The Stick

This is my stick.  I didn’t put it there.  I just have a strong attachment to it.

The Concord River runs through the little town of North Billerica, MA.  North Billerica  is about 20 miles north of Boston, and about 1 mile north of Billerica.  Billerica is one of the largest (by geography) of Boston’s suburbs (dwarfing towns like Cambridge).

You would only know about the Concord River if you had lived in Middlesex County (MA), liked Revolutionary War battle sites, were fond of Thoreau, or if you were an expert on rivers; or any combination of those.  The Concord River barely over 16 miles long, and drains north into the Merrimack River.  The river has been damed to provide for agriculture, and to power 19th century mills.  It has some pollution problems, but is now very picturesque.  You may now consider yourself an expert on the Concord River.

The river is important, but the stick is more important to me.  Each morning, I pass this dam on a small road leading to the train depot in Billerica.  The dam was constructed (partly) to power the Falkner Mill, a some-time producer of cloth.  Today, the splashing water from the dam is just across a narrow cart-path from a baseball museum of some renown.  The depot has been there since the early 1800s, when the tracks were laid by hand (and by actual horse-power).  Amazing to think of how much was accomplished by brute force. Looking at the canals dug by hand and mule puts me in awe of human determination.

It is equally amazing to think that we haven’t improved on that technology (water transport or railroads) much since the 1800s.  I drop my lovely wife off at the train in the morning, and pick her up in the afternoon.  So, I pass by the stick four times each weekday (twice in the morning, and twice in the afternoon).

The stick was there before I got here last year.  As far as I know, it has been in that very spot for a good, long time.  It is there in the freezing cold — when the pond water above the dam is skinned over with ice.  It is there in the blazing afternoon heat and humidty of summer.  It is there when the sun is just peeking over the horizon in the East.  It is there after the sun paints the sky bright red and pink in the West at twilight.

I imagine to myself that the stick was once a strong tree somewhere upstream.  It probably had supple branches and plenty of green leaves.  In the Spring, it pushed out buds with urgency and strength I can’t even imagine.  In the Summer, it probably provided shade — most likely for little fish along the shoreline, away from the sun and from hawks overhead.  In the Autumn, it probably had brilliantly colored leaves, which fell and were snow-covered by Christmas.  Then, one day, probably without much warning, a beaver or a strong wind, or the erosion undermining the bank launched the tree on a float downstream.  Once over the dam, it lodged where it is now, pushing back against the river.

As far as I can see, it doesn’t shake or move.  It just steadily pushes back against the relentless flow of the Concord.  The water has great force, of course.  It pushes on the stick every minute of every day.  And every minute of every night.  When I try to imagine what the word “relentless” means, I think about that stick and the water rushing around it.  The stick doesn’t get coffee breaks, or naps.  It just stays there and pushes against the river.

The water doesn’t seem to mind the stick.  In fact, it seems to barely notice the resistance as it drops over the dam.  The stick might wonder where all that water is going in such a hurry.  Perhaps the stick wonders if being downstream might be better than being stuck at the dam; or perhaps downstream would be worse.

I’m sure that the stick is eroding, and shrinking.  But I can’t detect the ablation.  As far as I can detect, the stick will be there until something bigger hits it and finally snaps it off.

The stick doesn’t change the course of the river.  The river just bends around the stick.  The stick just does its work of pushing back — even though all that pushing never moves anything.  Maybe the stick feels frustrated that all its dedication and exertion are wasted.  One of my favorite physics equations is W = Fd.  That’s Force multiplied by distance equals Work.  Since the stick doesn’t move anything, it’s not doing any work.  It just feels like a lot of work to the stick.  Maybe the stick feels it would be better if some luckless boatman slipped over the dam and sheered the stick off.  The stick would still be wet, and cold, and alone.  It may already be water-logged, and would sink out of sight if immersed.  But at least it would be relieved of the duty of pushing back against the endless flow of the river.  The stick gives no indication of this line of reasoning.

In the end, it’s only a small river in a small Massachusetts town.  And it’s only a stick.  It only becomes a metaphor if you see it that way.  I like to think that the stick appreciates that I notice it four times each day.  And I like to say “hello, stick” when I pass, even though I know it can’t hear me over the roar of the water — and because it’s a stick.