July 25, 2023, Kelso, WA- The two Border Patrol agents saw the large amount of stuff in Sportage’s back area, naturally wanted to have a closer look. They found nothing in the cooler, but a freezer bar that is badly in need of refreezing. They found nothing of interest among the camping equipment, but my personal digital scale, which I have wrapped in a Red Cross blanket. “How does one use a bath scale in the woods?”, asked the senior agent. “One doesn’t”, I replied. “It’s for use when I am in a room with tile or wooden floors”.
That satisfied them, and I was kindheartedly welcomed back, as they chuckled and shook their heads. Shakespeare said it best: “A bit of nonsense now and then is relished by the best of men.” I continued on my way, to the town of Blaine and Peace Arch State Park.
Pine grove, Peace Arch State Park, Blaine, WAThe border meets the sea, Peace Arch State ParkRiot of colours, Peace Arch State ParkApropos of our time, here is a description of the great Paul Robeson’s calling out to the world, from a flatbed truck, at this very park, in the 1950s.Peace Arch, from south side (Blaine).Peace Arch, from north side (White Rock)Totem Pole raised to correct historic wrongs, Peace Arch Provincial Park, White RockMaple Leaf Garden, White Rock, BCPeace Arch Park is one of the only places to go between the U.S. and Canada, without showing documents. The authorities are close by, though.A bit of humour, at Railway Cafe, Blaine
Once I had visited both sides of the Peace Arch complex, it was time for lunch. Railway Cafe is a tiny boxcar that has converted to a cozy, friendly restaurant. Whilst waiting for a made-from-scratch BLT, I took in the homespun humour, such as that above-and below.
This speaks for itself.Railway Cafe’s ExteriorAcross Blaine Inlet, a view of Point Roberts, part of the U.S. but only accessible by road through White Rock, BC. Otherwise, folks go back and forth to Blaine, by boat.
From Blaine, I drove on to Everett, a major U.S. The city is also a commercial port, which at one time was headquarters for Weyerhauser Corporation’s Northwest timberworks. Shingles were made here, en masse, and there is acknowledgement, in the city’s Boxcar Park, of the risks taken by shingle makers-operating sawing equipment, at a very fast pace. Fingers and hands were lost, more often than one might care to think.
Appreciating the risks taken by those who provide building materials.
Weyerhauser House is now a coffee shop and meeting place, close to the waterfront.
Weyerhauser House, Boxcar Park, Everett, WAEverett HarborThe Heart of Everett
Once rejuvenated by a macchiato, from The Muse, in the above mentioned house, I took on Seattle’s, and Tacoma’s, rush hours, calmly navigating down to Kelso, on the Cowlitz River. It’s very peaceful here.
July 22, 2023, Nanaimo- It took about two hours to get from Tsawwassen, south of Vancouver, to this erstwhile coaling station, on Vancouver Island’s east coast. It’s name came from a mispronunciation of Snuneymuxw (“Snunaymuh”), the name of the First Nations people who lived here, when Spanish explorers first came by, in 1791. The Indigenous People shared a found coal deposit, with a group of Metis (Mixed Europeans/Native Canadians), who were in the employ of Hudson’s Bay Company, in 1850. The Metis, unfortunately, sniffed at their offer of trading the coal for one blanket.
Nanaimo, from BC Ferry, on approach to Duke Point.
A bastion, or small outpost, was built at Nanaimo Harbour, by Hudson’s Bay Company, in 1854. It has three floors, each showing a sampling of HBC’s wares and some documents. A high school student, working here for the summer, explained that the building had no military usage, though defensive weapons were in place during some times of tension. It was sometimes used as a refuge for First Nations people, fleeing conflict further north and for miners and their families, who felt threatened at times.
Protection Island, east of Nanaimo HarbourNanaimo Harbour
Below is The Bastion.
After visiting a while, around the harbour, I headed up hill, to Old City Quarter, the original business district, complete with remnants of a Red Light District, which catered to the coal miners of the 19th Century. No buildings remain, of that district and only historical mention is left, of that trade. It is notable that the most prominent building in Old City is the Presbyterian Church.
St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church, Old City Quarter, Nanaimo (Above and below)Old City has touches of the proper British,and the tongue in cheek.The Oxy, as its now called, is still a working bar and grill. Some locals say that it has recently taken in guests over night, but that seems to be an urban legend, anymore.
I stood in need of a stroll, this evening, and so went back to the wharf. Here is the Old Lighthouse, now a restaurant and bar, at twilight.
The Lighthouse Bar and Restaurant, Nanaimo HarbourNanaimo Harbour lightsand more lights.
Painted Turtle Hostel is treating me well, so even in the heat of a July evening, I believe I will sleep well.
July 19, 2023, Medford, OR- As I drove through the southern Cascades and the Siskiyou Mountains, this afternoon, I was amazed at the consistency of the heat index, regardless of altitude. It remained a constant 95-102, from Sacramento to Ashland.
Yes, choices, choices…I made this bed and am actually quite happy in it-as long as I keep hydrating, sun-screening and safari-hat wearing, all will be well. So, here is how the day went, otherwise.
Sacramento- My third visit to HI Sacramento was another round of toddlers playing in a sand box-everyone getting along, but essentially doing their own thing. It was packed, yet not once did I feel like anyone was in anyone else’s way. A Korean gentleman and I were the first ones up, so we got first dibs on the men’s showers. We were also first to breakfast. I checked out around 9:40, then went over to Old Sacramento. The place is pretty much Stock Old West, but it doesn’t feel shopworn. I walked a loop, across Tower Bridge, along West Sacramento’s River Walk, then back across the Old Bridge, north of Old Town and back along dusty Main Street.
Along the way, I met a world-weary man, sitting in the park above River Walk and gave him some encouragement, along with a dollar bill-which I don’t usually do, but he looked like he had earned at least that much. I also shooed away a too-friendly squirrel and passed a flock of Canadian geese, who were diligently cleansing the park of bugs and grubs. My reward, back in Old Sacramento, was an Arnold Palmer (lemonade and iced tea) with a fresh blueberry scone, at Steamers Coffee House, so named for the steamships which connected Sacramento with San Francisco, in the latter 19th Century.
Tower Bridge, one of two spans connecting Sacramento with West Sacramento.Sacramento Riverfront, from Tower BridgeWest Sacramento River Walk, with City Hall in backgroundThe roses of Washington Park-in West Sacramento, not in PortlandView of Tower Bridge, from Riverwalk, West Sacramento“Old” Bridge over Sacramento RiverSacramento River, from Old BridgeOld Sacramento
Sacramento to Medford- Leaving Old Town at 11:30, gassed up at Costco, in Woodland, fifteen minutes north, and drove on to Dunnigan North Rest Area, where a crew was busily raking up leaves, in anticipation of the August “fire season”-which is now a year-round event. I noticed that there were huge piles of cut dead wood, on a lot not far north of there. There seems to be a will to reduce fire risk, at long last.
The highway started to get winding, after I stopped at the California Welcome Center, in Anderson, just south of Redding. I spent several minutes talking with the attendant, and a winsome fellow visitor, about the Pacific Crest Trail, of all things. The trail is nowhere near Anderson, but we each picked up a map of the route. There were a couple of spots thereafter, where the traffic backed up, as construction is in intermittent swing, between Redding and Dunsmuir. At Lake Shasta, I stopped for a look at the water level, which seems to have dropped about five inches from last Spring’s copious rain.
Lake Shasta
Gradually cresting Siskiyou Mountain and heading downhill, I spotted a sign for Penny’s Diner, in Dunsmuir, and decided to check it out. I walked into a room devoid of humans, save a gentleman who said he was a regular customer, and who was bellowing at the kitchen workers in Spanish. I started to order a meal from the QR Code, and a server came over to hand me a paper menu. The meal was rather good, the server rather blase’ about her work. I mentioned that Penny was my late wife’s name, eliciting a blank expression. Maybe every other person who comes in has a comment about knowing someone with that name.
So here I am, in smoky Medford, thankful for a comfortable room, nonetheless.
July 13, 2023- Milan Kundera, born and having cut his literary teeth in the place then known as Czechoslovakia, passed to the ethereal realm yesterday, at the age of 94. Best known for his 1984 novel “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”, a unique take on the Butterfly Effect, if you will, examining a world in which conflicting needs-as well as seemingly unrelated events, intertwine.
Kundera’s works, including the 1979 anthology, “The Book of Laughter and Forgetting”, both revel in and bemoan the conflicts that arise between even the most tightly-connected people. It looks at the origins of laughter-which Kundera hints may have been demonic-then was used by angels to mock the devil. In its seven tales, this theme of using something dear to a being, in order to cut him/her down to size, circles and swirls through the plot threads.
Kundera himself started out as an idealist, who saw communism as the great leveler. Once the Soviet behemoth stomped out the reforms of Alexander Dubcek, in 1968, Milan began to openly question his own orthodoxy-even while stubbornly holding to the ethos of grassroots reform. After having lived for a time in France, and seeing that there was much dissatisfaction among the youth there, he began to adopt a far broader perspective on reform, one that transcended any given system that depended on an authoritarian bent, in order to maintain control.
Often in life, we take what offends us, often about ourselves, and project the blemish onto those who challenge us or who have other ways of looking at life, methods which we don’t understand. Kundera tried to hang on to communism, the way some here in America hang on to a view of class or racial dominance and others, a view of a nation that has forcibly overcome its practices that have engendered such domination.
In the end, as I began to note in a conversation which has just started, with a slightly older friend, we can only address the conflict that presents itself in the mirror, and like Milan Kundera, decide which is the best recourse for dealing with it-laughter, or forgetting. Which of these, best melds with atoning for, or changing, those of our thoughts and actions that have caused pain to self and others?
July 12, 2023- She was, in her youth, the sort of girl with whom I might have fallen madly in love . That long brown hair, those soulful eyes, and that longing for someone, anyone, who would see her as more than that beautiful outward appearance, made her ‘ripe for rescue’, my mates would’ve said. That was my teenage self’s ideal-a girl who needed me.
That night, though, when her pseudo-rescuer, one Tex Watson, told her to “do something” to their captive, Rosemary LaBianca, an innocent small businesswoman, in the wrong place at the wrong time-on that hot August night, she gave up that humanity, that beauty became a facade-as Leslie the Lost stabbed the frantic woman, who had just become a widow, at the hands of another Manson girl.
That night, I was a continent away, in the initial stages of becoming a man-a trainee in Echo Company, 3rd Battalion, 1st Brigade-at Fort Jackson, SC. A few of my fellows spoke of hearing something about a crazy-eyed “lunatic”, named Charles Manson, who had gone on a killing spree-and that maybe he had some “hot chicks” doing his dirty work. No one was certain, though, and the talk dried up-to turn, a few days later, to an event we were all missing: The Woodstock Festival, ten hours away, in the Hudson Valley of New York. It was around then that the Drill Instructors began bantering among themselves about what they would do, if they had five minutes alone with Manson-and what they would like to do to some of those girls. Of course, they also said, Woodstock, and its women, were a whole lot closer.
Then we got back to the business of training, qualifying with our rifles and bayonets, passing our Physical Fitness tests and General Knowledge exams, marching on the parade ground-and going on with our Advanced Individual Training.
I mostly forgot about Manson, and his dastardly crew-though every so often, I would be reminded of those horrible acts of savagery-and just how shallow a person’s physical appearance can render her or him, by movies like “Helter Skelter”, and, much later, “Once Upon A Time in Hollywood”. Manson got what he deserved. Leslie Van Houten is now out of one prison, but will never get of the other. The prison of public opinion will never see the long-gone pretty teenager. It will forever see the drug-crazed monster, stabbing away at someone presented to her as “the enemy”. The most charitable among us will see an aging lost soul, who has to learn fifty years’ worth of life skills-from driving a car to installing apps on a cellular phone-and good luck in finding a job, college degrees aside. The most astute among young people will see exactly what not to become. I see an indictment of self-centered, abdicating parents, who failed their daughter, terribly.
There, but for a loving family and a decent set of opportunities, might have gone I.
June 30, 2023- The young man stood tall, before his audience of nearly a thousand people, speaking as if to his family. He spoke of numbers: His current age (16); the age of adulthood (18); his age at the time of his father’s tragic passing (6); the number of men who died ten years ago today, in the most lethal wildfire in Arizona history(19). He told of how, each time his father left for work as a Wildland Firefighter, the message was: “You are the man of the house, while I am gone. Obey and protect your mother and guard your brothers and sister.” He became the man of the house for a long, long time, on June 30, 2013. He spoke of his current age as a time of greater responsibility, for which both of his parents had prepared him well. His audience gave him a standing ovation, at the end of a magnificent exhortation to us all, to love one another and honour our community.
Messages came from afar, from our junior United States Senator and our District’s Congressman and directly, from Arizona’s Governor and Prescott’s Mayor, as well as from the Chief of Prescott’s Fire Department and from Arizona’s State Forester. It was Ryder Ashcraft, though, who truly spoke for the Granite Mountain Hotshots and their families-almost in his father’s voice.
I spent much of the day beforehand, hiking four miles roundtrip, on the flank of Yarnell Hill. Well-watered and shielded from the blazing sun, passing before placards honouring each of the nineteen men, I was one of about thirty-six people engaged in the tribute walk. Some made a day of it, going all the way to the vale where the men perished, on that awful afternoon.
Below, a big horn sheep watches over the hikers.
Above, a beam of light makes an exclamation point. It was the perfect spot for noting a superlative.
There are, it seems, always watchers.
Just past the last placard honouring a fallen Hotshot, this boulder evokes a broken heart.
Afterwards, when looking for a place to sit, I found a small spot of curb. Two ladies asked if they could share the space, so room was made for three. A much younger man came along and said we were taking his space. He and family were on blankets behind us, but he wanted an unobstructed view. His three children rolled their eyes at Dad’s protest, and sat on the curb next to me on the other side, with no sense of entitlement. No thing further was heard from him, the rest of the ceremony.
I helped the older of the two women get up and down, for the Pledge of Allegiance and other opening ceremonies. The audience was, for the most part, cooperative and respectful. As our mayor said, we must never forget the sacrifice made, ten years ago.
June 27, 2023- Were I to meet him in the Next World, Fernando Pessoa would probably greet me with,”So, you amassed all those photographs and essays about so many places, near and far-and left them for someone else to handle. SHAME!!” The Portuguese philosopher/poet was famously averse to travel and regarded those who did peregrinate as being incapable of focus.
Yet, his body of work, a mirror into the Portuguese mind, is one of the magnets that attract me to that front door to the Mediterranean, though I am unlikely to get there until 2027. Indeed, there always seems to be an historical, or contemporary public, figure enticing a journey to any given place, as well as friends more intimate.
I have, for the past week or so, been engaged in numerous journeys of the mind, and of friendship, in this most salubrious of home bases. Sitting at my laptop desk, and learning the views of the greats in literature and philosophy, offsets much of the detritus that might otherwise fill the mind of someone my age. Visiting those, around town or in the town just down the road, who are shut in or who need to consult about a problem that seems to them overwhelming, is as breathtaking as a visit to the Grand Canyon, Big Sur or the French Region of Bretagne.
I am, essentially, feeling blessed to be able to join a crew feeding the homeless residents of our community, each Monday evening; to be able to help young friends put away equipment at the Farmers Market, each Saturday afternoon; to feed my friend’s cats, while she is away and to share environmentally and dermatologically sound laundry sheets with someone whose health is delicate.
I look forward to an encounter with Senhor Pessoa. In the hopefully long meantime, the essays, journals and photographs will continue to find themselves amassed. The when of anything I do and where I go will continue to be determined by my unseen guides. As the prophets tell us, in Ecclesiastes, “there is a time for every purpose under Heaven”.
May 29, 2023-His name was Richard Daniel Devine. He died in combat, in Kontum, VietNam, on January 10, 1968.
His name was Stanley Joseph Egan. He died in combat, in Hua Nghia, VietNam, on November 23, 1969.
When we were children, every year, just before school let out for the summer, we gathered in the yard of Felton School, and recited a poem that began “Tomorrow is Memorial Day. The soldiers will be marching, with banners waving high.” The day was officially called Decoration Day, as we honoured those who had died, after having served in the military and had been decorated for their efforts. Another meaning of the day came from the practice of decorating graves of departed loved ones with flowers and other tokens of remembrance.
In 1968, the last Monday in May was designated Memorial Day. The actual practice of this three-day weekend began in 1971, along with Presidents’ Day (third Monday in February) and Columbus Day (second Monday in October, and now mainly known as Indigenous Peoples Day). The three days have been observed as Federal holidays since then. They were joined in that status by Dr.Martin Luther King, Jr. Day (third Monday in January),in 1986 and by Juneteenth ( June 19), the date of the last documented informing of American slaves that they had been emancipated (Texas, 1865), in 2021. Other Federal holidays of long standing, are New Year’s Day, Independence Day, Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Day.
There were a myriad observances of Memorial Day, across the United States, and in some other nations which have been allied with the United States in various conflicts, today-as there will be on the traditional Decoration/Memorial/Remembrance Day, of May 30. The men mentioned at the beginning of this post, and over a million people like them, are the decorated ones, the soldiers, sailors, Marines, airmen, Coast Guardsmen, Merchant Mariners and a fair number of civilian ancillaries, who gave their lives, this nation and other countries around the world, might continue to know the reality of freedom.
I knew Stan Egan, and on the day he passed on I chose to spend Thanksgiving in fasting and prayer. It just made no sense that a vibrant, athletic, engaging and confidant young man should have been blown to bits, as it were. It never has-and never will. Until the quest for dominance, for ownership of land, for subjugation of others is given up, the nonsensical will remain commonplace.
In honour of the fallen, across the globe, I give you this rendition of Il Silenzio (The Silence), by Dutch trumpeter Melissa Venema, who first played the tune at the age of 13, in Maastricht, NL. She is now 28, and regularly offers the melody in concert.
May 11, 2023, Sacramento- The congenial man, who seemed to be in his 50s, entered the crowded restroom, as I was shaving after the long train ride from Flagstaff. LA is LA, and Union Station is as much a place where street people can purchase a decent snack or light meal, and take care of their business in a socially acceptable manner, as it is a place for train passengers to meet their needs. The man looked about, did his business and thanked me for being understanding. Trust, me, I have been there, (though I have never used his particular method), no one was bothered and no further details are needed.
He was followed by a man who expectorated a substance that should never be in the body of any human being. He left, and I found some tissue to safely clean the residue and throw it in the trash. The gentleman at the sink next to mine, also a street person, remarked that I treated the other guy better than he would have. It struck me that the poor soul has probably not caught a break in quite a few years. There was plenty of soap and water to take care of matters, and I am no worse for the wear. The third guy and I went to the snack shop, once I was clean shaven. It’s as fine a thing to have friends on the street, as anywhere else.
Union Station does have its paying guests enter secure waiting areas. Guards check tickets and, on occasion, IDs. I thanked the young man who kept our gate. He looked surprised, but felt glad to be appreciated, I’m sure. We rolled out of Union Station, in a chartered bus, right on time. I got a fair look at downtown Los Angeles, from a northbound perspective.
East Building, Union Station, Los Angeles, seen from a chartered bus.
The journey through San Fernando Valley certainly had its share of mountain scenery and interesting buildings, but I chose not to take any more haphazard shots, whilst the bus was in motion. We rode through forested mountains, then promontories shorn of all vegetation, save grass, until we came to Grapevine, and the southern edge of Central Valley. An hour or so later, Bakersfield, a surprisingly vibrant and attractive city, came into view and we swapped out the bus for a train that was headed for Oakland.
Being a local train, we hit every major city and a good many smaller ones, before arriving in Stockton, my transfer point for Sacramento, about ten minutes late-due to the demands made by freight trains (pride of place, you know). All the areas visible from the train appeared to be in good shape, the waterways were at a comfortable level and the crops were all on track-though I know there are other fields, elsewhere in the bread basket, that will not be as productive this year. Fresno, Madera and Modesto all seem quite bustling. Stockton is a bit under the weather, and there were a fair number of tents along the sidewalk near the train station there.
Sacramento had experienced tremors from a 5.4 earthquake, whose epicenter was near Lake Amador, quite a way to the northeast. I spoke with a man named Max, who had been on the thirteenth floor of a state office building, paying his taxes, when the tremor hit. He hadn’t been so scared since 2001, he told me. He was at Ground Zero, when the towers fell, so he comes by the fright quite honestly, in my book. I told him I was glad he’s okay and went on to check out the state capitol and its grounds. “Sac’to” has a rather interesting vibe to its downtown. Here are some photos of the area, as I was on solid ground and could again focus the camera in a proper manner.
Front room, HI Sacramento, where I spent the night and will return on Monday afternoon.HI Sacramento’s exterior. Across the street is Sacramento City Hall, with probably the neatest and cleanest tent camp I’ve seen. It is not impossible for street people to be orderly, much as i long for the day when no one feels it necessary to live on the street.Elks Building, downtown SacramentoThe city’s namesake, Cathedral of the Blessed SacramentThe State Capitol of California, seen from the north. It is under construction on the east side.Sweet fragrances adorn the west side of the Capitol.California Live Oaks and Incense Cedars offer a wealth of shade on the East Lawn.Lastly, the First Nations of California have not gone away.The Capitol bid us good night, and now I do too.
May 1, 2023- The curious students watched us from a short distance, as the Logistics Lead and I worked with their school’s Maintenance Chief, to assess its readiness as a Red Cross shelter, should the need arise, particularly in the event of an active fire season.
Seligman is a small community, known best to Route 66 aficionados, for its small stretch of motels and restaurants-especially the former burger and soft ice cream establishment: Snow Cap, which Juan Delgadillo opened in 1953. His brother, Angel, ran a barbershop in town, as well. Since Juan died, in 2004, his family has kept the restaurant open. Angel has now retired, but still may be seen around town. There are also colourful cafes like the Roadrunner, Road Kill Cafe, and West Side Lilo’s, a diner. The latter is my favourite of the lot.
Red Cross is definitely concerned with having a shelter here, in the northwest corner of Yavapai County, because of its distance from the more populated areas of Prescott, Chino Valley and Williams, to the east and Kingman, to the west. There are two First Nations reservations, Hualapai and Havasupai, not far to the west of Seligman, and their residents would depend on a reliable shelter, in the event of fire or flood. To our relief, the school appears to meet the major criteria for such a purpose-with any adjustments for disabled residents fairly easy to provide.
We are coming to the collective realization that all places matter, in this shrinking world. The Delgadillo brothers put Seligman on the map and we will do our best to maintain the community’s awareness of its value.
Welcome to Stories From Tina- A tapestry of life woven with words. Here, every post is a heartbeat, every story a step on the path of extraordinary journey. Join Tina as she unfolds chapters of her life, sharing raw, honest experiences and the pearls of triumph to the valleys of challenge, Tina's tales are more than just personal anecdotes; they're beacons of inspiration and understanding, igniting conversations and community. Whether you're seeking solace in shared struggles or celebrating the quirks of daily life, Tina's reflections offer a comforting shoulder, a knowing smile, and a guiding light. Dive into a world where every story matters, and find a friend in Tina - because her story is, in many ways, everyone's story. Subscribe to Stories From Tina, and transform the ordinary into extraordinary, one post at a time.
A Sagittarian Seeker 