Eastbound and Back, Day 27: No Fire This Time

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May 25, 2024, Bethlehem, PA- I was drifting off to another blissful sleep, and the unmistakable sound, from years of running drills at various schools, got me out of bed and out of the building, in a flash. There I was, pajama-clad, and in sockless shoes, with a slowly-accumulating gathering of fellow guests, and the few staff who didn’t need to be in the office. “It’s just like school, huh?”, I remarked to an excited little girl, as her father grimaced and shook his head. The whole episode lasted twenty-five minutes, the police officer gave the all-clear and we headed back inside, as the seven firefighters continued their inspection of the wiring and checking for signs of (illegal) indoor smoking, or untended cooking. (This is an extended stay establishment, and there are two flat stove burners, in each room, as well as a microwave oven-which could lead to burnt popcorn.) The Cuban maintenance director, sounding like Desi Arnaz on steroids, promised he’d find out if anyone was responsible for the mayhem. All I know is, it wasn’t me-and probably wasn’t the guy standing next to me, who looked as if he were a clean-shaven Rip Van Winkle.

My last night in New England, for this trip, anyway, came to an end with a small purchase of a coffee and empanada, from 7-11, and a farewell to Nitey-Nite Motel’s owner, who barely looked up from his game of Solitaire, as I dropped off the key card. That’s okay; he offers clean, quiet rooms at a decent price. Hartford and Waterbury were a breeze to get past. Danbury was still Danbury-the same jockeying for position, at the split between U.S. 7 and I-84, leading some of us to wait 2-3 seconds in the inner lane of 7, before a quick break let us onto the 84.

It’s been a while since I stopped at Arlene and Tom’s Family Diner, Port Jervis. The same “Home of the Free, because of the Brave” sign is there, and the TV is still set to Newsmax. The pastrami is still among the best in the Catskill region, though, so that’s what matters most. Besides, it is always good to know what both sides are thinking, in this cosmic stew that is America, and the world, in 2024.

This visit to New England, and to the northeast Atlantic region beyond, reassured me of everyone’s love. Seeing cousins from both sides of the family, being able to repay Mom for all the nurturing she has given, over seven decades, being with my three siblings in a delightful dining room, visiting the graves of my father and baby brother, visiting a boyhood friend and connecting with Baha’is in Cape Breton Island, Corner Brook (NL) and Green Acre Baha’i School have made the month an exemplary one. Starting May off with a visit to the House of Worship certainly helped, in terms of spiritual energy. There was more interest in the Faith, from family and friends, this time around. Mom even read some prayers from my book. I was sent forward with top-notch pizza in Mishawaka, and, despite the jibes from someone I love very much, managed to keep in the good graces of hoteliers from Gallup to South Windsor. Time on the French-ruled island of St. Pierre was the icing on this very rich cake.

Now I am in Pennsylvania, with this hotel, an Air BnB and a private guest room as places of rest, during this second round of family visits. This evening was another special event-well before the fire drill. I visited these fine people, enjoyed fabulous Persian rice, salad and soup, with copious amounts of jicama and watermelon for dessert. I was also edified by the various “Got Talent” clips of performances by American and British senior citizens-most of whom were extraordinarily talented.

I also was briefly introduced to Tatamy Village’s community park.

Tatamy Park

Now, I lay me down to sleep, again.

Eastbound and Back, Day 21: Newfoundland Notes, Part VI

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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, NL
Neighbourhood on north side of Port aux Basques
Burnt Islands,NL
Burnt Islands, NL
The story of George Harvey, Isle aux Morts, NL
Shipwreck capital of Newfoundland
Seacoast Restaurant, Margaree(NL)

Eastbound and Back, Day 13: Newfoundland Notes, Part I

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May 11, 2024, Corner Brook-

I was able to add this photo, of sunrise on our approach to Channel-Port aux Basques, earlier today. Then, the WP editor kicked in, and announced that “You have no posts”. That was with regard to the app on my i-Phone. That app will remain unused, until I can get that nonsense straightened out. This is one example of why AI will never replace the human mind. AI is quirky, rigid, inflexible. Humans are quirky, too, and can be inflexible, but can be made to see reason. AI is an eternal toddler. Only an adult can guide it to a place of equanimity.

Anyway, upon getting off the ferry, Sportage and I headed to Alma’s Family Restaurant, in a shopping strip mall, east of downtown. A nice young lady, who appeared to be the owner’s daughter, took my order, in business-like but kind fashion. The breakfast was a bit bland, but filling.

Today was a picture postcard Blue Sky day. The storm that folks on Cape Breton warned about, yesterday, has not reached here, yet. So, I headed east, towards Corner Brook which, as you see above, was my destination, after the inadequate sleep I got on the ride over. There was an added concern: Son had a bout of dehydration and is in hospital. I am prepared to cut this trip short, return to Cape Breton and then make my way to Texas, but so far, Aram and Yunhee are not in need of my presence. I will, nonetheless, be in touch with them each day, until he is recovered. While I was sitting still and dealing with that, a young woman, who had been at the gas pumps at the same time as me, was dealing with what sounded like a serious interpersonal issue. She pulled her car behind mine, and stayed close to me, until she felt better enough to drive off. No words were exchanged between us; she just needed someone who felt trustworthy, for about twenty minutes.

After driving around the Stephenville and Gallants areas (Gallant being my Nana’s family name, that of the ancestors who came from France to the Maritimes, by way of Quebec.), I pulled into Corner Brook.

Lake George, east of Gallants.
North Brook, Gallants

A couple of aborted attempts at finding lodging-“We are waiting for our cleaning crew”; no one in the office ended with my taking a room at the majestic Glynmill Inn.

I also took in a couple of Corner Brook’s finer natural areas: The Bay of Islands is bordered by a heartfelt Rock Art Wall, where people have left mementos of what is in their hearts.

Parents’ worst nightmare.
Bay of Islands

There is also a trail, from Glynmill to downtown. Passing by a small pond, it leads to Corner Brook’s unique City Hall.

So, having managed to reach an understanding with AI, I present you, once again, with photos taken on my i-Phone. Hope all is well on your end.

Eastbound and Back, Day 8: The Coast Cleared

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May 6, 2024, Calais, ME- At the roundabout, turning off towards Boothbay Harbor, I found myself waiting for a street sweeper in what was little more than a Bobcat, heading across the first exit and headed southbound, which I was also doing. Fortunately, he next turned right, towards the Post Office, and I was on track to be punctual.

I got to the rendezvous point that I thought was right-Dunkin’Donuts, on the south end of Wells. Turns out, there is another Dunkin’, more in the center of town. The still-recognizable figure from my childhood got my text and came to where I was, three minutes later.


The clouds that had hung on earlier started clearing, as we bantered for the next ninety minutes, giving a good many caffeinating residents of Wells and environs a bit more about growing up in Saugus, in the ’50s and ’60s than they may have ever anticipated. A Frenchman and an Italian get going on stuff from the past, and who knows what will be divulged. I may stop on the way back, and catch his piano magic.

Catharsis just happens, though both of us did our best to not give TMI. It was time to move on, around 11, which gave me just enough time to go up the coast towards Boothbay Harbor, where a cousin and his wife were waiting for our annual, or biennial, meeting. Stopping at Wilbur’s of Maine, for gift items, took five minutes and the minor wait for the street sweeper took another five. I was at their house at exactly 11 a.m. Why that is suddenly so important, as I write this, is a mystery. Maybe I am just compensating for some time in the distant past, when I let people down, due to dawdling. At any rate, it didn’t matter at all to my hosts. Our conversation, over lunch, was centered on our Irish paternal great-grandmother’s proactivity, in purchasing what would become the Boivin family home, for over 100 years. So many gatherings took place, in the three storeys of that house, in the backyard, up the street at another aunt & uncle’s house and two blocks north, at another uncle & aunt’s house. Then, there were the pool tournaments, at Frank’s Bar & Grill, across the main street from Perley.

I left the cousins behind, with a promise to return, later this month. The sky was alternately foggy (inland) and clear (along the coast). I found relatively scant traffic, which was not surprising as it’s still fairly early in May. Many cabins and seasonal restaurants are still closed, awaiting Memorial Day. It also being a Monday, several others were taking their weekly day off. Joe’s Diner, just shy of the Canadian border, was open, for a modest plate of spaghetti, and a generous helping of meatballs. International Motel, a riverside establishment, has provided me with another comfortable place for a fine night’s rest.

Tomorrow will see a return visit to the Gallant family’s North American entry point: Shediac, NB. It was there that my paternal grandmother’s father’s forebears brought their roofing skills to bear among the Basque and Breton fisherfolk of 17th Century New Brunswick.

Eastbound and Back, Day 4: Making the Time

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May 2, 2024, Clarion, PA- The housekeeper rapped on the door, ever so lightly. “Mister, it is time. You must check out!” Yes, it was indeed 11 a.m., and she probably had fifteen rooms to clean, in four hours, or something along those lines. I did want to get going, as well, so the last post I was writing, before this one, was set aside, until I could get to a coffee house, in downtown Goshen, and everything was put carefully in the right bags and brought to Sportage- in three minutes’ time. The Super 8 was in good repair and she gave me a clean room, last night, so I’ll not quibble.

As I drove along Main Street, Goshen, looking for a parking spot-Voila, there it was, on the other side of the street-and right in front of the recommended coffee house. As I signaled a left turn, into the space went the oncoming vehicle. Hmmm- no sense getting annoyed, so I turned left onto the next side street-and, there was Electric Brew, which bills itself as “Goshen’s original coffee house”. I found a spot, right in front of it, so grace given was grace returned. I don’t know about the other place, but Electric Brew is an excellent coffee house/deli, with a most congenial and helpful team of baristas and servers. I was able to easily finish and post about the Twelfth Day of Ridvan.

The day continued, into and across Ohio, with plenty of opportunities to make people feel seen and heard. Mostly, it was a matter of holding doors open for those coming through, or coming in behind me. I thrive on not being anonymous or invisible, so I am sure other people are largely the same.

There wasn’t much else going on, in this very familiar portion of the trip, but I changed the route just a little-going on I-80, in stead of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. That led me to another Motel 6, this one a bit more upscale, in amenities, though not in price. I had the pleasure of dining at Cozumel Authentic Mexican Restaurant-and found it as good as many such places in the Southwest. It isn’t often that Motel 6 even has an eatery in the same building-but there we are. The room I scored is huge-spare, but with a fine bed, and HUGE.

I find it always pays to make the time for doing things carefully-big or small.

The Myth of Finality

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April 28, 2024, Gallup- As I was walking to breakfast, at Post 6, this morning, one of the dogs who customarily run up to their owners’ fence and barks his head off, was true to form. A raven began flying in circles, above the dog, and cawed loudly, mimicking the dog’s bark. Animals can hassle each other like that.

So, too, do we humans seem to think it is our due, to hassle one another. I give you the current version of “Forward, into the past!”-Right-wing students, mixing with peaceful protesters and yelling for a renewal of “The Final Solution”. There is no real concern about the Palestinians who have suffered, no desire to see justice for Gaza, just a re-hash of Nazi propaganda-blaming Jews in this country and around the world for the destruction that has come from two groups of extremists fighting one another. Palestinians, in Gaza, have asked that the hatred against ordinary Jews be stopped. It is, they note, not helping their search for justice.

I have relatives who are at least a quarter, or half, and in a few cases full-blooded Jewish. I have many more, both Arab and Jew, who I count as friends. None of them hate the others. Growing up, my parents counted both Arabs and Jews as friends. It is thus second nature.

In Creation, there is no permission given by the Divine, for one group of people to slaughter another. The deluded young man who called for the deaths of all Jews can quote Mein Kampf all he wants, but if he follows through, he deserves full punishment, under the law. I say the same applies to anyone calling for the deaths of all Arabs. Enough is enough! If someone, or a group, attacks a Jew, or an Arab, in my presence, I will stand for the intended victim-nonviolently, mind you, but I will stand in defense of the one being attacked.

Today is the anniversary of Baha’u’llah’s Declaration of His Mission, to unite mankind, both spiritually and materially. We Baha’is celebrated, worldwide. There are fellows in Faith who are of Jewish descent, as Penny was and there are fellows in Faith who are of Arab descent-in fact, there are Baha’is in virtually every ethnicity, across the planet. We stand for the oneness of mankind. There is no room for anyone to act on genocidal thoughts, of any kind. There is no such “final solution”.

In a few days, I will be at the Baha’i House of Worship, in Wilmette, Illinois, north of Chicago. I try to visit there, each time I head east, for family visits. The magnificent Temple helps me ground self spiritually. This time, I hope to see both Jewish and Arabic visitors, among the multitude that is there, on any given day.

The only finality should be love.

Degrees of Separation

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April 23, 2024- The individual, always congenial and engaging in the past, did a complete 180 today, glaring at all but a few chosen co-workers, and tersely responding to well-wishes. Fortunately, this turnabout did not get directed towards children, but was rather puzzling to the rest of us. It was hopefully just the result of a random bad day.

Things like this put me on guard, though, as there were many mercurial and unpredictable people in my childhood, mostly teenagers, but several adults as well. I learned to be very guarded, a tactic my mother also stressed was essential for my safety and well-being. That mantra has played in my background ever since. It was playing today, though fortunately the children with whom I worked were co-operative and appreciative.

This brings me to the matter of the separation, the barriers people put up, even against those who clearly mean no harm. Groups do this also, and with a vengeance. In the worst cases, there are laws, ad hoc groups and social customs that enforce separation. More commonly, language speaks to the barriers: Prefixes, like “anti”, “un” and “non”, meant to enforce “Us vs. Them”; Nouns and adjectives, like “alien”, “illegal”, “filthy”, “degenerate”, even “homeless” are employed to suggest that someone’s presence is an impediment to the well-being of the dominant society.

Arguably, none of us can be sweetly all-accepting of all behaviours. Yet, I can’t get past the notion that, in the Divine Creation, there is no other-unless the construct that Jesus the Christ called “Satan” or “the devil” is somehow to be maintained as a competitor to the Creator. The lower nature of the human mind, which is what was really meant by that construct, is also behind the us vs. them mindset. Without fear, hate and envy, there is no “other”; there is only us, only we.

When the out-of-sorts individual gets past whatever caused the anger shown today, perhaps there will be one less person towards which my guard will need to be maintained. That is the joy of not seeing anyone as “the other”.

Power Language

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April 19, 2024- When I was a child, the concept that every blow delivered would be followed by an equal and opposite retaliatory strike was alien to me. I thought, naively, that a simple exchange of blows was enough for each boy to express his annoyance at the situation. My opponents uniformly believed that there had to be a winner and a loser.

There has been much discussion, over the past five years, about Love Language-the way in which an individual gives and receives love. My love language, for example, is acts of service. Words of affirmation, quality time and physical touch are secondary love languages-expressed only to a certain few.

Power is also a concept that is expressed in “languages” of sorts. (These are only my thoughts on the matter.) The power languages I have ascertained are persuasion, coercion, diminution, guilt-mongering and inclusion. The first and last are positive means to power. The second, third and fourth are negative, if not neurotic, power languages.


Both persuasion and inclusion involve patience, flexibility and a regard for others that is equal to one’s self-regard. Persuasion entails a commitment to a lengthy engagement with those whose agreement and co-operation are desired. Inclusion entails an inherent regard for the other person’s, or group’s, sense of self-worth. Inclusion is a longer game, in which the perception of power, coming from within the self, is large enough a reservoir that the individual sees others as being of the same worth as self. The two power languages do not entail a lesser view of either oneself or any other human being. They may even extend to non-human animals, plants, funga and spirits.

Coercion, often involving physical force, but also including bribery, co-opting, blackmail and obfuscation, is the most common historical power language. Even in modern times, the cynic’s Golden Rule, “He who has the gold makes the rules”, has silenced those whose financial or time-management skills are sufficiently wanting, that a keen observer who is hungry for power can leverage the person’s weakness and buy or intimidate them into giving up their agency.

Diminution, the convincing of social groups of their own unworthiness and of the superiority of others, is a second very common historical power language. It is the modus operandi of the plantation, of the colonial system and of patriarchy. Diminution depends on a top-down decision-making apparatus. It goes beyond the sensible system of parenthood, infantilizes women, disempowers adolescents, and instills a sense of superiority in members of a dominant culture. This is most obvious in the notions of White Supremacy and Male Superiority, but is also true of any culture where a dominant group trivializes the contributions of marginalized communities.

Guilt-mongering is the “when all else fails” power language of dominance. It features self-as-victim, gaslighting, false equivalence and an “after all I’ve done for you” pitch, each of which is like a rock in a shoe, designed to nettle and disrupt the other’s concentration and sense of well-being. It manifests itself in endless legal appeals and slow-walking of valid processes, just enough to create doubt and suspicion. It is a favoured tool of those among the well-connected who lack a moral compass. It is also a favoured tool of those in the media whose primary concern is generating revenue, at the expense of morality.

We are seeing a slow, but inexorable, move towards persuasion and inclusion as preferred power languages. The futility of coercion, diminution and guilt-mongering is being seen by more and more people around the world, as their perceived value is recognized, more and more, as impermanent, ephemeral and of scant overall value. The language of power will, in time, become linked to the language of love.

One Person’s Whimsy….

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March 25, 2024- The last step in any prayer is always taking action.

Burying objects in the earth, immersing them in bodies of water or placing them in caves, has long been a spiritual practice of those seeking connection with the Divine, or with forces of Nature. Its effects tend to be slow, usually too slow for the liking of the movers and shakers among us, who want to see quick results.

This evening, I had time available to join a full moon meditation which, after the customary full body relaxation exercise, referenced various treasure vases that have been placed in dozens of locations around the world. Many of these are places of spiritual or environmental significance, to one group of people or another. They range from the Lawrence Laboratories, in Berkeley, CA to a forest in rural Liberia. A sacred site in Israel/Palestine is the location of another such vase. Its mention led someone to protest (in Chat) that the vase was pointless, since things have gotten worse in that part of the world.

“So”, I mused to self, “this means that the vases on the border between North and South Korea, in the Cloisters of Manhattan, a cave in Bosnia-Hercegovina, and others in Iraq, Mexico, the Georgian Federation, South Kivu Province of DR Congo a hill overlooking Fukushima and nuclear energy facilities in New York and Washington State are pointless as well. Let’s all just throw up our hands and let the Big Dogs have their bones!”

After the session was over, I was glad to have not given abrupt voice to that rebuttal. It would have jettisoned the peaceful sentiments of the call’s organizers and made me as much of a problem as the troll was. Then, I started to think further-maybe she was not trying to disrupt, or be a troll. Maybe her Type A brain has no more patience for the slow path of spiritual healing. More’s the pity. Those who seek quick solutions, but who have no game plan that brings reconciliation and justice, are essentially chasing their tails. Their insinuation, that others of us are chasing rainbows, thus rings hollow.

Martin Luther King, Jr had a dream. He also had specific, tangible plans to bring that dream to fruition. I, too, have both, and will pursue them-albeit in a far less prominent manner.

Ad Hominem

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March 23, 2024- “What about the thousands of Vietnamese and Cambodians who have been killed?” So asks Henry Wyeth, an unseen character in Jon Robin Baitz’s “Other Desert Cities”, in response to his father’s admonition to turn himself in, after a bombing, in which he was involved, results in the death of a janitor. Father slaps Henry across the face, and the disheveled young man runs away.

This incident, and its aftermath, are the plot of Baitz’s 2011 play, about family dysfunction, the effect it has on the Wyeths, their two younger children and their doting, but feckless, aunt. It deals head-on with the overemphasis on political differences and how artificial those turn out to be, at the very basic human level. It is, at its core, a horror story. The catalyst is Henry’s sister’s writing a memoir, centered around his disappearance.

I went to a production of the play, this evening, at Prescott Center for the Arts. A fairly new studio theater affords an intimate, “in the square” presentation, almost like watching a play in one’s own living room. This makes the interaction, the tension, that much more relevant to the audience. It also increases the impact of various ad hominem attacks that the family members foist on one another, and no one is spared.

My family, even on an extended level, never fell into such holes of judgment. When we argued, things were resolved by nightfall, or by the problem person apologizing, whichever came first. The same was true in our marriage. Neither of us went to bed angry at the other. None of us let political differences trump familial love. So it remains today. People choose their political and social stances based on their personality, view of the world and experiences. No one else can really judge them, for those things alone.

In the beginning, and in the end, there is only love.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1AIOkrxMPEQ&t=38s