Sometimes I am reminded and amazed by the beauty of this place that has become my home, and I remember that I don't see it often enough, buried as I am in other concerns.
I went for a run tonight to the bridge across the river which forms part of the border between New Hampshire and Maine, the tongue-twistingly-named Piscataqua. Once there, I slowed to a walk to cross the bridge on the wooden-boarded pedestrian walkway that edges both sides. Halfway across, a siren wailed warningly and bells began to ting. "Everybody off!" barked the bridge operator, a gray-haired sea-captain sort in a blue uniform. "I don't care which way you go, but go forward or back!"
I briskly walked back the way that I'd came, to the Maine side, and watched as the enormous iron counterweights, strung up in their tracks jutting high above both ends of the bridge, slowly lowered and the middle section of the bridge levitated. Candy-striped gates with flashing red lights lowered and a long line of patient traffic idled as the bridge crept up. A tall ship slid majestically through and prowed its way slowly down the river.
The low sun sat benevolently over the harbor and the water was blue as blue's dream. Slick boats with painted reflections and names like "Crime Pays" and "Utopia" sat moored at line in the docks. On the water's edge, high catwalks stacked with lobster traps and propped up with wooden strutting jutted out from wooden shacks, waiting for the fishing boats.
At Warren's Lobster House, built on a wharf over the water, long lines waited under the awning for a seat. A crisp smell of fried seafood emanated. Tourists and locals alike leisurely walked, delighting in the setting sun and the beauty. Everything smelled of sea and fish.
I drank it in for a few moments, then walked briskly on and began my run back.
It reminded me that I don't appreciate where I live enough. It's more picturesque than a box full of cats. And thousands of tourists pay to spend time here every summer. If it's not permanent home, I sure want to appreciate it while I'm here.