May 27, 2024, Oley, PA- It was a time of assessment, as the eight-month old regarded me from her high chair, as seven of us gathered for breakfast this morning, at a substantial place called Nudy’s Cafe. I’ve noticed that infants born this year are less likely to grasp a finger that is placed in their hand, without first carefully looking at the person for a while. This is a new experience for me, and it will be interesting to see how the youngest Alphas and first-born Betas (from next year on) turn out, in terms of later social interaction. She did call out to me and maintain eye contact, as the meal progressed. Her older brother, on the other hand, talked non-stop, about subjects ranging from the planets to dinosaurs. He is bound and determined to be a social butterfly.
My PA family (2/3 of them)
Rain, or the hint of it, led to another event in Exton being canceled. So, after the sumptuous breakfast, I bid farewell to 2/3 of my Brandywine Valley family and headed up here, a scant forty minutes and a cultural world away. Oley Valley is all about farms, traditional values of Mennonites and a strong bond between humans and the land. My host, David, said that there was a time when a lively camp existed, at the end of the road which borders his family’s properties on the west. There was camping and fishing there. Now, since the owner of the camp died, the forest has grown back up and there is a clear marker between fields and woods. Manatawny Creek is only reached by bushwhacking a bit, at least in that particular spot.
The Greenhouse, which still bears the Glick family name, and was built up by David and his family, goes on without his leadership. It looks like it is still booming, though, having expanded to nine houses, during his last few years of active work there. He is turning his attention now to the garden beds, on an adjoining property. Love for the soil never leaves a true farmer’s heart.
I walked down to the edge of the forest, and saw these scenes, during the course of this afternoon.
May 24, 2024, South Windsor, CT- Suffice it to say, it is an exercise in patience, to cross the city of Lynn. The easy way is to go north-south on the Lynnway, headed towards Boston, and all its glorious traffic. I chose the way I know best, wending my way westward, from Nahant to Boston Street, which is on the west side of town and leads directly to Saugus, where I grew up, and from where I made my way over to Wakefield and I-95 southbound. That was how I got from one group of cousins to another cousin’s house, in Arlington, a western suburb of Boston.
The day started in Gloucester, located on Cape Ann. A few things about that small, but magnificent, peninsula: It is known to the Pawtucket First Nation people as Annisquam (“top of the rock”, itself a reference to Mt. Ann, the cape’s summit), so it might be tempting to say that the name is a short form of that given name. Nope-The cape is named for Queen Mother Anne, the mother of Charles I, King of England at the time of its first settlement by the English, in 1623. The Cape settlement was the seed from which the Massachusetts Bay Colony sprang. Gloucester, as many know, is the setting for the film, “The Perfect Storm”, made in memory of the many fishers, male and female, who have met their deaths, while plying their craft. The high seas are brutal taskmasters. It, and its fellow Cape communities- Rockport, Manchester-by-the-Sea and Essex are places of both bustling fishing and lobstering and of great scenic beauty-a microcosm of northeastern North America, indeed of rocky seacoasts around the globe. Stage Fort Park, Pigeon Cove and Mt. Ann Park are highlights of any visit to the area.
I went to none of these, this time, though I’ve visited each, in years past. The day was all about family-immediate and extended. After a salubrious rest, in a well-appointed VRBO property, I headed down the road to Kane’s Donuts, and went over to visit my second brother and his wife, in Saugus. Our focus, these days, is always on what’s best for Mom, while honouring one another. A brief stop at the graves of my father and youngest brother followed, just long enough to say a prayer and wipe the grass mowings off the base of their collective headstone. Then, I drove up to Lynnfield, taking Mom outside on the patio, for a cup of clam chowder, which she still loves, though we came back inside, when it was obvious that the bees loved the chowder, too, and wanted a share. (They never got the chance. Mom made it clear that she wanted to go back in and enjoy her chowder in peace, so bye to the patio, it was.) I bid her farewell, for now, after about forty minutes. It was time for extended family.
The Tides, on the south end of Nahant Beach Parkway, is another fabulous restaurant, accenting New England seafood, but also featuring Italian specialties. Being satiated of fried clams, I chose another of my favourites: baked scallops. The food was a backdrop, though, as time with my fascinating older maternal cousins, who are siblings, and their equally entertaining spouses, is always informative, and well-spent. I hadn’t seen Dale in nearly seventeen years, and John in three. Their stories of Lynnhurst, where our grandmother, and many of the family members, once lived are treasures. Their father, my godfather, was a classic Irish story teller, who told fanciful tales of a madman in the woods. Once, Dale said, when he was worried for the safety of his little girl and her cousin, he followed them from a distance. Of a sudden, in the thicket of woods, growling and grumbling noises made them run out of the woods, screaming. There stood Dad (my uncle) ready to comfort his angels. Three guesses, as to who did the growling and grumbling!
After a fashion, it was time to leave for Arlington, and a visit with a paternal cousin. Leaving the lot at The Tides is a lesson in fly vision. Skateboarders and bicyclists can appear out of nooks and crannies, and pay no mind to the motorists who could impact their lives. As it happened, today was not their day to meet God, or the hospital bed, so on I went, across Lynn, watching carefully for the schoolchildren getting out of class, for the long weekend. Filling up Sportage, at a full-service spot, in Wakefield, I texted cousin Kevin and headed down the highway, getting to his place in time for a good hour’s visit. Kevin is a brother to Tom, who I had visited in Maine, earlier this week. He shared the success of his dear wife, now working on an advanced degree, and of his own work, in environmental science.
With all the cousins, I shared highlights of my own past few years, as only one of them is on social media. This is a good thing; conversations can never truly be replaced by the digital world, no matter how advanced, detailed or graphic it may become. Being asked of the Teachings of the Baha’i Faith was also a joy.
One more time down the Massachusetts Turnpike, I observed two young men driving at a torrid clip, onto an exit ramp, for God only knows what reason-emergency, or thrill chase. I continued, getting tired from the heat, and from the full day, to this tidy, rather serene suburb of Hartford. The Windsors are home to Bradley International Airport and the anchor town, Windsor proper, was the first English settlement in Connecticut, surprising, as it is far from the coastline that was favoured by Europeans, in the early days. The settlement, at the confluence of the Farmington and Connecticut Rivers, was given to the colony of Plymouth, by First Nations people, reportedly in gratitude for Plymouth’s having mediated a dispute between two Nations, the Podunk and Pequot. At any rate, the traders came and lived here in peace with their neighbours, including, for a time, the Dutch settlers at what is now Hartford.
I am at peace with everyone, and am just settled in for the night. Tomorrow, it’ll be off to Pennsylvania for 3-4 days. Safe travels, to all Americans on the first holiday of summer and to Canadians returning from your first holiday period. It goes without saying, safety to everyone else, holiday or not!
Decorative mirror, at VRBO site, in Gloucester, MA
May 22, 2024, Boothbay Harbor- The voices of the thirty or so fourth graders were music to my ears. They were scattered across the grounds of Boothbay Region Land Trust’s Oak Point Farm, where my cousin and I were walking, this morning. Kevin and his extended family are neighbours to this splendid Trust property We walked the 1-mile loop trail, with the joyful noises of chatter and singing as a backdrop.
Oak Point Farm, Boothbay Harbor
The property gives focus to all that makes life in Boothbay such a treasure: The interplay of water, land and sun, with clouds as frequent visitors; the birds, large and small, with cardinals and goldfinches as the most numerous, and vocal, of the lot; the gray squirrels and chipmunks, scattering as large, lumbering humans approach; the red squirrels, sometimes “standing their ground” and chittering, “Thus far, and no farther”, whilst standing on their hind legs.
Downtown Boothbay Harbor
We went later to downtown Boothbay Harbor, taking in the harbourside scenes, with K describing what he knew of the town’s history-which turned out to be a considerable amount. The area was once both fishing haven and a tannery hub. The tanneries are gone, but fishermen still rule here, even as the high and mighty still come into the harbour, in their yachts and small cruise ships. It is the small fisherman who makes towns like Boothbay Harbor what they are-regardless of their appeal to people of means, or to artists and artisans.
After a round of photos, we went to the local YMCA, and an hour or so of soaking in the warm Therapy Pool. As I have not been to Planet Fitness for several weeks, the buoyancy of the pool was a nice treat for my muscles, and was followed by fifteen minutes in the sauna. This YMCA is directly across the road from Boothbay’s public schools, so it is a natural gathering place for teens from the middle and high schools, after classes. In addition, each second grade student enjoys mandatory swimming lessons.
We went back to the house and enjoyed a fine spaghetti dinner, then spent an hour or two talking of spiritual matters-a good segue, as this evening brings the observance of the Declaration of al-Bab, the Day in 1844, when the Herald of the Baha’i Dispensation first told another soul of His (brief) Mission to humanity.
Rest will come easy tonight, and tomorrow-down to Massachusetts, by way of Green Acre Baha’i School.
Central Wharf, Boothbay HarborAn opportunity for a park or greenspace, downtown Boothbay HarborStone mason’s gift, Oak Point Farm
May 21, 2024, Boothbay Harbor, ME– After a splendid night’s rest, and a fabulous breakfast, at Amsterdam Inn, Moncton, I decided to check out the much-vaunted Magnetic Hill. It turned out, in my estimation, much ado about nothing. The procedure for experiencing the magnetism’s effect on my car was explained. I was to pull in front of a white pole, which I did. Then, I was to put my car in reverse, and let the magnetism pull me forward. Well, it seems to me that this would wreak havoc with Sportage’s transmission. I took a pass and turned around, especially after seeing two other drivers try to get pulled up hill, to no avail.
St. Stephen, on the U.S. border, was a nice little stop. It was rather warm there, as I walked a bit along the St, Croix River. I limited time there, to a few minutes, wanting to get here to family, by dark, at least. I drove down the coast, to Belfast, then was directed by GPS to head inland-partly due to road construction and partly because of other traffic concerns. It was a fairly pleasant, if winding route, through farm country and a few forested areas. I once worked not far from places like Union and Searsmont, so there is some familiarity to the places.
Small river house, St. Stephen, NBPond near Boothbay Harbor
Now, I will have a chance to rest a bit, treat Sportage to maintenance and a supreme wash, and talk genealogy with Cousin Tom and his wife, Jamie. The view from my guest house is also unparalleled-and a 90-F “therapy pool” will be on the itinerary.
May 20, 2024, Moncton- There was fury, then consternation, on the face of the well-coiffed woman, as she pulled around Sportage, after blaring her horn, twice, after I stopped at the edge of the gas station driveway to take a stranded couple a kilometer or two, up the road. It was not convenient, or easy, for any of the four of us. She, however, was able to just go around, and on her way. I moved a few things in the back seat, making room for the young woman, with her husband getting in the front. After they were dropped off, I moved everything back.
Ernie, Meena and Theresa Johnson
This transpired a short time after I visited some Baha’i friends in Eskasoni, NS, apprising them of the concerns of another Miqmaq friend who I visited in Corner Brook, on Saturday night. Mr. Ernie Johnson listened to my account of our mutual friend’s concerns and offered a history of that family’s contributions to the growth of the Baha’i Faith in Ontario, Alberta and Nova Scotia, especially in Cape Breton and Ottawa. Now, he surmised, our friend has yet another opportunity. After suggesting that he and others pay a visit to the Baha’is of Corner Brook, and being showered with gifts, including two delightful tuna salad sandwiches, I headed out towards the lower Maritimes, bidding farewell to blessed Cape Breton Island.
After the above incident at the gas station, I pondered whether I was biased in favour of the poor and downtrodden, over the seeming well-to-do, in terms of service acts. It was not long, before the Universe called me on that one. By the side of the road there stood a forlorn-looking man, the trunk of his car raised, and a spare tire resting against the rear right bumper. I stopped the SUV, pulling well into the gravel breakdown area, and went to see if I could assist.
It turned out that a tire was flat. He was having difficulty removing the lug nuts, with his rather small tire wrench. I offered to give it a try, and after several toggles between my stepping on the long part of the wrench and his adjusting his car jack downward, we managed to get the lug nuts removed, the tire off, spare tire on and lug nuts returned and suitably tightened. His drive to a speaking engagement, some distance eastward was assured. The gentleman turned out to be a former councilman from the capital city of Ottawa, whose focus was on public transportation. He is also a poet, and in gratitude, he gave me a copy of his latest book of verse. So, it matters little whether one is prince of pauper. I will help anyone in need, to the best of my ability.
I drove on, through Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, stopping only in New Glasgow, to pick up a couple of items and here, the home of Magnetic Hill, to rest at a lovely Amsterdam inn & Suites.
May 19, 2024, Port aux Basques- The screen in the lounge, at Marine Atlantic’s terminal here, was showing “The Perfect Storm”, the 2000 film about a fishing boat disaster. The weather tonight will be relatively calm, and there were no kids watching this, so I’d say we are dodging a bullet.
I got into town fairly early this afternoon, after a light breakfast at Harbour Grounds, a pleasant little coffee shop in Corner Brook. Today was laundry day, so much of the time was spent at First Choice Convenience Store’s laundromat corner. Afterward, though, I decided to search for the places that were recommended to me, east of town, as hiking venues and one, as a dinner spot. The areas in question were the little villages of Isle aux Morts, Burnt Islands and Margaree. I went first to Burnt Islands, checking out the lime-stained rocks, offshore, that vaguely resembled small ice-coated boulders.
Doubling back to Isle aux Morts, I found the Harvey Trail, named for one George Harvey, an 18th-19th Century immigrant from the Channel Islands, who settled with his wife, Jane, a native of the Port -aux- Basques area and their nine children, in this then remote spot, where at the time, no other people lived. George and his eldest daughter, Ann, rescued several sailors from the sinking ships, the Despatch and the Rankin, in 1828 and 1838, respectively. Here are scenes from the Harvey Trail.
Finally, Margaree, a tiny village that lies southwest of Isle aux Morts, has Seacoast Restaurant, with extraordinarily tasty seafood, beef and pork dishes, served by a group of gracious, very unassuming women. The owner brushes off compliments, but I know she is proud of the operation. It was a vibrant Sunday night crowd, made all the more so by the day being Pentecost Sunday AND the middle of a long Victoria Day weekend.
That made the relatively light crowd on tonight’s sailing to North Sydney seem rather strange, but maybe it’s a sign that people want to celebrate closer to home. I leave off here, after successfully dealing with my bug-a-boo, backing the car up longer than ten feet. The patient ferrymen got me to back Sportage up some forty feet-without banging into anything. That’s progress!
St. James Anglican Church, Port aux Basques, NLNeighbourhood on north side of Port aux BasquesBurnt Islands,NLBurnt Islands, NLThe story of George Harvey, Isle aux Morts, NLShipwreck capital of NewfoundlandSeacoast Restaurant, Margaree(NL)
May 15, 2024, St. Pierre, SPM- The little girl was proudly pushing her training-wheeled bicycle up the sidewalk of the waterfront park, confidently returning my greeting of “Bonjour”. Continuing my walk, my eyes cast about, for who the adult accompanying her might be, as even in this small town, on a Eurocentric island in the North Atlantic, there is a concern for safety. Not to worry- Maman called to her petite ange, who told her that she would not go onto the street. For good measure, Maman went up to her daughter and brought bicycle and child back into the park. Life on Ile St. Pierre thus proceeds as it does elsewhere in La Belle France, the major part of which lies a minimum of 3822 km/ 2375 mi. (Brest, Bretagne) to the east.
Bruce, the sole attendant these days, at Abbie’s Garden, named for his late first wife, wished aloud that he’d had a better sleep. Still, he put together a fine breakfast and wished me well, on my visit to St. Pierre and the rest of my journey. Then, he said he was going back to bed. I wish him well, and a speedy recovery from what seemed to ail him this morning.
The drive over to Fortune, and the ferry office, was no big deal, but I did have to ask where the ticket office was, as all signs point to the actual terminal. A kind Canadian customs officer steered me in the right direction, tickets were purchased, Sportage was safely parked in a secure lot up the road, I caught a shuttle back to the terminal, and an hour later, twenty-five of us were en route to the sole remnant of French North America, north of the Caribbean Sea.
My interest in St. Pierre & Miquelon is not so much in its being French, as in its existence as a mini-state of sorts-a North American Andorra, or Nauru. Much of the approach to SPM is standard: Bags are inspected, at the Canadian Border Station, in Fortune and again upon arrival in St. Pierre; passports are stamped, with the imprimatur of St. Pierre & Miquelon; a short, but winding, walkway leads out of the terminal.
My shuttle driver, Julie, was waiting, with a sign that had my name imprinted. There was a hearty “Bienvenu!”, and I thanked her, in my halting, tentative French (It’s been ten years since my visit to La Patrie and a brief passage through Quebec, in 2022, scarcely required much usage of La Langue Maternelle at all). Excuses aside, we agreed to toggle between our two languages, and indeed that seems to be the sentiment of everyone I encountered this afternoon.
Auberge Quatre Temps
After settling in, at Auberge Quatre Temps, I got my bearings from the complimentary map, then set out to check the downtown and waterfront areas. Centre Ville has the modest Cathedral de Sacre Coeur, a Prefectural Office and a City Hall (Hotel de Ville). There are several boulangeries and a few Patisseries (One never goes into a bread shop, looking for pastry-or vice versa-save for the one baker here, who offers both). St. Pierre has a public library (Bibliotheque) and a large athletic field, where a few intrepid fathers were coaching their sons and daughters, on the finer points of soccer.
Cathedrale de Sacre Coeur
At the waterfront, once mother and daughter left, I encountered a small group of adults and children, having a celebratory gathering of some kind. The adults were putting on Disney character costumes, which fazed the kids not at all. Two boys were chasing one another around the base of the closed lighthouse, and two girls were helping their elders with the costumes. As I left, and prepared to photograph the four cannons that stand in repose, a bit to the north of the lighthouse, a young woman dashed out of a car, marked “St. Pierre et Miquelon”, tripod in hand, set up the device, focused on a vessel in the bay, took her photos and dashed back to the car, speeding off-towards whatever office awaiting her return.
Lighthouse at Havre St. Pierre
I saw quite a few people driving somewhat hurriedly, stopping quickly, dashing out of their cars, doing a brisk errand and then hopping back in the cars and zipping off to whatever was next. Pedestrians, on the other hand, were relaxed and happy, as they made their evening rounds. When I found myself a bit north of Quatre Temps, a lady was glad to offer direction-in both French and English. This will be a fine two-day retourne a France.
As I stood atop Signal Hill, the wind howled in a way that made me think of the few of us taking in the majesty of this St. John’s landmark as intrepid. I immediately thereafter conjured a snarky voice saying “ I can think of another word, ending in -pid.”
The Battery (Cabot Tower), Signal Hill, St. John’s
I had spent an hour or so at a cozy coffee shop, among very warm and friendly folks, so discomfort was not hard to take for a bit. On a less blustery day, I could very well have walked from Battery Cafe to THE Battery, or Cabot Tower, as it is called in memory of the 400th Anniversary of John Cabot’s landing in Newfoundand.
With a sense that I wanted to get to an old haunt, Abbie’s Garden, I punched in directions to TCH West. After getting through the funky neighbourhood of Quidi Vidi, I was westbound, in short order.
Just before turning off on NL 210, I gassed up at the pump. North Atlantic is one of those places where paying at the pump is new, so a hefty security deposit was tacked on. I later learned that this will fall off my tab, in a few days, with only the actual purchase price remaining. Lesson: In Newfoundland, pay inside.
I got to Abbie’s Garden, around 5:30, finding that I was the sole guest. Bruce put me in the same room I had two years ago and came by later, with one of his signature pastries; this time, a freshly baked cinnamon roll.
The place, in a drizzly ambiance, was eerily quiet. Just two older men, at opposite ends of the property, with memories of their respective beloved wives and going forward with new love interests.
I ended the evening watching the first “Hunger Games” film. It struck the same chord as when I first saw it. I am still skeptical of anyone in authority who claims to have all the answers.
May 10, 2024, Aboard the Ferry to Port aux Basques- On a hunch, my host and I went to North Sydney, and checked with the Marine Atlantic office, as I had not received a confirmation of my ticket to Newfoundland, only the deduction from my bank account-back in November. We found that, voila, I was on the manifest-but that there was concern that the ferry scheduled for tomorrow is likely to be canceled, due to rough weather. So, I was given a slot on tonight’s ferry.
Fortunately, my car and belongings were only an hour away, at my host’s place in Eskasoni. After going on a couple of other errands, of mercy and sustenance, and visiting with another person who was experiencing family difficulty, I bid farewell to my hosts and headed to the ferry terminal. Two hours later, here I am on en route back to see some other friends made two years ago, and to see what new friends will appear.
A less pleasant surprise is that my i-Phone and this laptop are no longer connected. Maybe it’s a bad USB cord, so I will see if purchasing a new one, on Sunday or Monday, will let me resume sharing photos. Hmm, it is charging the phone, so maybe it’s not the USB cord that’s the problem. Will try again with the USB port itself, on Sunday or Monday. In the meantime, I will continue to take photos of Newfoundland, using the phone camera-and some day be able to share them on this blog site.
Conversations with my hosts today centered more on pastoral responsibilities. How do we help the sick, the troubled, the homeless, to get back on track. Ernie said that, in a severe situation, we must not let the perfect be a barrier to the good and necessary. If some foods are not organic, or not in keeping with someone’s strict diet-let those foods work, in a pinch. He gave the example of Wonder Bread, which he has yet to see become moldy. Since Ernie is an octogenarian, and I’m not, I give his testament a few grains of salt. Those of us who can afford, and do have access to, healthier options should share them when we can. It is often survival, however, that matters most.
In a few hours, we will dock, so now it’s time to nod off and be ready to drive up to Corner Brook, when the time comes.
May 9, 2024, Whycocomagh- As the master community activist explained his efforts, he referred back to ‘Abdu’l-Baha’s work, during and after World War I and the subsequent outbreak of influenza. No one, Jew, Arab or European, was left out of the food distribution effort, which were dependent on the storehouses He had set up and the fields He had seen be planted, for the very purpose of preventing hunger.
Ernie has spent the past thirty years or so, in establishing a food security system in Eskasoni, a community of Miqmaq (pronounced “Mehkamag”) First Nations people, on the southeast corner of Cape Breton Island. He hit upon this track, both because of his grandfather’s example of providing for those less fortunate and because of the time that he and his wife spent in Boston, where he noted a productive system of Food Banks had been in place.
‘Abdu’l-Baha counseled “walking the mystical path with practical feet”. Ernie was very clear, as I am, that “practical feet” does not mean “materialistic”. The wise use of resources will not leave anyone out and not unduly benefit one person or group to excess. While this has proven elusive, in a great many situations, it is not beyond our capacity as humans to establish an equanimical society.
This first of a two-day consultation on sustainability focused on the system that Ernie and his wife have set up, largely by shopping judiciously, for bargains-mostly in local markets on Cape Breton, but occasionally going to Halifax or Saint John. Being able to buy in bulk, they are better positioned to render strong assistance in hard times. Storage of grains, food dehydration, salting and drying of meat, and canning techniques are also high among this amazing couple’s skill sets.
I look forward to Day 2 of this learning session, which was a serendipitous outcome of the discussion around the 50th anniversary of the founding of Eskasoni’s Baha’i Spiritual Assembly. The intensity of the lessons I am learning are making this visit astonishingly illuminating.
A Sagittarian Seeker 