Sundog, seen from Dunbar Hill in Grantham, NH — by Meredith MacMartin
Welcome to “Dear Daybreak”, a weekly Daybreak column. It features short vignettes about life in the Upper Valley: an encounter, a wry exchange, a poem or anecdote or reflection… Anything that happened in this region or relates to it and that might strike us all as interesting or funny or poignant.
Want to submit your own Dear Daybreak item? Just go here!
Dear Daybreak:
Jimmy Vanier touched the lives of so many and our mom, Evelyn Morse, was one of the lucky folks in his orbit. Each year, for decades, she reaped the rewards of Jimmy’s very big heart.
They became acquainted with each other when Jimmy was a kid and a friend of my brother David. Evelyn and her husband Royce sat on the sidelines of nearly every game that Jimmy and his teammates played until graduation from Lebanon High in 1970. For fifty-four years, until Evelyn’s death in 2024, Jimmy stayed in touch. They had a lot in common despite their 25-year age gap. Jimmy grew up as a kid who hung out at the CCB, as had Evelyn (also a Lebanon native) a generation earlier. She held a fondness for the CCB and donated regularly to The Sneaker Fund.
Over the years, random Jimmy sightings became home visits. But home visits with a twist. In the early 2000s, Evelyn decided she wanted to winter in Florida. It seems that Jimmy enjoyed Florida as well. He would secretly find out when Evelyn would be away, then Pink Flamingo bomb her house with flamingo souvenirs from his trips south. The occasional large manilla envelope would appear with a return address of The Pink Flamingo Fan Club (PFFC).
At first, Evelyn was a tiny bit annoyed, but secretly amused—partly because, over nearly 25 years, her pink flamingo collection grew and grew. The stash included lawn blow-ups, hats, key chains, a thermometer, trays, stationery, a notebook, pens, candle holders, inflatable water toys, lawn ornaments, Christmas tree ornaments, stuffed flamingos of all sizes, and magnets. Her collection was on display at her Celebration of Life at the Carter Home in Lebanon (which Jimmy helped to arrange), to which her children, grandchildren and great-grands wore flamingo-print shirts and dresses. To this day, seeing flamingos of any kind brings forth wonderful memories for us all.
As our mother inched towards her late 90’s, in some ways her world got smaller, but Jimmy’s larger-than-life presence brought her immeasurable joy. Seeing our mother having so much fun lifted our hearts, too. Three weeks before Jimmy’s passing, my phone rang; Jimmy was the caller. I answered and he quickly apologized, saying it was a pocket dial. I told him the random call was not a problem at all and that, as a matter of fact, at that very moment I had in my sight a life-sized Pink Flamingo stuffed animal, after Evelyn’s death, been transported by David and nephew Timothy back to Florida and put to excellent use as a hat and sunglasses rack. His response: “This makes my heart happy! It makes my day.” That made mine as well.
— Sue Morse Jamback, Lebanon and New London
Dear Daybreak:
The solstice is approaching…which is the genesis of my annual holiday table centerpiece. The symbols of light and reflection that come out of storage are near and dear to me. Most items either I created or found in the Upper Valley - though seven smooth rocks were foraged with family in Penobscot Bay. Fittingly, under the midpoint is the only item from outside New England…It’s from my Ohio grandmother, a round cotton open work monogrammed cloth. Mimi was the center of family.
Dried and gold painted ginkgo leaves from the tree I planted in Lyme and mica procured with hammer and chisel in the ‘80s during a foray with my kids to Ruggles Mine in Grafton form the outer circle of the candle light…they are sprinkled with wooden painted stars.
Small celadon bowls hold tea lights. I was trained as a potter and made them in a home studio, fired inside a wood burning kiln. In between are the Maine rocks. The single candle holder (chamber stick) is an early Simon Pierce piece.
Last summer a Luna moth lay dying right on our doorstep. She now rests for the time being in the glass saucer. For me, her evanescence symbolizes the preciousness of the natural world. The soft, lime-green wings and prominent wing spots mimic the moon and night sky…though tonight the moon is new.
— Barbara Woodard, Thetford
Dear Daybreak:
On Squam Lake, the distance between Loon Island and Little Loon, where the eagles roost, isn’t that far. Each year, I insist that my kids swim there and back as I have done since they were clinging to my back in orange life jackets.
My kids, grown now, were never fans of mandated nature excursions, but they have the fearlessness that comes with growing up in the Upper Valley, skiing on sub-zero days, recess outside unless it’s below 5. It was nothing for them to plunge into an icy lake in June, breath-seizing, skin-numbing, and take a bit of a swim.
That day in June, it was nothing for us to jump off the warm granite rocks of Loon Island and make our way casually across the black water toward Little Loon. I was used to leading the way. I was used to turning back to check in on them, “You okay?” “How are you doing?” and having them give me a thumbs up, but this day, one at a time, they passed me, even the youngest who hated this tradition the most.
Maybe it was because the water was colder than I expected. Or maybe it was because I’d had my hip replaced the prior year and was weak, but I couldn’t keep up.
I paused to catch my breath, floating on my back and gazing at the cirrus clouds in a pale blue sky, at the purplish mounds of the Squam range receding in the distance. I closed my eyes and listened to my breath, amplified in the silence below the surface, and felt the tickling boundary of the water lapping against my face where it met the warmth of an early summer sun.
A high-pitched peal found its way through the water to my ears and I opened my eyes. A juvenile bald eagle flew low above me, dragging his shadow across the water. His feathers were brown and his beak, dark. He hadn’t yet grown the iconic white head and tail plumage, the yellow hooked beak that marks the adult, but his body was strong. His wingspan was as broad as a man is tall and he soared to the highest white pine on Loon Island.
Nearly to the rocky shores of Little Loon, my son called back to me. “You okay, mom?” I gave him a thumbs up. I told him I just needed a breather, that he should go on. I’d see him in a bit. My daughters, heads down, arms slicing through the water, pulled ever further away toward their brother.
In the tree, the young eagle looked back toward Little Loon where his mother perched on a scruffy branch above their massive and empty nest of sticks. A slight breeze blurred the water’s surface, rose up and fluttered her feathers. She opened her wings, settled them, and looked away. He called one last time before taking off, soaring high at first, then disappearing behind the white pines toward the mountains.
— Kathryn Smith, Hanover
Did you miss earlier Dear Daybreaks? You’ll find them here (just click on the “Dear Daybreak” button).
