This Sceptred Isle
The Unindicted Co-Conspirator and I live on a tidy little peninsula, a few blocks from the harbor on one side and the mighty Atlantic Ocean on the other. We like our town. It's small and easily walkable. It's only a short distance from downtown Boston. In the summer, there's a ferry, there's a bus to the Blue Line, and it's a quick drive through Eastie to the tunnel. The only long way is by bicycle - you've got to go several miles out of the way to get across the harbor. We have a library and good restaurants and lovely beaches.
In short, I like it here.
But every now and then, I play a little game in my mind. I live here because I like it, sure, but also because I'm frankly stuck here. We need to live near our employers. We’ve got bills and a mortgage to pay. But what if money were no object? What if a lawyer from the estate of my long-lost great-uncle Hezekiah, who made a fortune investing in Hollerith tabulating cards, suddenly turned up on my doorstep with a check for ten million dollars? "You were the only great-grand-nephew who never hit him up for money, so he has left his entire estate to you." Would I still live here?
The Unindicted Co-Conspirator, always the brains of this operation, would want to spend a few weeks in several possible areas, from Cape Hatteras to Cape Breton on this coast, and from the Big Sur north to Vancouver on the left. Then maybe some time in Scandinavia, Switzerland perhaps, and New Zealand. She’d want to make a carefully informed decision.
Me, I already know where I'd go. No question or doubt about it. I’d be on the next eastbound plane, headed for:
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England…
(Richard II, Act II, scene 1)
I lived there between 1975 and 1977, but the Air Force wouldn’t let me stay. I still have dreams from which I wake in tears because I had to leave again.
About a dozen years ago, my brother met a charming young man working over here as an au pair. They returned to England together, and now dwell in wedded bliss just outside London. That won’t work for me, I’m already happily married. She lived over there, too, a few years after me, but returned when her student visa ran out.
But, you say, the England I remember from thirty-eight years ago is long gone. It’s a whole ‘nother country now, beset with all of the problems of this modern age and probably a few more besides.
I don’t care. The philosophers say you can’t go home again, just as you can’t step twice in the same river. That doesn’t mean there aren’t rivers, or that there aren’t homes. There are days, and this is one, when I wish mine was about five hours closer to Greenwich Mean Time.
NPR told me this morning that Stonehenge is looking to hire a caretaker to be a liaison with the various Druids and neo-pagans and ensure that their various rites do not damage the ancient stone circle. It’s a perfect second career!
Sadly, Great Uncle Hezekiah remains in amazingly robust health or continues to be long-lost. I’ll just have to wander down to the beach and look longingly eastward.
In short, I like it here.
But every now and then, I play a little game in my mind. I live here because I like it, sure, but also because I'm frankly stuck here. We need to live near our employers. We’ve got bills and a mortgage to pay. But what if money were no object? What if a lawyer from the estate of my long-lost great-uncle Hezekiah, who made a fortune investing in Hollerith tabulating cards, suddenly turned up on my doorstep with a check for ten million dollars? "You were the only great-grand-nephew who never hit him up for money, so he has left his entire estate to you." Would I still live here?
The Unindicted Co-Conspirator, always the brains of this operation, would want to spend a few weeks in several possible areas, from Cape Hatteras to Cape Breton on this coast, and from the Big Sur north to Vancouver on the left. Then maybe some time in Scandinavia, Switzerland perhaps, and New Zealand. She’d want to make a carefully informed decision.
Me, I already know where I'd go. No question or doubt about it. I’d be on the next eastbound plane, headed for:
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England…
(Richard II, Act II, scene 1)
I lived there between 1975 and 1977, but the Air Force wouldn’t let me stay. I still have dreams from which I wake in tears because I had to leave again.
About a dozen years ago, my brother met a charming young man working over here as an au pair. They returned to England together, and now dwell in wedded bliss just outside London. That won’t work for me, I’m already happily married. She lived over there, too, a few years after me, but returned when her student visa ran out.
But, you say, the England I remember from thirty-eight years ago is long gone. It’s a whole ‘nother country now, beset with all of the problems of this modern age and probably a few more besides.
I don’t care. The philosophers say you can’t go home again, just as you can’t step twice in the same river. That doesn’t mean there aren’t rivers, or that there aren’t homes. There are days, and this is one, when I wish mine was about five hours closer to Greenwich Mean Time.
NPR told me this morning that Stonehenge is looking to hire a caretaker to be a liaison with the various Druids and neo-pagans and ensure that their various rites do not damage the ancient stone circle. It’s a perfect second career!
Sadly, Great Uncle Hezekiah remains in amazingly robust health or continues to be long-lost. I’ll just have to wander down to the beach and look longingly eastward.