A beacon of light in the distance

Small note, big thoughts

This weekend I was flipping through Three Thousand Things You Need to Know or Everybody’s Guide – comprising valuable information, and more than three thousand recipes and tables, for the Mechanic, Merchant, Lawyer, Doctor, Farmer, and all classes of workers in every department of human effort. Published in 1884 by J.S. Ogilvie & Co., this book was 50 cents, but “Many of the Single Recipes in this book have been sold for $20.00!” so there’s about $60,000 worth of snake oil and shoddy construction in here.

Aside from that, it’s full of information about how to cure a cold (put your feet in a bucket of extremely hot water and mustard; cuddle in bed under the covers and sleep it off); how to dig a well; how to bake bread over a fire; how to make soap from lard and lye. Tucked in amongst the information about farming and animal husbandry was this small note, written with a dip pen:

A light must be about 200 feet above the water to be seen from the deck of a vessel 20 nautical miles distant; beyond that distance the curvature of the earth would prevent a light at this elevation being seen –

Who wrote this, and why? Were they thinking of building a lighthouse? Were they a sailor?

Maybe they were they on the losing side of an argument at the saloon about whether or not the earth was flat, and when they woke up the next morning (nursing a wicked hangover), they found this passive-aggressive note on the seat of their carriage.

It would be easy to think of this note as just a fact; information which might be useful for work or construction.

But what if it’s a metaphor?

How many places did this note live before it made its way to me? Whoever owned the book might have made the note, or maybe someone else made the note and used it as a bookmark, but either way the note stayed tucked away for over a hundred years. Did anyone else read it? The book was donated to the Gloucester County Historical Society in 1938 by Dr. Joseph G. Halsey from Swedesboro, NJ. Did anyone ever look at this book again before it was placed in the sale bin last spring? Why did I decide to pull the book off the shelf yesterday and flip through it for the first time?

I believe that magical mysteries like these come into our lives for a reason, and that we can only understand them when we take the time to slow down and consider their meaning. I’m sure I’m not supposed to build a physical lighthouse, but maybe I’m being nudged to consider building a taller platform and allowing my light to shine brightly. Maybe I’m being reminded to keep sight of the bright lights in the world; to not sail so far out that I get lost.

Or maybe, just maybe, I’m supposed to leave this note on the doorstep of the next person who tries to tell me vaccines cause autism and let them puzzle things out for themselves.

Thumbnail image: "Replica of Henlopen Lighthouse, at night, Rehoboth Beach, Del." by Boston Public Library is licensed under CC BY 2.0.