buildings are in view. The city-scape provides a unique visual that almost overcomes the senses.

I did recognize a couple landmarks on Clark Street on the way from the subway, the Hotel St. George, still signed as such, and the Towers Hotel, no longer signed, both of which were home to the Brooklyn Dodgers when they were in town; that is, until they broke my Dad's heart and departed for LA. The apartments on Columbia Heights were not familiar, so I pulled out the trusty cell-phone and called Mother for some direction. After a bit she recalled that Grandpa and Grandma lived at 81 Columbia Heights and I found the building at the corner of Cranberry Street. She remembered it for the proximity to (19th century abolitionist and brother of Harriet Beecher Stowe) Henry Ward Beecher's church and a bakery down the street. She recalled that my grandparents lived on the 3rd floor and that 'Pop' chose the neighborhood because it was only one subway stop (via the #2 or #3) to Wall Street, where he had his office. Somehow I think the view and the upscale setting, not to mention the reputation as 'America's first suburb,' might also have been factors. Business must have been good in importing in the 50s.

Aunt Freida lived for a while at 47 Willow Street, a block from Columbia Heights Street, and later moved to 123 Columbia Heights, where she lived when we visited in my youth. I didn't recognize the latter when we went by; it's either been renovated beyond recognition or replaced entirely. Aunt Elsa, the eldest of Pop's five siblings, also lived nearby and attended Beecher's Plymouth Congregational Church on Hicks Street.

We circled the neighborhood one more time, walked the length of the promenade, went past a small park labeled the Harry Chapin Playground and continued to the Cadman Park where we encountered the first directional sign for the Brooklyn Bridge Walkway. Having already walked a couple miles around Brooklyn Heights, the additional mile across the Bridge on a sunny, hot day presented a formidable challenge but the flow of the many walkers, runners and cyclists carried us along and the views of Manhattan ahead and Brooklyn to our rear were magnificent.

My mother's grandfather, the Rev. George Frederick Behringer, was one of many who was invited to celebrate the 13-year completion of the bridge in 1883, walking across as we did 125 years later. While the Brooklyn Bridge was the first to connect Manhattan and Brooklyn, his church in Brooklyn, ironically enough, was removed to make way for the Williamsburg Bridge, the second Manhattan/Brooklyn connector.

We arrived at City Hall Park in Manhattan with enough time to hop on the #4 to 59th Street and a headed west for Beth's first-ever visit to Central Park. By the time we got to The Tavern on the Green, our legs had had enough. Nonetheless, we continued to Columbus Square, passing one of the many musical street performances scheduled in the city that day, this near the Lincoln Center, and took the C train downtown to 14th street and the L train back to Union Square.

Before heading back upstate we met my friend Stefan, a Berliner who is working at the UN as part of his legal traineeship in Germany. While I have ancestors from both sides of the family who lived in New York City, Stefan's intelligence and inquisitive nature have led him into virtually every neighborhood in the city. He never ceases to amaze me with his erudite commentary on the places he's been.

Yankee Stadium--The Final Season

Beth and I spent a long weekend in New York, a visit with my Mother and brother Phil in Scotia wrapped around two days and one night in the Big Apple. My primary reason for heading to NYC was to see the Yankees one last time in the "House that Ruth Built." I bought two tickets in the Loge level, third-base side, the section my father usually preferred back in the 60s when he took Phil and I as kids. The seats are still great, but the demand now is high and the only way to get them is through Stub Hub at quite a premium. But for old-times sake I bit the bullet and made some season-pass owner happy.

We got there early enough so that we could watch some batting practice and visit Monument Park before the game. There are an incredible number of retired number plaques and monuments out there, but considering the Yankees history, its not surprising. It takes a lot of great players to win 26 World Series! In my first trip to the Stadium, Mickey Mantle hit a home run and became my favorite. I have quite a few others including Lou Gehrig, even though I never saw him play, Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera.

The Cincinnati Reds young star, Edinson Volquez, held the Yankees bats in check and the Reds won 4-2. The game turned on a fly ball lost in the lights. Johnny Damon played it into a double and three Reds runs followed. The Yanks threatened but couldn't come back all the way. It was the first game I'd been to with Beth that they hadn't won and I'd considered her a lucky charm. Last year the Yanks came back from 4 down against the Cleveland Indians and won on a Alex Rodriguez walk-off three-run homer. That, of course, set the standard which this year's team, even with A-Rod back, couldn't reach.

Still, the crowd of 53,000+ was pretty excited when Robinson Cano singled in a run in the seventh inning. The rally fizzled and I could imagine Dad, looking down from heaven, lamenting "these guys are terrible, they'll never win at this rate," just as he had since the first game we ever saw, and through 8 world championships as well.

Some of the traditions go on even when the Yanks lose. The right field bleacher 'bums' start the game with (clap, clap) "JETER," (clap, clap) "JETER,"... until he acknowledges them with a wave of his glove. They proceed with the rest of the infielders and outfielders until all have been welcomed. And there's always the bottom of the 6th after three outs are recorded and the grounds-crew rakes the field to the music of the Village People, stopping to lead the crowd in physically spelling out "Y-M-C-A."

In spite of watching the Yanks go down to defeat, it was still an electrifying experience and, as baseball fans always say, "wait 'til next year." The Stadium will be history, but they're building a new one across

the street which already has some history of its own, even before the first pitch has been thrown. It seems a construction worker buried a David Ortiz jersey in the cement to jinx the Yankees, and once it was disclosed, they had to dig it up. Have you noticed Ortiz has not had his usual terrific season for the Red Sox this year--who's been jinxed, is my question? I guess we'll find out in October!

NZ Gold Guitars 2006

"When I Am King"

Jefferson NH

In August of 1968, I was the guest of a high school girlfriend and her family at their summer home in Jefferson, NH. We did quite a bit of hiking--Dome Rock, Cherry Mountain, Webster Cliffs--in preparation for a hike up Mt. Washington. I'd done quite a lot of hiking with my father when I was younger, including climbs of Katahdin and Marcy, so I was excited to scale New Hampshire's highest. Carolyn was an outstanding high school cross country skier and bill, her Dad, worked out daily during an age when middle age men just gained weight. Jean, Carolyn's Mom, needed to work up to the climb, and that she did--her first of Mt. Washington ever.

The view from their front porch is awe-enspiring. The expanse of the Presidential Range to the southeast includes, fittingly from this point-of-view, Mt. Jefferson most prominently, and Mt. Washington and Mt. Monroe to the right. No mountain-lover can resist the lure of the Presidentials after taking in this vista.

As I remember it, Carolyn and I took side trips up Mt. Jackson, Mt. Clay (which of course doesn't count for anything--this is a shame topographically and historically, in my opinion) and Mt. Monroe, and so by the time the vacation was over, I had 3 of the 48 NH 4,000 peaks under my belt. Growing up in New York, I knew of a similar list for the Adirondacks and filed the New Hampshire experience away for future reference. I wouldn't climb another NH 4,000 peak until 1995, although I ran the race up the Mt. Washington Auto Road twice in the seventies.

While we were in Jefferson, the Republican National convention was being held in Miami. The country had suffered the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr and Bobby Kennedy in recent months and the political tension in the country would boil over in the streets of Chicago later in the summer. I vividly remember hoping New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller would come through as a dark-horse for the presidential nomination. My father commented frequently that he liked Rockefeller for his willingness to admit he was wrong and adjust accordingly, a trait most politicians, then or now, seem to be lacking. Turns out Rockefeller was a minority of one, but I didn't realize it then. History records Richard Nixon as the victor for the nomination, although he turned out to be the biggest loser.

Interesting how far we've come in 40 years. In 1968, we were in a war we couldn't win, the presidency was determined by the segregationist 3rd party candidate, George Wallace, and women had no place in the process. Though we weren't at war in 1988, the Iran-Contra scandal was fresh on our minds and race played a huge role in the presidential election as a result of the "Willie Horton" ads which doomed Michael Dukakis. We'd forgotten Geraldine Ferraro's 1984 Vice-Presidential candidacy.

Today we have a African-American presidential candidate, a woman who is equally as formidable just missing the nomination and a war we can't win. Well, some things change. But, however slowly over the 40 years, we have seen a huge change in our country.

I read the New York Times online daily, a habit I picked up from my father. (His was a hardcopy habit) There have been a number of articles in the Times lately sharing this 40 year perspective. Two of the better ones are noted with links below:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/07/opinion/07herbert.html

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/09/opinion/09krugman.html

As I reflect my accomplishment, yesterday, of climbing all 48 NH 4,000 foot peaks, I can't help but reflect on the 39 years, 10 months and a few days that it took to do it.

In his article,Bob Herbert suggests a victory lap "for all those in every station in life who ever refused to submit quietly to hatred and oppression. They led us to a better place." In a way, yesterday's climb was my celebration of that better place.

And what better place than the summit of Mt. Garfield. Thankfully, the 48 NH 4,000 peaks haven't changed all that much in 40 years.

Mt. Garfield

At 11:03 AM today, just under 39 years and 11 months from the date I summited the first of 48 New Hampshire 4,000 foot peaks, I reached the summit of Mt. Garfield. 48/48

I'd say I left the best for last!

Garfield, at 4,500,' is 17th on the list and smack dab in the middle geographically.

Roughly 30 of the other 48 are visible from the summit, including the Lafayette range to the west and Twins and Bonds to the east. Mt Washington is visible over the shoulder of North Twin. Today's view, thanks to a morning window of clear weather, was brilliant.

When Beth and I got back to the car, a congratulatory note from Tom and Atticus was under the wiper blades. Thanks guys!

Santiago, Chile

Our April trip to Chile was capped by a visit to the Centro section of the capital city. We toured The Moneda, the center of the government and delighted in all the street activity. Numerous street performers entertained the crowds on the many pedestrian-only thoroughfares of the downtown. "Los Portenos" played a variety of 'LatinoAmericano' folktunes and I purchased a CD to bring home. The strong vocal harmonies and multi-instrumental flavor distinguished them from some of the solo performers up the street.

We strolled through the park adjoining The Moneda, (where 35 years ago Allende was bombed and overthrown by the Pinochet-led military junta) past benches seemingly designated for lovers only, and through a 'Carabineros' fair---with booths set up to proudly display the services and skills of the various branches of the Chilean police.

Our photo-taking was crashed by two of the more animated Carabineros. They liked Beth OK, but I think I really made an impression.

It struck me that 35 years ago, Pinochet was poised to execute his plan for take over of the government and widespread torture of political enemies and, even 20 or 25 years ago, anti-American sentiment was more likely to be witnessed here. What happened in the years since?

Coincidentally, Jacob had recently given me a copy of Fareed Zakaria's "The Future of Freedom: Illiberal Democracy at Home and Abroad," and I encountered a number of references to Chile while reading it on our trip. Zakaria points out that although Chile was long ruled by an oppressive military junta, a number of factors led to its present-day government. Latin values such as strong families, religious values and determination (54), land reform and economic and political reform all contributed to this progress. "It is no accident that the one Latin American country that moved first and most strongly away from that tradition (the aristocratic order) and toward free markets and free trade is now its most successful economy and stable country: Chile." (74) Zakaria contrasts the successes of Chile, Taiwan, South Korea, Singapore and Indonesia with the difficulties in Iraq as having less to do with democracy than the level of liberty, the rule of law and economic reforms achieved by the standing governments.

Our cab driver, Carlos, who had spent a couple years in Miami before returning to Chile, noted with some displeasure that the president of Chile, a woman named Michelle Bachelet, was a Socialist. But he still seemed to appreciate the distance Chile has come since their '9/11' in 1973.

We encountered one last entertainer before Carlos picked us up at our pre-arranged spot in the Plaza de Armas. Beth noted a character dressed in pink riding by on his bike and took a photo. This was an immediate sign that he had an audience and oh, did he perform! He stopped all sorts of traffic, built a crowd in the hundreds and used me as one of his straight men. At one point he literally 'threw himself under a bus.'

By the reaction of many of the local cab drivers, we could tell he was a regular in the Centro and they played along with his antics. Other drivers were not as cooperative and their anger and annoyance only served to give him more comic material to work with.

By the time we pulled out in our cab, our pink friend was standing on the passenger-side door frame, saluting the audience while wrapped in a banner featuring the Chilean colors: red, white and blue. I don't think I stopped laughing until I fell asleep on our overnight flight back to Dallas and the Northern Hemisphere.

Sometimes the greatest experiences in life occur in places where joy and sorrow intersect.

Gold Guitars

One of the benefits of living in Gore, New Zealand was participating the Gold Guitars Awards competition. Two years ago this weekend, I took the stage as one of scores of country music entertainers from all over New Zealand who sought the bright lights and stardom in the country's biggest country music event. In addition to a number of age group and genre categories, the Queen's Birthday tradition in Gore includes busking, songwriting awards, best song and album competitions and a variety of workshops. See: http://www.goldguitars.co.nz/

I competed in two categories, Open and Senior (old folk like me). My years experience playing with Tequila Sunrise really gave me an advantage, but unfortunately I didn't advance to the finals. Maybe it was the bad joke about Prince Charles, or the fact that I was one of the only entrants to perform solo (most provided charts for the house band to provide backup), or that neither of the songs was a country standard (one was an original composition, the other a tune by Newfoundland's outstanding Great Big Sea), and/or that I was American???? (Not!) I'll have to work on my act for my next visit.

This year's winners are a vocal trio from Gore called E-Liza. I heard two of the group, Gore High School students Lana Mackay and Taylor Cairns, sing on numerous occasions two years ago and have no doubt of their talent. Word is that they'll be recording in Sydney, Australia before long. I'll be looking forward to hearing more from them!

Wellington New Zealand

Every parent should take their child to college at the beginning of their Freshman year, right? That's what I thought when Jacob suggested it back in the fall of 2005, although I really didn't have the extra funds for an extra roundtrip ticket to NEW ZEALAND! Little did I know that I would be buying a second ticket a couple months later.

For more on that see: http://cmaddaus.edublogs.org/2008/05/28/teach-nz/

Jacob was somewhat of a home-body in high school, athletic, a relatively good student, but not especially social. I always joked that I couldn't 'ground him' because he never went out much anyway. Figures he'd go as far away as possible for college.

Actually though, I think that it took a lot of courage on his part to decide to go to New Zealand as an 18-year-old and he made the best of it, too.

He attended Victoria University in Wellington, on the south end of the North Island. On our arrival we were met by my friend David Hall, who had worked with me in the Wilderness Program at Camp Calument. Dave took us to meet his family and we stayed at his home in Levin for a night before Jake's orientation started. Having Dave there really increased Jacob's comfort level at being half-way around the world from home... and mine, too.

Wellington is the capital of New Zealand and is built on the hills surrounding Wellington Harbor and the Miramar Peninsula. The parliament is located there in a unique building called the Beehive (the Prime Minister is Helen Clark, who is everything Hillary Clinton wants to be) and Peter Jackson based his "Lord of the Rings" production in the city. The views from Mt. Victoria are stunning.

VIC was a great choice in a lot of ways for Jacob. He got involved in a Ultimate Club and played a number of tournaments, including the all-University Games in which his team was a disappointing 3rd. He also worked for an event promoter on a part-time basis and saw a number of concerts. Best of all, he developed an interest in Political Science and International Relations that has led to him excelling upon his transfer to Northeastern University in Boston. His credits transferred to more than we expected, attesting to the rigor of the program and he hopes to work with one of his professors there, again some day. And he was quick to jump at the chance to go overseas again--he's scheduled to study in Dublin and work in the Irish parliament next fall.

It was tough leaving him in Wellington that first time, but I was able to return and spend some time with him the following April and enjoy the city myself.

Isla Negra, Chile

Beth and I were guests of her brother Charlie for the April vacation week on the occasion of his wedding to Luz Maria in Villa Alhue, Chile. As an English teacher, I made sure to study some of Pablo Neruda's writing before the trip (my excuse for not learning any Spanish) and noted that one of Neruda's three homes was in Isla Negra, a coastal town not far from Charlie's.



Isla Negra was Neruda's retreat from the city (he had homes in Santiago, the capital and Valparaiso, the major port) and he wrote his Memoirs there, late in his life. The home is now maintained by the Neruda Foundation: http://www.fundacionneruda.org/home.htm

His description is best:

In my house I have put together a collection of small and large toys I can’t live without. The child who doesn’t play is not a child, but the man who doesn’t play has lost forever the child who lived in him and he will certainly miss him. I have also built my house like a toy house and I play in it from morning till night.
These are my own toys. I have collected them all my life for the scientific purpose of amusing myself alone. (MEMOIRS, page 269)

Our tour was more of a museum than of solely visiting a great writer's home. His collections of ship figureheads, ships-in-bottles, colored glass, insects, seashells, and art reflected his travels and foreign service all over the world. These were all housed in his home, self-designed and built to imitate a sailing ship, and his office, a train.

The vista of the Pacific Ocean, even on a cloudy day, was beautiful and surely inspired his writing, although he was prolific and never lacked for inspiration no matter where he was. His love of Chile was certainly nurtured there and although the times were turbulent, he spoke with great optimism of his hope for humanity:

I want to live in a world where no one is excommunicated. I will not excommunicate anybody. I would not tell that priest tomorrow: “You can’t baptize So-and-So, because you are an anti-Communist.” I would not tell another priest: “I will not publish your poem, your creation, because you’re an anti-Communist.” I want to live in a world where beings are only human, with no other title but that, without worrying their heads about a rule, a word, a label. I want people to be able to go into all the churches, to all the printing presses. I don’t want anyone to ever again wait at the Mayor’s office door to arrest or deport someone else. I want everyone to go in and out of City Hall smiling. I don’t want anyone to flee in a gondola or be chased on a motorcycle. I want the great majority, the only majority, everyone, to be able to speak out, read, listen, thrive. I have never understood the struggle except as something to end all struggle. I have never understood hard measures except as something to end hard measures. I have taken a road because I believe that road leads us all to lasting brotherhood. I am fighting for that ubiquitous, widespread, inexhaustible goodness. After all the run-ins between my poetry and the police, after all these episodes and others I will not mention because they sound repetitious, and in spite of other things that did not happen to me but to many who cannot tell them any more, I still have absolute faith in human destiny, a clearer and clearer conviction that we are approaching a great common tenderness. I write knowing that the danger of the bomb hangs over all our heads, a nuclear catastrophe that would leave no one, nothing on this earth. Well, that does not alter my hope. At this critical moment, in this flicker of anguish, we know that the true light will enter those eyes that are vigilant. We shall all understand one another. We shall advance together. And this hope cannot be crushed. MEMOIRS, pages 227-8.

As an American, conditioned as we were in the 60s and 70s to consider Communists as the enemy, I came away transformed in my thinking. That this sensitive and extraordinary writier was a Communist seemed incongruous at first, but having read his Memoirs (which I highly recommend, especially for those of the baby-boomer generation), I'm more determined than ever to reject divisive, polarizing writing or politics of any kind.

While I have yet to appreciate the breadth of his poetry, a few of his poems have resonated with me. One in particular, dedicated to Chile, makes me ponder the future of my own country:

INSOMIA

In the middle of the night I ask myself,
what will happen to Chile?
What will become of my poor, dark country?

From loving this long, thin ship so much,
these stones, these little farms,
the durable rose of the coast
that lives among the foam,
I become one with my country.
I met every one of its sons
and in me the seasons succeeded one another,
weeping or flowering.

I feel that now,
with the dead year of doubt scarcely over,
now that the mistakes which bled us all
are over and we begin to plan again
a better and juster life,
the menace once again appears
and on the walls a rising rancor.

Essential Neruda, page 179

Neruda died in 1973 of cancer, within weeks of Chile's 9/11, the bombing of Salvador Allende in The Moneda, the Presidential Palace, in Santiago, in the Pinochet coup d'etat backed by the United States. Neruda had a close relationship with Allende and the sadness at his overthrow is evident in the last words of his Memoirs.

For more on the coup see: Chile's 9/11

Mt. Waumbat

Late last year, my oldest son Caleb decided to start climbing the 48 New Hampshire 4,000 foot peaks. He has noted the irony that, having been brought up in the Conway, NH area, he waited until he lived in Southern Massachusetts to begin his quest.

He drove up Friday to spend a belated Mother's Day with his mom and stay overnight with us in Dixfield. Saturday was reserved for a climb, and I suggested Mt. Waumbek (#46 at just over 4,000) near Jefferson. South-facing, and therefore likely to be free of snow at elevation, Waumbek is also a moderate climb of 3.6 miles, crossing Starr King Mountain (3,900+) in the process. A good, first climb of the spring.

Caleb agreed to my suggestion, but in his idiosyncratic way, proceeded to fracture the name of our target; hence, it is now referred to as Mt. Waumbat. (His explanation: "I was pronouncing the mountain's name correctly; I just seem to have picked up a strong Massachusetts accent.")

The day was cloudy, with sun peaking through occasionally and a brisk wind rushing through the forest on the final ridge walk to the summit. Conversation was plentiful through the ascent but disappeared as we headed down, the entire hike covering 4 hours. It might have been quicker but I stopped on the way to get numerous shots of purple Trillium for Beth, who was home writing a brief for the law court. She loves wildflowers.

I'm terrible at remembering the names of these creatures but thought she would appreciate the pictures. This seems to have been a good choice, as her book, "Wildflowers of the White Mountains," refers to these purples as Sweet Beth.

Caleb headed south for Massachusetts and I proceeded east on Route 2, having had a good workout. He's now at 9/48.

I'm one peak short of the 48 and looking forward to my Garfield climb, sooner than later this year. Until last year, I hadn't really thought much about climbing them all, but more on that later.