The Haven at Polar Bear Rock
On the need for places of refuge at all stages of life — and beyond
Growing up in New Jersey, we five kids were rather feral, often wandering our woods and exploring the nearby meadows, ponds, and streams for entire summer days. When I was about eight and late for supper, my sister and I explained to my mother that we had seen a large polar bear on our favorite trail. Since it looked scary, we killed it. Further, we told her that we hid its body and beautiful white fur underneath the huge Mack truck-sized rock that we loved to scale: a perfect place from which to survey the sights and sounds of the surrounding forest, and where we often ate our lunch of PB&J sandwiches.
From then on, this huge boulder, surrounded by our beloved woods, was known as Polar Bear Rock. In high school I still sought it out, a quiet sanctuary where I would go and write in my journal and sometimes tackle the mysteries of Chemistry and Trigonometry. Later, home for Spring break from my Maine college, it was there atop Polar Bear Rock that one of my father’s interns and I talked and talked…and much more. I never saw him again, but ah, such sweet memories!
So perhaps it is no surprise that as an adult I often yearn for a similar rock close at hand, even if on a somewhat smaller scale. A place to rest, to ponder, to reflect and think about all the blessings and challenges in my own life. For more than twenty years of farming, with fostered and birthed children in abundance, it was not a rock but our colonial-era barn that filled some of that need. With stalls and pens full of horses, goats, chickens, rabbits, and friendly barn cats, there were plenty of routine daily chores. Along with the cherished animals, I loved to spend time in that cathedral-like three-story barn; somehow it provided a soul-nourishing sense of peace that sustained me through many losses. I loved the smell of fresh hay, the heft of lifting water buckets, and even the routine sweeping of the barn floor. Our horses’ welcoming soft nickerings and the goats’ noisy clamoring to be milked all transported me away — even if just for thirty minutes at a time — from the ever-present indoor demands of never-ending laundry, cooking, and cleaning.
At 75, my need for the sustenance once provided by Polar Bear rock continues. Year-round my husband Doug and I hike the Harris Center trails, tackle shoveling our driveway each winter, and in warmer seasons spend long hours in the midst of our simple but extensive gardens. But alas, there are no large rocks in our rather suburban backyard.
Ah, but listen to what recently happened! My friend L. shared with me how she had found a large rock on the edge of the cemetery across the street, and the town agreed to deed it to her family. Even though it was not in the original plans for the rows and rows of gravestones, the Cemetery trustees apparently realized it was probably just the tip of a much larger underground boulder, and decided to add it to the list of plots available for cremated remains. Like us, L. and her husband D., who recently died, had spent their lifetime together raising children and “living outdoors” while hiking and camping. “And,” she told me, “there’s another large rock under the pine trees quite near our own! They’re both on that lovely hillside area somewhat away from the main cemetery…”
So early one Tuesday morning I handed our Town Clerk a $500 check, and ten days later we received an actual signed deed to this perfect plot, complete with a handsome small boulder! We have our own Polar Bear Rock forever more, surrounded by the sounds of crows, jays, chipmunks, and the sights of visiting families of deer, foxes, and even black bears.
For now, it’s a good and peaceful place for us to visit. And someday, when it is time for our own ashes to nourish the much-loved nearby trees, this rock will serve as a permanent sanctuary. I envision future generations of young kids energetically climbing up to its top for a simple picnic, chatting about their own dreams and life-filled adventures. And who knows, perhaps later they might even tell their parents about glimpsing in the nearby woods a powerful-looking New Hampshire bear. This time the momma bear is black, followed closely by two young and very curious cubs. The children’s memory of this magical moment will stay with them for decades to come.