Dad and I went up Mt. Chocorua, NH a few times, and he took me to the Freedom Trail, in Boston, when I finished eighth grade.  He didn’t especially share my love of history, but he did enjoy nature, and we were always doing things, as a family, outside.

Our journeys in summer were fairly regular: A week or so in one part, or another, of the White Mountain region of New Hampshire; a weekend in Mashpee, on Cape Cod, where an uncle and aunt had a lovely cabin, on Johns Pond; and a lakeside gathering of various relatives and neighbours, at different state parks in northeast Massachusetts or southern New Hampshire.  My mind went on a few journeys of its own, when one of the families (which shall remain nameless here) showed up with three beautiful daughters.

I only gradually branched beyond the comfort zone. I remember one time I helped Dad on a paperhanging job in Bristol, RI and another time we visited relatives in Stamford, CT, but those were the only forays outside Massachusetts and New Hampshire, until I was 18.

My first airplane ride brought me to Columbia, SC, via Newark, for Army Basic Training.  That whole growing-up experience introduced me to discipline, lively communities that were mostly Black folks ( sections of Washington,DC,Columbia and Atlanta), a huge strand beach (Myrtle Beach)streets run by pimps (Midtown Manhattan), the Indianapolis Speedway, the public monuments and buildings of our nation’s capital, the glitz of Tokyo, the chaos and struggles of Saigon (today’s Ho Chi Minh City) and Manila, and the mix of relaxedness and formality that was Sydney, AU in 1971. I was sojourning on two planes, and made it through on both levels, more or less intact.

In summer, 1972, I shucked it all, for about three weeks, loaded a back pack and sleeping bag (but no tent) and headed to Montreal, by bus, then across to Edmonton and the Rockies, by thumb.  It was a beautiful blitz, but I often wonder what I gained from the time, with the return trip, except for three days in Baltimore with my Army buddy and his family, being a waste.

A spiritual journey began just outside Baltimore, though, as I was introduced to the Baha’i Faith by a gentle old man in a pick-up truck.  That journey of baby-step investigation took nine years, ending when I met Penny and began to pick up the pace.  The spiritual quest since then has had the power of Divine Assistance, and I will treasure this spiritual path, for all eternity.

I’ve been to a lot of places since then, by all manner of transport, and sense there is a lot more to come. Whether I go alone, or with a friend or three, I know my angel is on my shoulder and my maternal grandfather, whom I never met, physically, is always looking out for his wandering grandson.