Finneran/WATER 1

Water as the Fix

by

Daniel Finneran

‘Leadership,’ I was once told, ‘is a combination of two forces -- inspiration, and

intimidation.’ This, little insight of sorts, was passed along to me many years ago by a

large man with an enormous head. (You could have, I am quite sure, shown one of those

old 16 MM home movies on his forehead; faded pastel shots of harried parents

overseeing manic charges; dramatic movie-star poses by sisters; only 16 MM though;

there would have been no room for, say, CinemaScope or something of that sort; he was

by no means a freak.) He was a powerful man with meaty forearms that rippled when he

spoke, like his larynx was somehow attached to his enormous forearms. And there were

various stories revolving around this man’s power and strength -- one being that he had

played lacrosse against Jim Brown, and of this I am not sure -- but I did see him once,

while walking past an intramural softball game, hit a softball as far as I have ever seen a
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softball hit. He had the type of build that could give great trajectory to such an

implement. Which is a specific sort of build. It is a build not just of strength, but of

power. Self-contained force. And this power, and force, combined with a semi-balding

head nearly the size and shape of an old radio, gave weight and an easily acquired gravity

to his occasional admonitions. The admonition regarding leadership having been

presented to me as he -- from behind his desk, he needn’t be particularly close to acquire

effectiveness -- leaned towards me, his forehead gleaming like a shined marble obelisk,

peered over his also-enormous and, judging by their thickness, quite powerful spectacles,

and said -- ‘Do you understand this, Dugan? Do you understand that which I have just

explained to you?’ And presented with this query, and this particular context -- an

enormous man, who rumor had it had played Jim Brown nearly even (another part of the

legend) asking, from about eight feet away, whether or not I understood what seemed to

be a fairly understandable statement, I answered in the manner I viewed as containing the

most logic. I looked up at Mr. Keegan, shook my, relatively small, but still tonsorially

fecund cranium, peered through, not over, my glasses, and responded -- ‘Yes, I think that

I do.’ He then did not say anything, and so I again nodded my head. Hoping only to

affirm my response, and by no means trying to draw attention to the fact that Mr.

Keegan’s head was possibly twice the size of mine.

Mr. Keegan then looked down at some of his notes there not far from his

expansive skull and said, ‘I hope you do, Dugan. Because it’s a good thing to learn

early.’ The hint of condescension in his voice undeniably present. Selective

condescension -- and the occasional humiliation -- still being utilized by those giving

guidance and stewardship at this point in time.

Finneran/WATER 3

This -- aphorism? admonition? warning? -- whatever it might be, of Mr. Keegan’s

seeming to want to pop into my head more and more as of late. Usually, for whatever

reason, when I am either driving to or from work. Surrounded, more often than not, by

those that refuse to use their directionals when turning, rarely come to a complete stop at

a stop-sign, and seem to have, in all, contributed to a near never-ending environment of

rancor along the roads which lead me to my work.

The prompt for the re-arrival of this small bit of wisdom, passed along years ago

by the cranial fount the likes of which I have yet to see again, I am certain being the

recent contact I have enjoyed with Mrs. Van Oerder, the sort of Grand Matriarch of the

neighborhood in which I originally grew.

I had not spoken with Mrs. Van Oerder in years but was, to some degree, put in

contact via this e-mail button on my computer. In a 19th-Century sort of way we had

been reintroduced through an exchange of missives.

Mrs. Van Oerder, now nearing her 80th decade of earth-bound forbearance, had

overseen, with a remarkable degree of success, an extraordinarily large brood of eleven

children -- nine boys, two girls. Their influence, just via sheer numbers, on our

neighborhood inescapable. A group large enough to actually even acquire its own

vernacular. A sort of, I suppose, linguistic reward for proliferation. (e.g., When heading

back towards the structure where all Van Oerders slept and ate, a Van Oerder would say,

‘I’m going hum.’ Mrs. Van Oerder, female progenitor of all that occupied the ‘hum,’

being referred to, most often, by members of her brood as ‘Mum.’ Much the way, I

suppose, members of the Kennedy family say ‘Cuber.’ An enunciation I have never
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heard elsewhere. Or, maybe, they are referring to something other than the island ninety

miles south of the Florida Keys, occupied, largely, by ‘Cubans.’ I am not sure.)

Anyway -- I will admit here that I have enjoyed hearing from Mrs. Van Oerder

and have learned the things that most of us learn when we begin speaking with these

authority figures of our youth -- that these people have a sense of humor, great insight,

and are smarter, pretty much -- and I say this in the most respectful but genuine sense --

than any, or most, of the people that usually run our Country. And I will also admit that

Mrs. Van Oerder is a very nice person, with remarkable strength and fortitude, (a Marine

during WW II, with some, ahh, interesting views on the new ‘co-ed’ infantry) but would

also have to admit that, in general, I feared her like few other forces I knew then, or have

known since. (The efficacy of this fear seeming pronounced enough to retain its

singularity even now; much like the enormity of Mr. Keegan’s head.)

The type and intensity of this fear can best be conveyed by passing along one of a

variety of instances in a trail of fairly unsuccessful attempts at being a salesman -- this

particular attempt taking place during a summer while still attending, I believe, college

(these summers can, at times, blur).

I had somehow decided it would be a fine idea to make an attempt at selling

vacuum cleaners; expensive vacuum cleaners, that used a one horsepower engine as a

power source, and water as the filtration source -- conspiring to produce, in essence, a

large, one horsepower bong. The ploy, to gain entrance into the residences of

unsuspecting homeowners, being a pronouncement something along these lines --

‘Hello, Mrs. Hammersmith, I’ve just been hired as a public-relations executive for a local

air-purification company, and I was wondering if I could come by and show you the
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product. They would like me to get out there and show it first-hand to people in the area.

They’re very excited about this model, in particular, and thought you might want to take

a look at what we feel will be the first of a whole new line of home air-purification

devices.’ Mrs. Hammersmith, then thinking it quite impressive that one of the local boys

(Mrs. Hammersmith, of course, being targeted after exhausting the requisite concentric

circles of family and geographically closest neighbors; much like selling chocolates for

youth sports; or, I would imagine, running for Congress) was doing more than mowing

lawns and complaining all summer. Mrs. Hammersmith then doing her civic duty, and

proceeding to invite him over, and tell him to certainly bring his new air-purification

system, for which he was now a Public Relations executive. (One can even hear Mrs.

Hammersmith as she got off the phone -- ‘Dear, that Jacob Dugan is coming over with a

new air-purification system -- he’s an executive at the company. To show it to us. I

always liked that Jacob Dugan. Already working as an executive. I don’t see him, half-

naked, draped over a parked car all day, waiting for girls to drive by. He’ll be somebody,

someday, I bet’ -- and then, as her voice fades, ‘…not like our Kevin. I just don’t know

what happened with our Kevin.’)

But having had, far too easily -- I am still far too impressionable -- the notion

drummed into my head that the inability to sell would mean a resulting failure in all

concomitant and future enterprise, that not being able to sell was really nothing less than

a weakness in character, I forged forth, duping many of the local housewives and -- most

unfortunately of all -- their husbands, into allowing me into their living rooms, at roughly

7:30 on a summer evening. And, after about a half-hour of my presentation (which

included sucking all the air out of couch cushions, to convey the vacuum’s strength; me
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thinking, as this was happening, ‘this will clinch it,’ the husband, inevitably, at this

point, beginning to squint with suspicion) -- would then finally reveal to them that all I

really wanted them to do was buy a vacuum cleaner. For roughly the same price as a five-

year-old used car. The ultimate response varying; -- some of the husbands seeming to get

a kick out of my having the, ahhh, ‘guts’ to pull such a scheme; some seeming to get a

charge, after they figured out what was really going on, at seeing the ongoing

befuddlement of their own wives, wondering how long it would take for her to catch on.

But all in all, people weren’t very impressed. I seemed to have transgressed certain

ethical boundaries -- having brought into the surrounding neighborhood many of the

tactics and stratagems that these husbands usually left at the office. I had quickly gone

from a local young and rising executive, to a pariah-peddler selling overpowered

household utensils.

(One man, an engineer, and his wife, new to the area, actually bought it; and he

used the ‘spray paint’ capability to paint his porch; these people were then divorced

within six months, with the husband driving around the neighborhood looking

‘disheveled,’ and this was before everyone was talking about a thing called ‘Clinical

Depression,’ so people just assumed the man had gone ‘Nuts.’ But his wife liked the

presentation so much -- and here maybe the cushion disappearance act did actually

impress -- she hired me to bartend at the party, the following summer, saying ‘Goodbye’

to their house. One of the first times, when sober, I witnessed a group of about thirty

middle-aged married people absolutely bamboozled by drink. And I can still recall it. A

warm summer evening, slightly overgrown trees rustling, pretty wives drinking cocktails,

their dresses caught by the breeze coming up off the slopes made of grass grown a little
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long, adding to the grass’s effectiveness; the property’s state of disrepair consorting,

Gatsby-like, to pull at the summer dresses -- all gathered to say goodbye to a home lost

via a talented man’s misfortune. And there behind me, the porch, painted by my vacuum

cleaner, by the ‘Gifted’ husband, who had not been seen in months. Many of the adults

gathered in the large doll-house built by the former owner. A strange calibration to the

giggling and laughing within. The celebration, of sorts, a little too self-consciously glib.

And this couple only did last in the neighborhood a year or so. But this man really did

paint the porch with it. The vacuum. And then, within months of this technical

expedition, had, pretty much, lost his mind, his extremely pretty wife, and his house.

Since this instance, I have stuck with the simpler machines. And if I do paint, I use a

brush.)

But in regards to Mrs. Van Oerder -- there were some mothers in the area with

whom I would risk derision and scorn with my little air-purification ploy, but the thought

of involving myself in such with Mrs. Van Oerder never even occurred to me. A friend

even dared me -- ‘Why haven’t you tried selling one to Mrs. Van Oerder? Eleven kids.

Big house. What -- are you chicken?’ The answer to this question of course being, pretty

much, yes. The thought of telling Mrs. Van Oerder I was on the verge of air-purification

executive-hood, so as to gain entrance to her home, then removing all the air from one of

her couch cushions, putting one of the aroma-tablets into the vacuum, to give fragrance to

the air, and then, as the air began to smell like lilacs, asking her to purchase a vacuum

from me, just being a course of action of which I was not capable. I shudder at the

thought of kneeling before her, attachments splayed on one of the rugs of her busy home,

the air slowly returning to a section of her couch from which I had sucked all the air,
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dinner cooking, a waft of artificial-lilacs competing with boiling potatoes, sweat staining

my only and aging wool suit -- and finally asking her to break out the checkbook. I might

never have been asked back. A ringing -- ‘And young George is allergic to lilacs, Jacob.

We didn’t know you were going to infest the house, Jacob. You didn’t tell us that,’ as I

exited.

So one can imagine my mix of emotions -- in light of the years gone by since

having spoken with Mrs. Van Oerder, and a still-present, though increasingly mitigated (I

am rarely in trouble anymore) feeling of being disconcerted when her presence appears

before me, in either memory or actuality -- when I was invited, by Mrs. Van Oerder, to

participate in a family project. All members agreeing to submit written memoirs, of sorts,

regarding the pond upon which a section of the Van Oerder land abutted, and upon, and

around, which much of the neighborhood activity focused. About the length of a football

field and asymmetrically round, it was an estuary, to a large degree, hidden from view

from the passing two-lane street, and was also protected -- from the street -- via the

abutting home and attached land of a local judge. A man of whom we saw little, but a

man of whom it was often said, ‘he’s friendly.’ He was also meticulous with the section

of his land that formed a shore-section of the pond. And since then I have always viewed

members of the judiciary as fairly mysterious people, possibly friendly, that can be

capably charged with the partial curatorship of a pond, or lake.

Regarding ocean-front property I cannot speak; I have no experience in such

matters.

Initially, after receiving the invitation, I was unsure of how to respond. These

large families, again, become somewhat insular and distinct communities. Like visiting,
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say, Belgium (a family any larger than the Van Oerders probably being -- I would

imagine -- more like a visit to, say, India, relative to resources, logistics, and resulting

chaos). But, after again confirming my invitation to participate, I decided why not? Here,

contained in somewhat self-concerned thought, driving along our thin little streets -- the

sidewalk of mine in the process of being tarred and redone -- I thought I would at least

participate. And the following is what I submitted to Mrs. Van Oerder. My brief

compilation of memories regarding our own local conflated tributary (it was part of the

local water system, in a form of which I was never fully sure). Thoughts recalled while

travelling to work, surrounded, often, by delinquents that choose to speed on our side-

streets.

These thoughts, and hoped for resultant destination of these thoughts, allowing

me, for a moment, to have the deadlines of an author. While travelling to work, my mind

seemed somehow more engaged; more focused; me, for whatever reason, while

composing my typed, double-spaced remembrance, viewing my surrounding car-

ensconced barbarians, and their flagrant disrespect for our rules, more with pity than with

contempt. Emerging from my sedan -- I also listened to talk-radio less -- somehow, a

little more sanguine. Viewing these heathens, in the wake of my thoughts, from, possibly,

a perch of composure. It seemed, when so immersed, at times, as if I were caught in the

brief wake of a ship, somehow passing through, or silently and eerily over, me. Very

strange.

Nevertheless, the thoughts submitted to Mrs. Van Oerder, sent through wires at a

speed that only a few can measure, leaving, I believe, little in their wake, were these, that

I pass along to you:

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Marland’s Pond Memoir

Submitted

by

Jacob Dugan

I am not sure this constitutes an actual memory, but very often, when I step out

into a cold, bright day in January -- and very often, for whatever reason, when I am

walking towards my car -- I think it would be a great day for a game of pickup hockey;

and, obviously, the best place for that game would be Marland’s.

I, of course, would not want to anger Michael, but I must say that one of my most

vivid memories of Marland’s is watching Michael push my dog headfirst into the pond. I

hesitated at first to bring this up, because, in all, I did not exactly cover myself with glory

in this whole episode. First, I had no idea that dogs could inherently swim. And, of

course, Brigitte was enormous and much too fat, so I thought she was just going to sink

to the bottom and never come up. I was completely overcome by the whole thing.

Thinking, for a moment at least, that Brigitte was doomed. Then I immediately started

thinking about how I should respond. I am unsure of the actual time-frame in which these

events transpired, but I am quite sure that at some point prior to all this Michael had

gotten the best of me in some sort of ‘scuffle’ -- so physical recourse did not seem to hold

much promise. I was also so fearful for Brigitte’s safety -- who was actually up and out

of the pond in no time at all -- that I had probably convinced myself that it was this that
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should be my primary focus. Hoping that this would be at least a somewhat honorable

course of action.

But whatever my thoughts were, I was, for whatever reason -- confusion, anger at

not knowing how to respond, amazement at the sight of actually watching Michael

participate in what I assumed was the near death of an over-sized and bewildered Brigitte

-- ridiculously distraught over the whole thing. I trudged home, with Brigitte at my side,

and I believe she was completely dry, and completely oblivious to it all, by the time we

returned home. I, though, was still distraught. Here I would like to be able to report --

unequivocally -- that I did not ‘rat’ and no parental figures were told about the incident.

And I do think this was probably the case. I think this because I don’t remember ever

hearing my Grandmother, Nana Corbett, talk about the incident. And with Nana Corbett

you were either on The Good List or The Bad List. Somehow Michael had managed to

get on The Bad List (Luke was -- and there is no surprise here -- on The Good List). And

if Nana Corbett had ever found out that Michael had shoved Brigitte (who was also on

The Good List) into Marland’s, we simply never would have heard the end of it. This

would have been all the evidence she needed to make an airtight case against Michael.

She already blamed most of the mishaps she came across on him, so I feel, because I did

not endlessly hear -- ‘That Michael Van Oerder, he tried to drown Brigitte, you know.

First he broke the window in the garage, then he tried to drown Brigitte. I just don’t know

about that Michael Van Oerder. He’s not a good boy, like our Jacob.’ -- because I did not

endlessly hear this, I think I can report with some confidence that I did not ‘rat.’ At least I

hope I didn’t. But if I did, it’s an undeniable blemish.

I thought it was very funny that when I saw Michael at Luke’s wedding, and we
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both spoke about this, Michael apologized, I graciously accepted, and then we both began

recriminating each other about how awful we had been to Manny Westphalen. I do not

know where that poor guy is now -- I would imagine he is some sort of dot-com

millionaire -- but we certainly were cruel to him. I would certainly never speak for girls,

but I guess this is just a part of boys growing up. But we certainly should have been

kinder to Manny. He did, after all, let us use his pool. And we repaid him by trying to

take his head off during pickup football games. I hope he has forgiven us, though, and

has not gone the way of, say, Ted Kaczynski.

I also have a recollection of -- once again with Michael -- spending a spate of time

climbing over and around trees while pushing some sort of raft, that we either found or

partially made, around the edge of the pond. An almost completely pointless exercise, but

a means of occupying an afternoon.

My fondest memories, though, are definitely of pickup hockey games during

clear, cold days in winter. And most seem telling in the context of the neighborhood in

general. I remember once inviting a friend -- from outside the neighborhood -- up to play

hockey. At some point, early in the morning, Luke got in a fist-fight with this guy, and

then, by the end of the day, Luke was friendlier with this guy than I was (which, again,

seems to be a very ‘Luke’ instance, or incident). I also remember the day Lester came up

to the pond with all his goalie equipment on. Charlie, Jon -- all the older guys -- were

lining up, nearly salivating, at the opportunity to take shots, well, pretty much at his head.

Lester was standing there, yelling, telling people to move back, waving his catching

glove. He was not pleased. And I am not sure what it says about me but I thought the

whole thing was great (I was probably wishing I had a harder shot). Each shot seemed
Finneran/WATER 13

like a drama in itself, wondering if the shooter would nudge the puck forward again,

wondering if future Chief-of-Police Lester would start yelling back at them. If someone

would eventually shoot one at the general vicinity of his head. (I think he had a notion

that this was becoming the general idea, so I can’t say I really blame him for getting a bit

upset.) Though I must say it is somewhat interesting that these are the sorts of people that

end up in positions of authority.

(The Germans have some sort of term -- I believe it is shadenfreude -- for

enjoying the suffering of others. And I think this is pretty much an enormous part of the

culture of adolescent boys, and I don’t think the social engineers will ever be able to

purge it completely, if at all. I am sure Mrs. Van Oerder would have a few extremely

well-informed opinions of her own on such a phenomenon.)

In all, I can’t say I have a single bad memory revolving around Marland’s. I feel

very fortunate that I grew up in such a neighborhood; and though there were obviously

many elements that contributed to the neighborhood’s culture, having, what we

perceived, as our own body of water certainly contributed (though I still do not know

who officially owns Marland’s). I will not digress, and hope not to sound like I’m

growing old before my time, but things certainly did seem simpler, and there are things I

read about today I just don’t understand -- my latest pet peeve being putting all these

young kids on prescription drugs (a trend which I believe will bear, for all of us, bitter

fruit). I think in our neighborhood the parents had enough confidence in themselves --

knowing their presence would be felt even when not physically present -- to let kids go

off and be kids; and to the best of my knowledge no one ever got seriously hurt. Having

Marland’s was a little like having a small moat away from the rest of the world, and,
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other than Chris Garabedian, I don’t think anyone ever had to be medicated. I think a

week of playing pond hockey on Marland’s would straighten out just about any kid’s

problems, and will always be better than any medication ever invented. I can still feel the

exhilaration of skating with the wind and can still hear the strange sorts of echoes, that

came with the cold, of the puck hitting hockey sticks, or a big echo when the puck would

hit some big old log. When, while walking towards the pond, I heard those sounds, I

knew I would soon be playing hockey with everyone else. The voices of those calling

back and forth, yelling for the puck, were, for me at least, like the call of the Sirens. And

I don’t think a ship’s mast could have prevented any of us from getting down there to

play. Just hearing it always gave me a rush. Playing all day was like a gift. I hope at least

a few kids are still using Marland’s. If they are they are smart and, I think, probably

without even knowing it, they are lucky.

END

I believe, or at least hope, Mrs. Van Oerder enjoyed receiving my ruminations --

she seemed pleased with the reference to Nana Corbett; those given to matriarchal

responsibility often sticking together; furtively rooting for the other gal, and whichever

disciplinary devices are effective. And, after receiving said ruminations told me she had

been in contact with Mr. Leonard, a former history teacher of mine, and a member of the

same history department as Mr. Keegan; Mr. Leonard a tall man, athletically built, with a

fairly normal-sized head. The only remarkable physical distinction Mr. Leonard

possessed being a remarkable temper, which would produce a red in both face and neck
Finneran/WATER 15

that actually shined. A sort of bright, Macintosh apple, vermilion diffusion, offsetting the

complimentary pallor of his inescapably Celtic countenance. Both Mr. Keegan and Mr.

Leonard being members of the history department at the small Catholic boys’ school I

attended the next town over.

Mrs. Van Oerder, having been an archivist for our town, and Mr. Leonard having

started passing along short history-pieces for the local town-weekly, had seen their paths

cross and both had been in touch regarding various matters of local history -- their

contact sustained, I am quite sure, via the e-mail buttons on their respective computers. I

learning -- and this was previously unbeknownst to me -- that Mr. Leonard had grown up

in the same neighborhood as I. An area called, strangely enough, The North Center --

because this was the original location of the North Parish, then for a time was something

of a Center, these two forces then congealing, and the moniker The North Center

eventually sticking. Many assuming The Center had been named for a man named North.

Because who, after all, would consciously call something The North Center? Like the

entire neighborhood was, for all eternity, doomed to be Left of Center. (My Grandfather,

after reading, or hearing, of another mishap, conundrumous event, or naming miscue, that

seemed particularly endemic to our town of Billington, would shake his head and say,

usually to himself: ‘If it can happen in Hollywood, it can happen in Billington.

Hollywood and Billington, one in the same.’ The clincher, for him, coming when the

town built an entire reservoir that, because of its elevation -- or lack thereof -- relative to

the rest of the town’s water supply, would not drain. Building what was, in essence, a

multi-million dollar puddle. Many were upset and incredulous. Grampa simply shrugged,

the rest of us saying, to ourselves, ‘If it can happen in Hollywood, it can happen in
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Billington.’ The reservoir still sits idle; not far from North Center -- a misplaced

tributary; a sadly stagnant orphan.)

I had not spoken with Mr. Leonard in many years, and felt, for a variety of

reasons, but one specifically, terrible about this. He had been hurt in an accident while

swimming in ocean surf, had had his life saved by our biology teacher, as he was pulled

from the surf, and then had been faced with paralysis and a wheelchair. Using a breathing

device to control the chair. I had not written, and only seen him in passing a few times

while returning to school to watch a game or two. Not knowing how to respond, I had

not responded at all. This never being a particularly honorable path. I would not go as far

as to say that my inaction was spawned by something as unseemly as some form of

cowardice, or some wholesale, constitutional inability to deal directly with such

circumstances, but do remember some author saying, at some point, a long time ago, that

cowardice tastes of a rusty knife. And I think he was right. My inaction and lethargy in

this instance tasting a bit like corroded metal. It is not a good taste.

But, via my contact with Mrs. Van Oerder, the extended characteristic of this

contact owing much of its entirety to our local pond, I was then put back in touch with

Mr. Leonard. Who has since sent me a few of the articles he had prepared for the local

town weekly of Billington. (I now live a few towns over. A nice town, though absent

some of the indigenous drama of the town of Billington. Towns, much like people, don’t

seem to change much.) I enjoyed reading the articles, but was somewhat surprised by the

enormous degree to which Marland’s had been used by Mr. Leonard and his own tribe in

his own days. Me assuming, I guess, that we had somehow spontaneously conceived of

the idea of utilizing this local resource extensively -- and that we had also created, again
Finneran/WATER 17

with a sort of physics defying spontaneous combustion, the near fanatical degree to which

we treated the pond with a protective, near territorial, insularity. If the Van Oerders were

Belgium, and the rest of us were the surrounding Low Countries, Marland’s was our

water supply. And the notion of ‘outsiders,’ -- barbarian hordes there to steal our water;

or, possibly even worse, skate upon our water -- was present even in Mr. Leonard’s

history piece.

Mrs. Van Oerder also sent along to me what she said all felt was the best piece

relative to the pond -- written by one of her older sons, about ten years older than I,

named Gabriel. Luke, who was only a year older than me, was my closest friend

amongst this family. And the ensuing older brothers of course took on a somewhat

legendary status, relative to ours, which never fully ebbs; they remain, to a great degree,

forever, triumphant figures.

I read Gabriel’s piece, and learned a great deal about the pond’s history and

construction, but was somewhat awe-struck by two factors -- one being the efficacy of

the piece. It was reverential in a manner which I possibly had shied away from; thinking

it would be too nostalgic; such a course, or non-course, possibly reflecting a somewhat

macabre sensibility in my own composition. I suppose I had mistakenly shuffled

nostalgia and reverence. The second marked element of the piece was the un-deniability

of the older generation, relative to that of mine and Luke’s, being much more in tune with

the natural rhythms and natural forces present at Marland’s. For us, it seemed more a

simple spot for recreation. For them, it was also, one could not help realize, a naturalist’s

source of edification. And I think from this those before us drew strength. A core

impermeability. I always try to remember, as I look around me, and many of the
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problems I tell myself I see, and am convinced are present, that Winston Churchill was

happiest, as a young boy, collecting butterflies. He did not view this as effeminate nor

extraneous. He later saved Great Britain and, in the opinion of many, shortened World

War II by four to five years. (By which time the Nazis, if they had given Heisenberg the

money, might have developed a nuclear bomb; and already had a ‘Flying Wing,’ upon

which our present B-2 stealth bomber is modeled; their ‘Flying Wing’ sitting idle, much

like the reservoir near North Center, in the basement of our Smithsonian for 40 years.

Even in ’45 it could have flown above our radar, and over New York City.) Churchill

starting as an enthusiastic butterfly collector; Darwin (if you buy into his sort of thing) a

semi-eccentric collector of beetles. (I am in my 30s, and still single, so such things are,

well, they’re things I still try and keep track of. The History Network an often capable

companion in the context of such interests.) And the generation that occupied the pond,

only 10 or so years before our occupancy had its four to five years of ascendant prime,

knew in which sections of the pond various species of various animals, land and water-

based, tended to live. I did not know these things. It had never even occurred to me to

learn.

Time has passed now since my brief involvement with the submission of a

Marland’s Pond memoir. I have not spoken, nor been in contact with, Gabriel since and

probably, unless through Luke, will not be again. I now speak -- largely through the e-

mail button on my computer -- to Mr. Leonard now and then, and we exchange thoughts,

ideas, and information. And every now and then I receive an electronic missive from

Mrs. Van Oerder. But for a brief stint, for a few weeks or so, there was a flurry of activity

-- and I hope it not cumbersomely nostalgic to say that our small pond was this activity’s
Finneran/WATER 19

catalyst. And during that time many of my thoughts seemed elevated. Concerned with

matters that strove somehow upward. And maybe, just maybe, it was not nostalgia, but an

acceptable level of reverence.

But Fall is upon us now. The mornings and the evenings given their increasingly

cold-edged shrouds. My own breath, the exhaust of the automobiles around me, those

walking to and from their disparate destinations, the young children marching towards

their buses, all breathing out their own plumes of steam, briefly warming the season’s

growing chill. And as I drive home now, it is dark. A cold darkness, with the heaviness

that comes with days that are shortening. In our town there are many old stone walls; and

maybe even some newer stone walls built to look old; but at night, when moving along at

the speed limit, it is difficult to tell, except for the truly ancient, one from the other; --

though the field-stone fortifications that date back to the Puritans, and their descendents,

are difficult to miss. They are now more geological than residential. But as I turn

amongst the thin side-streets that carry me home, the freeways a distant hum, a thing

happens that I think strange, and seems to happen more and more. As I turn, the

headlights of my sedan seem to be swallowed, just for a moment, by these walls. Made of

granite-gray rocks, and of sweat. The best requiring no mortar. And these walls seem to

hold my headlights for a moment, like my car will not turn. The light, there before me,

seeming to bend, the car struggling to continue on, dovetail perfect walls holding my

headlights in their tiny crevices. Glints of stone sparkling. And sometimes it is still cold

here in my car. My aging sedan. And a plume of steam appears before me, produced by

my breath. And I do not know why, but certain thoughts appear in my head. I am not sure

why, but these thoughts appear in my head -- my still normal sized head, it will never
Finneran/WATER 20

reach the stature of Mr. Keegan’s -- in a single ongoing image. A tableau lengthened by

movement. And it involves these plumes, that I see everywhere now that it is Fall, and

that we all seem to be making; it involves these sort of visible calls, and it involves

Marland’s.

Because when you arrived at the pond, you usually went to the far shore. Where

the sun was always most bright, and the ground formed a natural seat. And you sat on

your coat and you tied on your skates, and salivated with anticipation. Heart running like

a piston gaining speed. And you looked up. And there everyone was. Skates and sticks,

limbs moving with a grace unattainable on any other surface, except maybe beneath

water; dips and weaves, the calm handling of the puck, the sweet silence of the

occasional trip and fall. And everyone breathing. Producing these plumes of steam. The

same color as the ice. Like we could all produce these plumes of alabaster, blown out like

glass, and swallow them like fuel. Producing and consuming our own energy. Machines

of perpetual motion. Fuel as white as the ice. Like these plumes were directly connected

down to the ice over which we traveled. Blades cutting without effort, or harm. And we

traveled with a speed not attainable anywhere else. We moved, I believe, like rockets.

Because we did not feel the wind nor the cold. Because a rocket does not feel the wind

nor the cold. Just the sweet taste of its own fuel, and the Zephyrs it leaves in its wake.

And all around us, up high, four and five-stories high, the trunks and boughs and

branches of the enormous trees that were around us. But mostly they were to our left and

right. On the banks of the Eastern and Western Shores. And these were our spectators.

Old and enormous. Sheathes of bark, in the cold, like barnacles of granite. They stood.

Sturdy as gravestone. Calm as Chieftains. Their branches reaching out over the pond,
Finneran/WATER 21

casting web-like shadows on our ice. If burdened with leaves they would have blocked

the sun. And when the wind whistled, the shadows moved. And it seemed, if you just

glanced up as you skated, as if the branches, with their bent, cragged fingers, would be

dipping, and nodding with approval. The howl of wind through the trees. Branches

cheering a shot, approving of a pass. The wind, through the trees, howling and laughing,

at a spill. We there as tiny mortals, entertaining our Arboreal Gods. Happy as Sprites,

fearless as Warriors.

But then my sedan moves onward. The heater in the car maybe beginning to work

more effectively. My own plumes of steam disappearing. But I do think of many of the

things that go on around us. And sometimes I think of other things. Those that I have

known and have gone on. Some, that I knew at Catholic school, or at college, seem to

have made a mark. Finance, law, one is an elected official. A few have gone to

Hollywood. One is a music impresario. And as I drive along I think it would be a fine

thing to actually solve a problem. Like Salk, or the Wright Brothers, or Turing and the

Enigma Code. Because we keep trying to solve things, and it really doesn’t seem to be

working. People are driving much worse.

And I wonder what the world would be like -- and I feel here I might elicit, like

me lugging my vacuum cleaner from home to home, some laughter -- but I will say it

nevertheless -- the statement of a man just travelling his side-streets -- I wonder what the

world would be like if all had access to a good-sized pond. Think of the island of

Manhattan. And instead of living on East 75th, between Second and Third, one lived ‘up

near Javits Pond.’ Or instead of West 52nd and Columbus, one lived ‘one block east of

Moynihan Pond,’ or DiMaggio Pond. (Here in Boston we have named one of our new
Finneran/WATER 22

tunnels after Ted Williams. People like the name.) Imagine the Back Bay of Boston --

‘Joan, why don’t we meet at that new bistro, a few blocks from Paul Revere Pond?’ The

young woman then listens to her friend’s response, politely, then responds again. ‘If it’s

okay, dear, I’d really rather not. Not there. That area -- down near Paul Revere Pond --

it’s still nice, but it’s a lot of college kids, and those sort of Euro-people, that wear

Armani and don’t seem to have to work. Why don’t we meet near Bobby Orr Pond.’ Or

imagine San Francisco, with its hills and views, its pastel-homes fading in Pacific

sunsets, and the manic energy derived from living on an enormous fault, imagine it

speckled with ponds.

But the ponds would have to be curated by those whose land was attached. A

purely civic effort. Each pond would have its own Mrs. Van Oerder, and semi-mysterious

judge. And all would be responsible for its status. A pond over-ripe with growth, pocked

with litter, marred by a dearth of life, would reflect on all in the surrounding area. And I

do realize there would have to be a concomitant wreath of trees, general forestation,

underbrush, and runoff around the ponds. A ring of the natural fauna, and effluvia,

needed to sustain life. And though I understand this only, largely, through reading -- not

through practice, like many of those that have gone before me, as on, e.g., Marland’s -- I

do know that fifty pairs of heath hens survived for a time on Martha’s Vineyard, but this

number was below the critical number needed to breed successfully, and the species

became extinct in 1932. I know something called a cormorant needs a density of three

nests per ten square-feet to breed successfully. So I know a rim of acreage would be

needed -- taking up more city space -- but I feel it is critical. It must be a real pond. But a

section of the shore must be owned by a Mrs. Van Oerder, giving her a natural oversight
Finneran/WATER 23

status. And I think many problems, with this addition of ponds, would be solved. And

this is the best solution I have come up with.

I have no predisposition towards engineering, chemistry, biology, digital

knowledge nor physics. I simply, from its local headquarters and warehouses, make sure

Produce items arrive at a number of local supermarkets. At night I read history beneath a

banker’s lamp, and if I ever marry my days of watching the History Network on Friday

nights will, I assume, end. But, as far as the sublime, well -- Upon hearing that it was no

longer legal, in Massachusetts, to ride in the back of a pickup truck -- a law I view as

terrible -- I did, on my way to work, design one of those tool-chest-type of things that

goes in the back of a pickup, just behind the cab. And, placed on top of the tool chest,

two seats, that will fold up-and-down with the tool chest’s use -- with seat belts and all

the rest of the apparatus that are now required. This way, young people can still drive in

the back of pickup trucks. Young people should do certain things. And it is a good thing

for young men to drive in the back of a pickup truck. It is, almost, a moving pond. A

summer eve in front, the road passing behind, enormous trees, passing, on the Left and

Right Shores. Almost like sitting, while still on skates. I could drive in the back of a

pickup for days.

But, alas, it is getting late, and sleep awaits. I will go to my refrigerator, and

retrieve my little filtration-pitcher device, which I fill with water drawn from my faucet.

I had never really thought about our water prior to my involvement with the brief memoir

of Marland’s. It was just an ever-present resource, there with the twist of a handle. And

now I shall heat some and make some tea. Tomorrow, in the morning, more tea, and a

few big glasses of water, fortifying me for the day. The water coming from our local
Finneran/WATER 24

reservoir, which is a pond that has been there for millennia. And is now our drinking

supply, in which none are allowed to swim. None were allowed to swim in the water-

supply in Billington -- a large lake; which is, I suppose, an enormous Pond. But we

occasionally did. And often we were dried in the wake of the cab of a fast-moving

pickup. Young men do these things. As they should. Later in life, some things, maybe

not.

As with most, I think rarely about the quarter-thick stream of what is, in essence,

a piece of our Pond, falling down from my faucet, and into my new filtration-pitcher

device. But could not help think of it more a few days ago. There I received a brochure of

sorts -- far too well appointed to be called a pamphlet -- about 8-½”-X-11” in size, on a

glossy, cardboard sort of paper. Distinct enough to catch my attention. Eight Paiges in

length. Long enough to connote an actual booklet. There on the front, an aerial view of

our town’s formidable water treatment plant, right there on the banks of Clausen’s Pond;

the Pond which supplies us all with our water. Not a sublime building at which to look,

but one of a certain captivating pragmatism. It has a purpose, and its purpose is

contained, certainly, in its aerially captured edifice.

I, for whatever reason -- age, prosaic-mindedness, a growing interest in the

minutiae of life -- sat and read over the pamphlet, with a surprising degree of interest.

There before me, presented with pictures and graphics, small drawing-paintings -- of the

type you see in news magazines when drawing the innards of a nuclear plant, or ‘Uncle

Sam’ driving a car into a gas station for what, we are told, is expensive gas --- of the

various phases of our water-filtration system. Pictures of the enormous turbines that clean

our water, devices that give it ozone, something called a gas chromotographer. Written
Finneran/WATER 25

explanations, with accompanying schema, drawings, paintings and graphs, of what it is

they do with the water drawn from Clausen’s, in which none of us swim. It tells of the

chemicals they use, of the ‘granular activated carbon,’ and the sand, the enormous tanks,

the runoff drains, the pipes leading to the local river -- and an emergency dam which will

stay any possible contaminants from said river (there is a drawing of a fuel truck tipping

over, on a bridge above this possibly threatening river). They are very concerned with

contaminants. And must, I derive, even be wary of certain organic compounds, such as

radon. Though the river with which they concern themselves, there beneath the falling

truck, is now largely clean. Twenty-five years ago it was one of the filthiest rivers in the

country, but has been cleaned to such a degree that few talk about it anymore. One of the

most successful river cleanups recorded. When it was filthy people talked about, and

joked about it, often. I have a friend who now water skis on the river. And few say much

about. They just use it.

This booklet of sorts explaining how our water is cleaned, purified, and given

things like this ozone, and then presented to the world. Showing us all this endoskeleton

of pipes and drains, filters and turbines, tributaries and estuaries, chemicals and

computers. And there on the second page, a picture of two of the women that run the

office. Middle-aged, happy, there at their desks, guardians of our water. They look

content. We all know them. Children, conventional marriage, maybe grandchildren on the

way. An occasional vacation. Wondering, now and then, what it would be like to lead a

more glamorous life. Both know a remarkable amount about Jacqueline Onassis. Both

can sew. Both have seen tragedy and mishap. I used to deliver their paper. You might

have mowed their lawn.

Finneran/WATER 26

And as I look over my booklet, sent to me as a citizen of our town, a registered

voter, here on this side-street grown increasingly busy, but a good street nonetheless, I

cannot help think of our own pond. Of Marland’s. I look down at the drawings and

schematics and at all the implements and processes used to create our water, and I could

not help think of our little world around our little pond. Our tiny little ecosystem. All of

us, at times daily, leaving the little eddies -- some calm, some turbulent -- of our own

homes, following our own tributaries; -- mine was left out the driveway, straight up

Moore Street, and straight up to the Van Oerder’s; Mark had to cut up over fields and

forest to get to Moore, then head left; Jim and Wayne walked up the side of Packer Hill,

and its traffic, then cut right on Marland Hill Road. And then we met at our reservoir.

Mrs. Van Oerder having decided whether or not it was safe to skate -- hers was the final

word, no decision by committee -- and there we met and conducted our games, following

rules unspoken, the Rules of the Playground, passed along by the occupants that preceded

us -- the older Van Oerder brothers, their compatriots and combatants -- and there

everything was mixed, and processed, and eventually created. Impurities sifted, then

ground away. In the summer, fish were caught, then thrown back, some frogs were killed,

but not too many, and certainly not enough to affect the area’s ecology. All of us

realizing, maybe, we’d only be killing ourselves. There, somehow, I believe we were

actually processed. Given some of this ozone. And cast out into a world that, at least for a

time, many found befuddling. I know I did. But we were Warriors once on our small,

local run, and we shall always be Warriors again. We needed not chemicals nor

granulated carbon nor turbines. But somehow I feel there, above, and around, this water,

we were purified. We became at the very least potable. And, one hopes, something more.
Finneran/WATER 27

So I shall drink my tea, and then it is off to my bed. I hope for a restful evening.

Tomorrow to work. In the morning, tea, and gulps of water taken from Clausen’s Pond.

It is now pitch black in the morning. And often I can see my breath. Can see the breath of

the young citizens making their way to their buses. Like silent Braves skulking the streets

before a raid. They seem to move with a strange, inherent elan that I see in a local cat

when it is moving about the lawn in front of my apartment, engaged in the hunt. They

move in stealth. And I drive on. My heater, maybe I should fix it. It takes time for it to

heat up. But I just drive on. My breathing appearing before me. Vague plumes. They

appear before me and then are gone. Gone like they were never there. Gone fast. And I

put on my directionals, I take a left, and press on the gas, and I feel the car accelerate. I

feel the pistons pull me forward, push me back into my seat, and I come close to breaking

the speed limit. But the street is near abandoned. There are no children I could possibly

hurt. And for a moment my sedan hurtles forward, me holding tight to my steering

wheel. I cannot feel the wind nor the cold. Yes, a windshield and a heater are there, but

still, I can not feel the cold, nor the wind. I breathe in, then I breathe out. The windshield

seems to be only getting in my way. Holding stoic, though exuberant. I wish I could

remove it. Make it disappear. The steam of my breath appearing, then disappearing. Fast.

Fast as a rocket. I glance in my mirror, there behind me, the exhaust leaving the hint of a

wake. But I am nearing the speed limit. Here on one of my streets. But for a moment I

keep accelerating. Wishing the windshield were not there. I reach and put down the

window. Air streaming in. Carburetor opening. Plumes reappearing and brightening. The

cold feels as if nothing, and for a moment I am impervious. Pistons becoming one. And
Finneran/WATER 28

for a moment I am once again Fast. Fast as a Rocket. Like a Rocket made of nothing.

Nothing but air.

-- END --