July 15, 2024, Orland, CA- My hosts have a “tomato problem”. The fruit is everywhere, on their ten acre spread. Lots of goodness has found its way to fruition here, on the south side of this earnest, and squared away, farming community, west of Chico.
The Central Valley is hot, as it always is in the height of summer, with the added burden today of a massive fire at a recycling plant on the edge of Chico, some twenty miles east. There have already been fires in Oroville, 40 miles to the south, and I could see the faint outlines of smoke to the north of here, as I drove into Orland’s neat and clean downtown.
Here on County Road 18, though, the air is cooling off and the fields are lush, drawing sustenance from the canals and the irrigation ditches that connect these tendrils of one of America’s prime breadbaskets. My hosts came here from the oven of Phoenix, about 18 months ago, and immediately felt a ton of relief, at the ambiance of being between two mountain ranges and the sense of contributing to food security.
Almond orchard, Orland, CAAssorted fruit trees (apple, plum and apricot) adorn the north and east sides of the spread. (Above and below)Irrigation is king here. This ditch nourishes several farms in southwest Orland.The trees also serve as windbreaks.Every farm needs a barn with good bones.Lee, with the bees. This mini-apiary helps to not rely on commercial hive keepers, who service the larger farms nearby.
Needless to say, 9/10 of the dinner plate was filled with goodies that came straight from the backyard: Potatoes and a good part of the salad mix. The meat was from down the road, but it was organic, too.
The road here from Carson City was a very clogged, slowed by construction along I-80 and CA 20, and much quicker on CA 32. Truckee was a fun stop, with mid-morning snack at Coffee And, and just people watching along Main Street. Families are just a joy to observe.
Breathing country air is, likewise, a joy-especially on a spread that is free of toxic pesticides. It’s been a reassuring break, to see the fruits of good folks’ labours.
June 12, 2024, Bellemont- Heat came to call today; “only”87 F, but for any sort of outside activity, the Arizona (and, increasingly, global) sunshine merits caution and respect. Nonetheless, a group of young people worked hard, this afternoon, on renovating a sorely neglected Prayer Circle.
A separate matter, regarding the education of young adults, has arisen. Even the most loving and dedicated of educators, including, for a time in the late 1970s into the ’90s, yours truly, have bought into the myth that “tough love” is what young people need most. Corporal punishment was once a part of that, though I myself never stooped to that level. Cooler heads, in U.S., Canadian and European schools have prevailed-and gradually, educators in developing nations are seeing the folly of sanctioned bullying. Our issues are more a matter of the manner of speech directed at one’s charges. I have effectively used humour and insight education, in getting co-operation from the kids, this week. The program director is likewise pursuing gentle persuasion, in enforcing the rules. The other tutors, some educated in harsher programs themselves, are taking note, and modifying their own approach.
This generation is more proactive and more worldly, than we and our succeeding two generations were, as teens. The impulsive behaviour surfaces, every so often, but the youth are more amenable to subtle hints and succinct requests than many of us were.
May 29, 2024, Dickson, TN- The little girl saw an elephant, a red horse, octopus suction cups, a jellyfish, as our party of six visitors and two guides walked along the cavern path. We all saw the ghost of George Washington, a Persian palace, various wooden ships, Lover’s Lane, Dante’s Inferno and a grand ballroom, within the confines of the southern sector of Grand Caverns.
This is the vacation part of my journey. In between family visits and days of service, I am in the Southland, taking in natural wonders of this incredible cavern system and, in the days to come, a few historic sites. The guides, Lily and Malachi, are fonts of knowledge about this system, only half of which is open to general tours, with another 1/3 available for an “Adventure Tour” package-which I would consider on a different visit, if a certain someone is interested in coming along. Time will tell.
The day started nicely, with a light breakfast at Broad Porch Coffee House, the latest successor to beloved and sorely-missed Artful Dodger. The counter staff have the same bright energy and sweet disposition that Jasmin (not her real name) had, ten years ago. Maybe it’s the feng shui of the place.
Leaving Harrisonburg, I noted a sign for the little town of Grottoes, which intrigued me enough to turn off and head east on the small Virginia highway. Grottoes have fascinated me since the days when one was able to visit the three waterfalls of Jeju, Korea. (Those waterfalls have since been expropriated by a Chinese businessman, who uses their water for his own ends.) The name of the Virginia town is drawn from Grand Caverns, discovered serendipitously by a curious teenager, in 1804. The caves became a tourist attraction, shortly thereafter, and remain so to this day, the oldest show caves in the United States.
Lily explained, without editorial comment, that both Stonewall Jackson and Union officer Dixon Miles had brought their men into the caverns, at various times. No battle was fought in the caves, though there was a skirmish on Cave Hill, above the labyrinthine system. (Dixon Miles is remembered for planning to surrender Harpers Ferry, but died before he could do so. Stonewall Jackson, of course, ended up being shot and killed by one of his own men, in what was officially called “a case of mistaken identity”.)
Here are some scenes of the caverns. For perspective, the guides explained, note that stalactites (ceiling-based) and stalagmites (floor-based) grow at a rate of 3 cubic inches a year. The collective term for these formations, and for any other cave formation, is speleothem. That includes all the animals that the girl saw, and the ghost of George.
The ElephantThe Hitching Post
After this incredible seventy-minutes, I thanked the guides profusely, then headed over to a food truck, parked on the south side of Grottoes’ town center. El Carreton offers fabulous north Mexican fare, from the unassuming vehicle. Enjoying half of the burrito especial, I savoured equally the serene emptiness of a town, whose residents were mostly at work elsewhere.
The Ghost of George WashingtonReflecting PoolEnd of the Line
Down through the Spine of Virginia, and across Tennessee, I did not stop at my customary refuge. It was not a good time for a visit. So, positioning myself for tomorrow’s long-delayed exploration of Shiloh, I stopped for the night at this western anchor of I-840, the southern Nashville by-pass. Music City has much to draw me in, but this time is intended for other pursuits.
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 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.
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 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 18, 2024, Corner Brook- The giddy photographer stopped, rolled down his car window, and called out to the two moose who were nonchalantly grazing away, in a field adjacent to the road. He snapped a couple of photos, as I was passing by in the opposite direction, to tend to other business. When I got back, the shutterbug and moose had disappeared. Oh, well. They are probably not the last moose I will see this trip. There have been four, so far.
After opting for a light breakfast, this morning, I left Carriage Inn around 10:30. The road back to Corner Brook was generally lightly-trafficked and the weather was delightful. A lone cow moose, grazing off the road, was cause for people to flash bright lights at one another. The big elk could have cared less. She was way off the road and the grass must have been sweet.
Carriage Inn, Grand Falls-WindsorMeeting with Baha’is of Corner BrookCrow Gulch mural
I arrived at River’s End Motel, around 2, and was directed to use a code, in order to get into my room. This seems to be an anomaly, as yet, absentee owners and a brief, every-other-day housekeeping service. I am only here overnight, so it makes little difference to me. The room is clean and comfortable, so we’re good.
My visit to Baha’i friends here was more old school-a hearty and joyful conversation, of about two hours, followed by a simple and satisfying meal of pizza and chicken soup. Then, more conversation, focusing on ongoing issues with treatment of First Nations people in certain parts of Canada. I have seen some strides being made in that regard, in the west of the country, at least, and in some areas of Cape Breton, but as in the U.S., much remains to be accomplished.
Crow Gulch was an area, largely settled by Miqmaq families, just above a paper mill, on the outskirts of Corner Brook. It was the object of scorn from those who considered themselves “better off”, as the homes were seen as being haphazardly built, with few having electricity or running water. The community lasted from the 1920s until about 1980, when it was vacated and bulldozed. Crow Gulch is now honoured by a mural and by a book of poetry, written by a descendant of two of its residents. Those looking back on the place today recall it as having been a vibrant community, where the joy of close-knot families outweighed the hardships caused by outward poverty.
It is places like Crow Gulch that are as important to me, if not more important than, any swanky or upscale locales. The spirituality of a given place is its most important feature, and such strength of purpose is stronger, quite often, in rural communities than in areas where the pace of life is more brisk. This is recognized by many, in the video below.
Tomorrow marks my final day in Newfoundland, for this year, at least. It’s gratifying that I would be welcome back here, to stand with those making a decent life for themselves in this beautiful and sometimes harsh land of four seasons: Just another place to call home.
May 16, 2024, St. Pierre- White-breasted nuthatch sat on a small fir branch, and chirped at me to follow THIS way. Going in the direction he was flying, I heard rushing water, indicating there was a small waterfall. I followed a short path, through the firs, and there was indeed a small, but feisty, stream that had produced the makings of a pair of rills, just noisy enough to catch the attention of bird and man. The nuthatch flew off and I headed back towards the Anse a Pierre Road, and Auberge Quatre Temps.
Small rill, near Anse a Pierre
I seem to be getting greeted more by happy, chatty dogs and small children today. That is a good way to live. A large black lab/Rottweiler mix stood guard at one of the houses I passed, but was more glad to see me than perched ready to guard his owner’s house. A little Shih-tsu came out the sidewalk, a bit later, and wanted to play and have her belly rubbed. Her owner had other plans, and called to her: “Remy! Maintenant!”, so playtime ended. A couple of boys who were heading home for lunch (Students can still do that, here) were curious as to why I was inside the cathedral, when there were no lights on. I didn’t need lights for a brief visit, was my answer. There also was no other activity inside, other than a curious Americain saying a few Baha’i prayers and taking photos.
Cathedral de Sacre Coeur, St. Pierre
Today was a good day for crepes, so I stopped in at Roc Cafe, just as the lunch hour was starting (It’s 12-2, in the French style), for a plate of 3 Fromage Galettes, avec jambon. The young waiter gave a quizzical expression, when I mentioned having enjoyed galettes in Amiens and in Lille, ten years ago. It’s true that the dish is essentially Breton in origin, but other parts of northern France have jumped on the galette bandwagon, much as in the U.S., one can get Maine lobster in Phoenix, jambalaya and gumbo in Buffalo, Cuban sandwiches in Seattle and just about any style of barbecue anywhere besides where the style originated. I did recall later, having had my very first galettes at Daily Gourmand, in Vannes, exactly where they would be expected. Galettes are buckwheat crepes, usually with a savory filling.
As indicated earlier, I spent a good part of the day on the trail. My route went from just north of Quatre Temps to a small rock overlooking Anse a Pierre, and the island of Langlade, five kilometers to the west. There were ups and downs, bogs to be worked around, a section of road, which served as a good marker-as this taiga/tundra landscape is just large enough for a wanderer to get lost. Fortunately, I also learned enough about hiking in boggy terrain, at L’Anse aux Meadows, two years ago, so that I scanned for trails below my vantage point, and was able to stay on course.
I Ile Langlade, from Anse a Pierre
Now, I am back at Quatre Temps, and it is worthwhile to mention dinner. Chef Cristelle is of Michelin quality, even though she would be shocked to hear such a thing. Last night’s fresh-caught, grilled cod was accompanied by smooth risotto and freshly picked lettuce, in a light vinaigrette. This gem of a plate was followed by large pear halves, topped with caramel sauce, vanilla ice cream and not-too-sweet whipped cream. Now you know why, along with the galettes, I was easily enticed into this afternoon’s eight kilometer hike. This evening, Cristelle proposed two pressed smoked salmon cakes, served chilled, with more smoked salmon flakes on a bed of fresh lettuce and cherry tomatoes. That filled the bill nicely. Of course, 3 mini-profiteroles with ice cream and caramel sauce were the dessert, but hey, this is France-for all intents and purposes.
Tomorrow will see me back in Newfoundland, with more joyful adventures to follow-including a visit with Baha’is in Corner Brook. One of them is K’s friend from the Philippines, so I already feel connected.
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.
A Sagittarian Seeker 