Earth Day is held on April 22 with this year’s being the 55th anniversary of the first in 1970. It began during a time of great public protest in this country due to the Vietnam War, the Nixon Presidency, and increasing fears of pollution and climate change.

            Earth Day offers us a time to stop and think of our impacts on the planet as a species and as an individual. Everything we do has some effect on the planet and leads to some consumption of its resources. The key is to not over-consume as to have something left for our successors in the future to enjoy. While it’s hard to feel you can make a difference and even harder to actually change your habits, it is important at the very least to think about it and be aware of the fragility of our beautiful home.

            This year, we are again confronted with the time for thought and discussion. Ultimately, it comes down to “is this planet worth saving?” The obvious answer is “yes!” So then, how will we preserve it?

            In 1994, the astrophysicist, author, and TV presenter Carl Sagan wrote the “Pale Blue Dot,” a book inspired by and discussing the intense feelings of looking at Earth through the “eyes” of the Voyager I probe about 4,000,000,000 miles away. The picture shows Earth as less than a pixel. A small, seemingly unremarkable blue-ish pinprick. In this book lies possibly Sagan’s most profound statement:

            Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

            The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.

            Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

            The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

            It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.”

            A happy 55th Earth Day to you. To channel the energy of those tree-hugging hippies we have to thank for this day, remember to always thank your trees.

By Sam Bishop

            Easter is fast approaching and with it returns snatches, bits, and pieces of childhood memories.

            As a child, it was a day to eat chocolate before breakfast and dress up in new Easter outfits. It was celebrated in a secular fashion; my parents didn’t attend any type of organized religion. They did, however, send us to Sunday school. That’s where I learned the Lord’s Prayer, memorized the order of the books of the Bible, learned about the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus as told in the King James Bible and practiced sitting like a lady and keeping my white gloves clean. A solid foundation.

            Anyway, Ma, aka the Easter Bunny, would always hide the Easter baskets where a small person could find them and after exploring its contents and eating “one small piece of chocolate,” we’d dress up.

            Those where the days before my brother was born so it was just me and my older sister donning new duds. There we stand, forever frozen in black and white, standing stiffly across the street from our house posing in front of a mound of dirty snow. A big mound, a colossal mound compared to our global warming, no snow winters or springs of today. I remember how cold it was standing there waiting for the shutter to open and close in the Brownie Box camera pointed in our direction.

            I worried about getting my new shoes and lace trimmed socks wet. I thought I looked so grand in those shoes even though they pinched and poked at my chubby little feet. None of the new clothing was comfortable, I realized upon much belated reflection. The crunchy slip that pushed the skirt of my new dress out from my freezing legs was very scratchy. It also exposed a lot of leg like a Shirley Temple costume without the music playing in the background (I was probably tap-dancing in my imagination. I loved Shirley).

            Ma. Now as I think about her, I’m amazed that she was able to function at all. Back then, all I knew as a needy child was my neediness, especially for being physically close to my mother. But she must have unwittingly fostered that need. My parents had suffered the agony of losing a child only a few weeks old, a child born before me. Ma would later tell me that doctors had advised her to have another child. I was that child.

            They carried on in true post-WWII style. Ma put Easter Baskets out in the spring, decorated Christmas trees in December, made cakes and celebrated birthdays. They, she, got on with living.

            No, there wasn’t any Easter day church service attendance for us, but there was a sort of deep sentiment pulling us all together on special days, days I’m sure were very reverential for my parents as they coped with grief neither fully recovered from.

            Although my mother had a sister and brother close by, within easy walking distance, with many cousins around our ages, we didn’t share in a family meal or even a visit. I don’t know how we spent the day, but I do recall a traditional meal of baked ham, mashed potatoes, and peas. Assuredly, there was a pie or two from the Cushman Baker.

            At school, as we counted down the days to Easter weekend, we were given mimeographed coloring pages. Fresh from the mimeograph machine, we deeply inhale the chemicals emanating from the paper. We were in ecstasy.

            The pages were pictures of fluffy bunnies and ducks, floral wrapped crucifixes and eggs waiting for our artistic efforts. I was the type of colorist who outlined all the images in a corresponding color before filling in the images while trying to control a fat crayon with no point on the end (or, maybe we were high from the poison laced coloring pages).

            On good Friday, long before it was a day off from school, we gathered up all our artwork and brought them home for display on refrigerators across town. I was very proud of my coloring talent. Decades later, Ma would keep coloring books and crayons at the ready just in case a great-grandchild came to visit. Coloring must be in our blood.

            Easter hails new beginnings, the emergence of new life, spring blooms everywhere. For me, it is a time when I remember snuggling up to my mother for warmth and comfort. With her ample arm wrapped around my narrow shoulders, all was well with my soul. I hope during those brief moments she found peace and comfort too.

This Mattapoisett Life

By Marilou Newell