Posts from the ‘scout tales’ Category
time to get up, a voice said softly, as one of my counselors drew back a canvas flap of our spaciously appointed platform tent. ok, thanks, i replied. hunkered down in my cozy, bright orange, flannel-lined sleeping bag, i wondered if the temperature inside the tent was even colder than it was outside. irrelevant. it was my early-morning destiny to get up before the rest of my campmates and high-tail it down to the dining hall. today, it was my privilege to serve as a hopper.
in stunning camp uniform
fewer girl scout camp chores were more revered than hopper. hoppers set massive dining tables with shiny silverware and sparkling glasses. they neatly stacked plates, positioning them strategically in front of where the head of the table would reign supreme. and they ensured that serving spoons, condiments (like real maple syrup and homemade jams) and pitchers of icy water were at the ready. most importantly, when the cooks had piled serving dishes high with hot food, hoppers were poised to swiftly and gracefully move the delicious fare from kitchen to table.
i unzipped my sleeping bag and gingerly put my feet on the cold wooden planks. shivering, with lips the color purple, i threw on a sweatshirt, shorts and sneakers, cursorily brushed my teeth and speedily hiked to the dining hall. upon arrival, i went about my hopper business. those counselors who didn’t have direct camper responsibility stood on the back porch chatting and drinking cups of steaming-hot coffee. a few of them looked disheveled, as if they’d been up (or out) late the night before. the cooks and their assistants stirred large pots of oatmeal and cream of wheat and scrambled dozens of eggs. they talked and laughed as they fried bacon and flipped pancakes.
i grabbed two metal pitchers and walked down the hill to the pump, where i filled them and tried valiantly not to spill a drop on the return trip. carefully placing them on my table, i stood back to evaluate my work. yes, i was ready. the breakfast bell sounded, and campers and counselors filed into the dining hall. i stood at my post, craning my neck just a little, hoping that two of my favorite counselors would choose to sit at my table. after singing a short grace , it was time for hoppers to jump into action. we maneuvered to the kitchen window, picking up heavy serving dishes and carrying them back to our designated tables. there, sitting at the left hand of a favorite counselor, i watched my table like a hawk, fetching and refilling to give the best possible service. i loved every minute of it. when other campers weren’t elated with their assigned hopper kapers, i happily volunteered to take their places. i’ve been hanging out in the kitchen ever since.
if you’re looking for a speedy breakfast treat, try these lemon pancakes. a little more upscale, perhaps, than we may have been served at camp. but the huckleberry compote isn’t out of the realm of New Hampshire girl scout cuisine.
lemon pancakes with huckleberry compote
a variation on a Emeril LaGasse recipe
makes enough pancakes for four
INGREDIENTS
for the compote
2 cups huckleberries
1/3 cup sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons tapioca flour (or corn starch)
2 tablespoons water
for the pancakes
1 cup organic all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
a pinch of salt
1 cup organic buttermilk
1 large organic egg
2 tablespoons butter, melted
2 tablespoons lemon zest
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, cut into tablespoons
confectioners’ sugar
DIRECTIONS
- in a saucepan over medium heat, combine huckleberries, lemon juice and sugar.
- bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer and cook the berries for 5 to 8 minutes.
- in a small bowl, dissolve the tapioca flour into the water.
- slowly add the tapioca mixture to the huckleberries, and stir until thickened.
- set aside and keep warm.
- in a small mixing bowl, whisk the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt.
- in a medium mixing bowl, whisk the buttermilk, egg and 2 tablespoons of melted butter until completely incorporated.
- add the dry ingredients to the wet mixture, and whisk until slightly smooth; retain some lumps.
- fold the lemon zest into the batter and let rest for a few minutes.
- in a skillet or griddle, melt a few tablespoons of the butter over medium heat.
- to form each pancake, pour 1/4 cup of the batter into the skillet.
- cook for approximately 2 to 3 minutes on each side or until the batter bubbles, and the pancake is golden brown.
- continue to add butter and cook pancakes until you’re out of batter!
- serve by sprinkling pancakes with confectioners’ sugar.
- place a generous dollop of compote on each serving.
an alternative: serve the pancakes topped with fresh raspberries or blackberries.
some things never change. like my commitment to following my own true north. consistently choosing that road not taken has likely taken me considerably longer than most would care to tread. but i’ve strived to savor the journey. guided by that true north—inspired by and celebrating my mom—i plan to spend more time blazing trails in my kitchen, bringing little bird baking company to life.
my mom was witty. hip. smart. generous. warm. funny. with a wicked sweet tooth and an equally wicked New England stubborn streak. with an open heart, she embraced and enchanted nearly everyone she met. from the beginning until the very end, my mom was my champion and confidante. it is in her honor—and with gratitude and love—that i dedicate little bird baking company.
for a while, i’ll be practicing tried-and-true recipes and perfecting new ones. with friends and family as judges, i know i’ll receive honest feedback to help refine and uplift my results. as always, i’ll share my experiences with you through recipes and stories. and i’ll keep you informed as this new baking adventure unfolds.
breathing life into little bird wouldn’t have been possible without the talent and generous spirit of my friend Todd Connor of yellow plum design. Todd gently kept me from sliding down many a slippery slope in these past 10 months; i’m blessed by his presence.
if you spot a cairn of chewy chai-spice sugar cookies along some byway, know that i’ve left it for you. i look forward to hearing about your adventures.
dj davisson
witty. hip. smart. generous. warm. as glamorous as any movie star of her era. my mom was the mom other kids wanted to have. on school field trips, at Brownie meetings and at birthday parties, my friends flocked around her, jockeying to be in the position of holding her hand. a shy kid, i hung back and observed as she split her attention between her many admirers. um, i might have been a little jealous. as a teenager, i simply didn’t understand the attraction. she certainly didn’t seem cool to me. but even as a young adult, i realized she was, indeed, the coolest.
a child with spindly legs and a petite appetite, my grandfather nicknamed her Faygeleh (or little bird). the baby of her family and a daddy’s girl, she worshipped her brother, ten years her senior. with an open heart, she embraced and enchanted nearly everyone she met; i think this ability to readily accept others was her greatest gift. her engaging sense of humor and razor-sharp timing rivaled that of her redheaded contemporary, Lucille Ball (well, they both dyed their hair red and were incredibly funny). disciplined and hardworking, mom did equally well in school and the workplace, making her parents beam with pride. until she met my dad.
oh, yeah. he was a bad boy. a fabulous dancer/crooner. a Catholic. and he had his own car. my grandparents’ perceived three strikes. i’ve heard that they might have been concerned about what lay ahead for their daughter. but madly in love, my parents married in the early ’40’s. while not an entirely perfect fairy tale, mom and dad were gloriously happy. they’d spend occasional weekends traveling from Boston to New York City, where they danced the nights away to the big bands of Benny Goodman and Count Basie. Duke Ellington’s Satin Doll later became their song. then WWII came along, accompanied by a long separation. mom kept the home fires burning in their little apartment near Fenway Park, as dad hit the ground with the Allied forces in Italy. eventually (a relief for those of us to come), they reunited.
heretofore unheard of by city dwellers (my cousin Pete confirms this), my parents moved to the ‘burbs. in their idyllic subdivision (another term foreign to my relatives), my mom thrived. with her signature style and panache, she planted gorgeous perennial and rose gardens, complemented by carefully chosen annuals. she delighted in her lilacs, rhododendrons and azaleas. and perfected recipes she found in the Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook. into this bliss, came i, and then my sister.
the reason i shave my head today
i never knew my parents didn’t have a lot of money because they gave us everything. i was lavished with ice skating lessons, ballet lessons, horseback riding lessons, swimming lessons, music lessons. clearly, i had a lot to learn. i excelled only at the latter two, but from my mom’s point of view, i shone in every undertaking. a voracious reader, she taught me to how to read at a very young age; i mirrored her enthusiasm. hand in hand every Friday afternoon, we’d walk to the elementary school parking lot, where we entered the magical world of the Bookmobile and left with a tall stack of treasures. in her kitchen, i began my love affair with cooking. she sent me to girl scout camp for a month every summer. attended every one of my multitudinous—and generally less-than-virtuosic—concerts. helped me to get settled in my college dorm—2,000 miles away from home. made the gown for my junior recital and flew the 2,000 miles to deliver it. she never asked for anything in return.
from the beginning until the very end, my mother was my champion and confidante. but when i decided to come out, i feared telling my mom the most. what if i damaged our relationship beyond repair? it would be like losing my lifelong best friend. i picked up the phone countless times to call her, and placed it back on the receiver. finally, i let the call go through. what was i thinking? my cool, open, liberal mom said, “i just want you to be happy.” like, yes, dear. whatever. what are you making for dinner tonight? how’s the weather there?
i had the privilege of having my mom live with me the last five years of her life. oh, it wasn’t always perfection. in fact, at times, it was completely contentious. with age, came change. and i think we both fought it. in as much as she taught me the values by which i live, we also shared a wicked New England stubborn streak. despite the adversity, i’m grateful for every day she was here. when i forgetfully leave the television on, or 1/4-inch of juice in the bottom of a bottle, or can’t find where i left my glasses, i lovingly say, i’m doin’ a Fran. in my memory and heart, she remains my champion. and the love we’ve shared for a lifetime, is for all time.
miss you every minute, little bird. see ya on the flip side.
my very first blog post doled out accolades to Frost Doughnuts, a then-new local purveyor of sublime treats. since then, Frost’s sweet creations have won numerous awards and press recognition, and the shop’s popularity has continued to grow. while the doughnuts remain the greatest, customer service makes Frost float to the top of greater Seattle’s vat of bakery establishments. and it’s customer service that’s compelled me to reconnect with my laptop, after taking some down time following my mom’s passing. truly, everything i know about exemplary customer service, i learned from her. and i imagine, everything she knew, she learned from her parents, who maintained their own wholesale and services businesses during the Great Depression.
my mom didn’t have an MBA (she actually acquired knowledge through experience), but she possessed great business savvy. more importantly, she had a genuine interest in other people, which endeared her to almost everyone she met. mom spent more than 25 years in retail selling cosmetics for Estee Lauder (ever-glamourous, my mother WOULD NEVER have been caught dead bringing her trash down the driveway without all her makeup on—seriously). as a teen, i frequently watched her in action as she enthusiastically greeted customers, listened to their stories, answered their questions—and made sales. she gained a loyal following, who remained steadfast until she retired.
when it became my turn to serve my clients, i followed mom’s example; i credit her with any measure of success i’ve achieved over the years. like her, i’ve humbly felt a sense of accomplishment in having been able to help others.
perhaps mom is putting out some pretty strong messages to the universe. but in the last few weeks, i’ve been surprisingly barraged with customer service encounters of the amazing kind.
- the Teno necklace i had worn for years broke the day of my mom’s service. fortunately, i found my dad’s wedding band that had been suspended on it at my feet. i gave the eulogy feeling naked and displaced. later, i mailed off the necklace to the Teno team in Las Vegas, and they replaced it in just a matter of days.
- American Express immediately interceded on my behalf when they learned i had been harassed by the customer service team at The Seattle Times (story to follow). the AmEx rep reversed the Times charges and initiated an investigation that was quickly resolved in my favor. i can’t speak as highly of their financial practices; perhaps they can take some cues from their customer service group?
- a Campbell Nelson Volkswagen sales manager saved the day when i wasn’t able to get my car for service for two weeks. he scheduled the appointment on the day and at the time that best fit my needs. the service advisor gave me prompt and frequent updates, and the service team completed the work in record time.
- our new Seattle Times delivery person repeatedly ran over one of our gardens and drainage areas (four times in a week), so the water could no longer flow into the ditch. i called and spoke with customer service. no action was taken, no phone calls placed to management returned. i canceled the subscription i’d had for five years. no one cared. didn’t i hear something about newspaper layoffs and subscriptions in the dumpster? i guess i was mistaken.
as Isaac Asimov’s Bicentennial Man Andrew Martin said—and my mom might echo—one is glad to be of service. cheers to those who continue to happily support their customers. to those who aren’t glad to be of service, you should probably go find something else to do. right, ma?
the greatest gifts don’t have price tags attached to them, yet have immeasurable value. they’re often unexpected. and arrive when you need them most. so was the gift of my dear friend, Alex Down.
Alex during a climb, wearing his "Life is Good" t-shirt i sent him when he retired from IBM.
i’ve mentioned Alex in my blog before. we met as colleagues during our tenure at IBM and, finding many paths of commonality, became devoted friends. never having had an older brother—and quite content to have skipped that experience—i was actually elated (and ever-grateful) when Alex boldly and graciously stepped into my life as virtual protector, steadfast e-penpal and confidant. to illustrate, when i was laid off last year, instead of relating my casualty to the state of the economy, he wished a pox on my former employer. all to say, whatever unfolded in my life, Alex lent his constant and faithful support.
through his stories and photographs, i vicariously traveled on Alex’s adventures. and while my travels were on an infinitely smaller scale, i took him with me through those same venues. both technology enthusiasts, we discussed which new laptops and digital SLRs tickled our fancies. thought that tweeting wasn’t particularly for introverts. and wrote to each other giddily when we nearly simultaneously acquired iPhones and iPads. (yeah, we’re geeks.) as storytellers and would-be poets, we critically, respectfully and lovingly shared our work. as food lovers, we talked about his Bramley trees and beekeeping and baking.
Alex playing with his MacBook Pro webcam
we relished sunny days, both living where rain and dreariness often prevail. while on different continents, we found pleasure in star gazing, and he in more complex, stellar events beyond my comprehension. because he was as brilliant as the brightest star (and he would actually know which star that was).
Alex on a dig
more often behind the camera than in front of it, i’ve found some photos of the adventurer. archaeologist. astronomer. beekeeper. cyclist. gentleman farmer. optimist. photographer. pilot. rock climber. theorist. dad. husband. beloved friend.
warmhearted and witty, you were one of my greatest gifts. and my heart could not have a bigger black hole in it. love you always.
Alex: ever on the trail of an adventure
my too-long absence from blogging reminded me of those classic Roseanne Rosannadanna ’70s Saturday Night Live skits, sparkling with Gilda Radner’s comedic brilliance. and closing with the resoundingly true punch line, “it just goes to show you, it’s always something.”
a few months ago, my bulldog Elroy injured his left, rear knee. he wasn’t out frolicking in a dog park or bounding across a meadow filled with wildflowers. no, he blew out his ACL spinning cookies around the family room coffee table. in the midst of Elroy’s recovery—as i hauled him back and forth to our veterinary clinic for aqua therapy—i threw myself into whipping the yard in shape after a series of wild spring wind storms. 
i dragged the branches that had snapped off during the storms into the woods. then jumped on the John Deere and mowed the ratty-looking spring growth, posing as grass. i then grabbed the Black and Decker whacker and tidied the perimeter of the house and leveled out a few rows of bushes with the hedge trimmer. finally, i plugged in the electric blower to clear the driveway of the last remnants of debris. just as i thought i was done, i spotted some unsightly small branches under my car. ever anal, i moved to blow them into the woods. i stepped gracefully over the power cord, twisted my foot, and tore the tendon and ligament across the top. doctor’s directive: off the black-and-blue appendage for a month.
banished from standing in my kitchen, cooking and yard work, i thought i’d have more time to write. when i received a call that a proposed surgery had been approved and scheduled. i really don’t remember much the two weeks following my surgery. the fog and recovery lingered on far longer than the doctor had projected. last week, i was ready for short jaunts to the farmers’ market and into the kitchen. (yea!) when Winnie, the geriatric bull terrier, became gravely ill.
rushing Winnie to the vet, my heart pounded with parental fear. she was panting heavily and had completely lost her interest in food, ordinarily her favorite thing in the world. she remained at the vet for three days as they pumped her with fluids, performed test after test, and finally rendered a diagnosis. on Friday afternoon, she came home. the weekend felt dicey, but today, she’s just a little more perky. a little more interested in food, if i feed it to her in my hand (even if that’s just a Winnie manipulation, i’m happy to be her faithful servant). i remain hopeful that she’ll be with us for quite some time to come.
yeah, as Roseanne said, it’s always something. but we get through it. with the good, kind thoughts, support and prayers of family and friends. and with a dose of laughter.
well-honed technique. vast experience. a combination possessed by the finest master craftsmen. i was one of these craftsmen. an award-winning fire builder by the age of 10 (according to a panel of expert girl scout counselors), i specialized in the log-cabin style. in the heat of competition, i’d scour the woods for the kindling i knew would ignite the fastest. locating the right-size branches, i’d construct a design that would make my counselors beam with pride. arms piled high with the highest-quality materials and with the clock ticking, i’d sort my stash and become immersed in my creative process.
meticulously building the log cabin came naturally (the persistent perfectionist). and i had refined my technique sufficiently to streamline the process. surely and swiftly, i lit my match, then touched it to the kindling. blowing steadily, but softly, i encouraged the flame to engulf the smaller pieces of wood. soon ablaze, the dry wood began to crackle, flames leaping high (don’t worry; there was a water bucket within reach). i heard a whistle blow, and one of the counselors announced the victor: me. blush. not bad for a nerdy bookworm.
to the victor go the spoils. in this case, the counselors came and sat around my fire. i added a few logs, so we could settle in for our evening program of eating too much sugar and singing. there was just enough daylight remaining to prepare for the most important portion of the event: roasting marshmallows, and making s’mores. it was my reward to find some green, yet sturdy, willow branches to use for roasting. with my trusty girl scout emblem-embossed jackknife, i expertly carved sharp points on each of five branches, then handed four of them to my beloved counselors. with the last branch, i pierced a marshmallow, and held it over the coals of my fire, until the ooey-gooey substance became golden brown. then i popped it in my mouth. heaven. i passed on the graham crackers and Hershey bars, content to revel in soft and puffy confection.
thanks to Ashley Rodriguez, whose not without salt blog inspires and illuminates. and from whom i borrowed this wonderful marshmallow recipe. it’s really fun to make and took me back to a very sweet time in my life.
homemade marshmallows
a recipe from Alton Brown, adapted by Ashley Rodriguez
INGREDIENTS
3 packages unflavored gelatin
1 cup cold water, divided
12 ounces granulated sugar, approximately 1 1/2 cups
1 cup light corn syrup (or glucose)
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 vanilla bean, seeds removed
1/4 cup confectioners’ sugar
1/4 cup corn starch
nonstick spray
DIRECTIONS
- place the gelatin into the bowl of a stand mixer, along with 1/2 cup water.
- in a small saucepan, combine the remaining 1/2 cup water, granulated sugar, corn syrup and salt.
- cover the pan, and cook over medium-high heat for 3 to 4 minutes.
- uncover the pan, clip a candy thermometer on the side of the pan and continue to cook until the mixture reaches 240F (approximately 7 to 8 minutes). immediately remove from heat.
- with the whisk attached, turn your stand mixer on low speed and slowly pour the syrup mixture from the pan down the side of the bowl and into the gelatin mixture.
- when all the syrup has been added, increase the mixer speed to high (be careful that the hot mixture doesn’t splat on you).
- add the vanilla seeds, and continue to whisk until the mixture becomes very thick and lukewarm, approximately 12 to 15 minutes.
- while the mixture is whipping, combine the confectioners’ sugar and cornstarch in a small bowl; set aside.
- line a 13 x 9-inch metal baking pan with aluminum foil (i used nonstick foil), then coat with nonstick cooking spray.
- completely cover the sides and bottom of the pan with the sugar and cornstarch mixture, and return the remaining quantity to the bowl to use later in the process.
- pour the whipped mixture into the prepared pan, using a spatula sprayed with the cooking oil to spread the mixture evenly in the pan.
- dust the top with enough of the remaining sugar/cornstarch mixture to lightly cover, and reserve the rest for later.
- let the marshmallows sit uncovered for at least 4 hours and up to overnight.
- turn the marshmallows out onto a cutting board, and cut into 1-inch squares using a pizza wheel or sharp knife dusted with the sugar/cornstarch mixture.
- once the marshmallows have been cut, lightly dust all sides of each marshmallow with the remaining mixture.
- store in an airtight container for up to 3 weeks (really? i can’t imagine these marshmallows being around that long).
try the marshmallows in a mug of rich hot chocolate or as part of a decadent s’more.
i’m neither psychologist nor psychiatrist. some theorize that who we are is determined when we’re very young; others that our core beliefs and values aren’t fully formed until we’re nearly 20. i affirm that who i am has been shaped, in great part, by those who’ve touched my heart and left an indelible imprint.
at the tender age of eight, as told in previous tales, i began to spend a portion of my summers at girl scout camp. shy, i hung back from large groups of campers, happier to find a few friends with whom i shared burning passions. like cooking over an open flame. and paddling. and music. whether singing grace at the dining hall or songs around the campfire, i poured my heart and soul into every word and note. camp became the wellspring of my repertoire.
in my naivete, i didn’t realize that what i identified as girl scout songs were actually contemporary folk songs. songs that were the expressions of an American generation who wanted to make a difference. weaving the harmonies and the fabric of the stories were Peter, Paul and Mary. and Mary Travers became a role model for this young scout.
i didn’t have her long, straight blonde hair or signature bangs. her willowy form. or her vocal chops. but i did have a burning admiration for her spirit and conviction. she influenced the kind of music i listened to then—and to this day. courageously, she taught me the importance of openly and honestly expressing my point of view. and by exuding a sense of confidence, she inspired me to take a step out of the shadows—at least every now and then.
as an undergraduate, i began to listen to Judy Collins and Joni Mitchell. but i never left Mary behind (Peter and Paul came along, too). i continued to sing the songs, accompanying myself on my too-large Gibson J55 wide-body acoustic. and when i became a camp counselor, i passed on the folk tradition to newbie scouts. If I Had a Hammer. Blowin’ in the Wind. 500 Miles. (i hope you’ll take the time to go see and listen to some of the original videos; they’re so great.)
i was traveling last week when i heard of Mary’s passing. as i watched the CNN ticker pass across the bottom of the screen, vivid memories of Mary and of her impact on my life brought tears and a huge lump in my throat. for the last week, i’ve flipped through the channels night after night, hoping that someone would broadcast a tribute to my folk hero. media disappointment prompted me to seek out YouTube videos and to watch a 2004 PBS special i had recorded last spring (Peter, Paul and Mary: Carry it on, a musical legacy). the passion and commitment expressed through Mary’s music will live on. in me. and in all those others to whom she was a divine inspiration.
growing up in New England instilled lifelong loves of crisp, tart apples, cranberries, maple syrup, lobster and salt water taffy. but of all New England’s bounty, what i treasured most was being on its vast expanses of water. whether ocean or lake, i found peace there. and sometimes even adventure.
as a wiry, young girl scout, i spent a month of every summer in central New Hampshire on formidable Lake Winnipesaukee. i was a strong distance swimmer. a capable canoeist. but a novice sailor. camp staff took care to pair seasoned sailors with those of us who had limited skill and experience. my maiden voyages in small craft like Sunfish and Sailfish were exhilarating. longing to get out on the water, fellow counselor-in-training Jane and i decided to take a boat out for a few hours. the weather looked clear, the wind just right. Jane’s skills, unlike mine, well honed. (i was still sorting out a clove hitch from a sheet bend and a sheepshank; yeah, still doing that.) as the camp’s shore grew distant, we enjoyed the sun, our afternoon off from tending to campers and a smooth sail.
late-summer afternoons can bring volatile shifts in the weather. before we knew it, the sky grew dark, and the wind picked up. the water became choppy. as we bobbed around, i turned to expert skipper Jane for direction. but Jane, much to my chagrin, sat paralyzed at the stern, gripping the tiller, blubbering. and that’s when i realized it was up to me to get us back to camp.
let’s take down the sail, i shouted. Jane, did you hear me? Jane, can you get a grip? apparently not. i lowered the sail myself; Jane remained glued to the deck. sliding off the port bow, i grabbed the line and began to swim toward shore, Jane and Sunfish in tow. holding the line and swimming through the white caps with only one arm proved exhausting. i counted in my head, establishing a rhythm that kept me focused and moving forward. every now and then i’d yell out to Jane, how are doing? can you see the dock? after a time—and a lot of sniffles—Jane regained composure and began to root me on. we’re getting closer, you’re doing great, we’re almost there!
eventually, we were there. concerned counselors, knowing we had logged a boat out and not returned on schedule, had come down to the waterfront looking for us. we were scooped up in blankets and whisked to the dining hall, where warm drinks awaited. stories of our adventure buzzed around camp that night. all i cared about was crawling into my sleeping bag and crashing. our counselors watched over us until we did just that.
a few more summers in New Hampshire came and went. i contentedly spent my days on the water, paddling. but i continued to admire those blessed with the sailing gene. still do.
in memory of two skilled, stalwart, New England sailors who made a difference: Eunice Kennedy Shriver and Senator Ted Kennedy. may the wind be ever at your backs and the sunset crimson.
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