"My friends are my estate." --Emily Dickinson

It would be difficult to overstate the significance of our friends and family in making this arctic sojourn possible. It is ironic that we must rely so heavily on friends and family to make possible this journey to a place so isolated from the outside world. We have taken money, encouragement, lodging, and patience. At work, at home, and along the road we have relied on the kindness and generosity of others.

As the actual day arrives, I feel a kind of aching. It is hard to leave behind such good friends. It is hard to leave behind families. In a momentary existence, it is hard to make a choice that will separate us from the ones we love by a full continent's width. It is a fitting artifact of the human condition; for it is in our separateness that we fully realize our connectedness. The greater the separation, whether in time or space, the more fully and often painfully we realize the depth of our connections to each other. Or put more succinctly, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Thank you. My Mom and Dad, for just about everything. To Megan's Mom and Dad for the winter gear, enthusiasm about Alaska, and forthcoming hunting advice. Matt and Rachel, for a place to stay, and the friendship that made it feel like my home for a brief time. Ann, Roy, and Jane for all your support, worldly and otherwise. Adam, for your memory. Margreta, for being a fellow traveler on a challenging journey. Spencer for being a friend from the first day of law school to this. Michael, for being a true Kinsmen. And all my friends and family who have been nothing but supportive in the face of such a radical white-knuckled plan.

--Terrence

Back From Motown

James and I had a wonderful visit in Michigan last week. He was very excited about all the things his Grandpa had planned for them. In fact, he woke early and before fully opening his eyes he put on his ball cap and said, "Mom, I'm ready to go."

He went for a walk with the dogs, picked tomatoes, apples, carrots, potatoes, zucchini, cucumbers and one huge rutabaga (see picture below) and fed their goldfish. Then later that afternoon went fishing, for a jeep ride and had a visit with Uncle George, Aunt Meg and Addison. James and Grandma even went swimming a few times in her new but chilly pool.

At Aunt Ginny's suggestion we went to see the old house and property on Farley Rd. The place looks great and it was wonderful to get to walk around there again. The trees are just beautiful and we even tasted some of the apples. Then on Friday Colleen and her family came and the kids had a nice sleepover at Grandma's house.

On Saturday we had a beautiful day for barbequing and visiting. It was great to see Aunt Margaret, Clare, Aunt Pam and Uncle Emery and Ralph. We ended the evening by celebrating Aunt Ginny's and Colleen's birthday. James and I had a great time. It was great to be able to visit everyone before we leave for Alaska. Mom and dad were great to put on another holiday spread for everyone- thanks so much!

--Megan

James M. Haas (8/18/1972 - 8/10/1984)

Certain events in the course of a life pound-in permanent mile markers. They mark the otherwise smooth passage of time in a way that gives your life scale. They are the events that stand out against the seemingly endless stream of working days and broken-down cars. The day I married Megan and the day James was born are a couple of good examples. The day my brother died is another very good example.

I was little, let's say six years old. It was summer, August to be exact. It was summer back when summers were long. School was out, so there were no days of the week. It was just one long sweaty day after another. We did whatever we wanted when we wanted. That can't possibly be true, but that's how I remember it. Oddly, I have no recollection of when I was first told there had been an accident. I remember lying out on the sloped front lawn in the lingering summer daylight and discussing whether our summer vacation would be ruined. I remember going to the home of a family friend, and playing hind-and-go-seek, or something like that, in the backyard. I remember that I could still run at full-bore without stopping for as long I wanted. I would get tired, but I would never have to stop if I didn't want to.

Someone woke me up. It seemed like the middle of the night, but it probably wasn't. I think it was my brother Roy who fetched me. I remember looking at Jamie's bed. I think I already felt a complicated nagging pit in my stomach. I could tell something was wrong, but I don't know what. My bare feet stuck to the wooden stairs. It was humid, and everything was sticky. It was always hot and sticky in Indiana, and the summers used to last forever back then. They've gotten a lot shorter. I think I already knew they were never going to be the same. My mom was sitting in the parlor. I was still at that age where you can't quite tell where you end and your mom starts. I sat in her lap. Other people were there, I think. I don't remember feeling self-conscious. I don't remember feeling scared. I don't remember being confused. I don't even remember sadness; that comes later. I don't remember the words, though I'm pretty sure "died" was one of them. I remember feeling something deeply. Now, as an adult, that feeling has mixed with the smell of summer and the sweat and stickiness of a humid afternoon. It can't really be spoken directly.

My brother was an unusual person. He was sometimes the object of ridicule, but I don't believe it bothered him much. I remember that he suffered occasional acts of cruelty, but then who didn't. He would bite his fist when he was angry or excited. He did that until he developed a callous on his hand. I suppose if I were older, he would have been embarrassing at times. I suspect he was. Embarrassing, but almost never embarrassed. He was, and no one who knew him would deny this, entirely himself. Entirely himself, and then entirely gone. Just like that.

The rest of us live. In obituaries they always say that someone was "survived" by their family members still living. I guess that's what we are, survivors. James McGlynn Haas was survived by two brothers, two sisters, his mother and father, all four of his grandparents, and one of his great-grandparents. That's a lot of surviving. All of that surviving led to some new survivors, his nephews, James, Michael, Daniel, and Timothy. Most recently, he is survived by a new niece, Sadie. Only one of his grandparents is alive today, but there have been a lot of survivors there too. The point, I guess, is that we have all been driving our own mile markers since that sweaty August day. We have seen a lot of broken-down cars and even more work days. We have plowed through the grief and guilt and right on down the road. Still, on a long hot summer day my mind often turns to my brother, James McGlynn, and his short life. That's what survivors do I guess.

--Terrence

"Me Imperturbe"

by Walt Whitman

Me imperturbe, standing at ease in Nature,
Master of all or mistress of all, aplomb in the midst of
irrational things,
Imbued as they, passive, receptive, silent as they,
Finding my occupation, poverty, notoriety, foibles, crimes,
less important than I thought,
Me Toward the Mexican sea, or in the Mannahatta or the
Tennessee, or far north or inland,
A river man, or a man of the woods or of any farm-life of
these States or of the coast, or the lakes or Kanada,
Me wherever my life is lived, O to be self-balanced for con-
tingencies,
To confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents, re-
buffs, as the trees and animals do.

--Terrence

Movin' On Up

We have gotten rid of our apartment, Jamie and I are staying at Michael and Molly's, and Terrence is staying with the Costa's. I have a bad cold, which believe it or not is good timing since Jamie and I are going to my parents next week, and it would have been very inconvenient to have a cold last week when I had to move us out of our apartment.

We were lucky to be able to give a lot of our stuff to the refugee center at the International Center of Providence. I was afraid that they weren't going to be able to come and get it in time. But they did. They were very nice and extremely grateful. They asked how I knew about them and I told them that I knew such places existed because my in-laws had sponsored refugee families in the past. They said they had four families coming in that week and that they would take anything we had. In addition to several pieces of furniture, housewares and clothing, I started looking for anything else they could use. I said how about a grill? They said yes. Then I asked them what about a bike and one of the guys named James (a very good name) was going to make sure they could fit the bike, I think he was already planning a good ride.

When they were about to leave James (their James, not mine) came over and said "thank you and I hope we meet again." My first thought was not likely, since we are moving to the bush. But then I thought how unlikely it was that we were meeting at all. How unlikely was it for him that he lived most of his live in Africa and then moved from the Sudan to Rhode Island to be standing in front of my now empty apartment?

I think I like, "I hope we meet again" better than, "it was nice to meet you." I suspect they serve similar functions, good manners, a closing, a way to say goodbye. But hoping to meet me again feels very different; it has a life of its own, an intention, and a wish for the future, a beginning- not an ending. And I am all for good beginnings right now since our move is just around the corner.

--Megan

And the Cow Says Mooo....

A lot has happened since I last wrote. James and Megan are living in NH at Grandma and Grandpa's house, and I am living in New Bedford at a friend's house. Getting out of the apartment was, as always, more time consuming than we thought it might be. It is unsettling to be out of one apartment without another, but things are moving along in that department as well.

James is having a great time in New Hampshire. He went blueberry picking on Saturday, and to the County fair on Sunday. What a lot of fun! He rode some of the big rides this time...he is just tall enough. Let's just say it is good his Grandma Molly wasn't there. Even I found it a little nerve racking. He also saw a bunch of animals, including horses, sheep, oxen, cows, and his favorite, chickens. He didn't much like the oxen pull because the drivers do a lot of prodding with the whip. He doesn't realize that the phrase "dumb as an ox" has a very solid foundation.

The last pictures here are of James and his friends downstairs. He will probably not see them again, so I thought he might like a picture of them on the blog. Finally, the calendar at the top of the blog has important family birthdays and the like. If you click on the names of some, you will get some information. I think Paul C. Haas is the next one with such information. If you see something missing or want me to put something on it, let me know.

--Terrence