Tag Archives: Lynn

Eastbound and Back, Day 26: Memories Kept

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Posted by on in Assistance, children, Community, Family, Historical, Inspiration, Personal Values, Social, Spiritual, Striving, Travel

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

The Road to 65, Mile 29: Darkening, Below the Peaks

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Posted by on in Social

December 27, 2014, Phoenix-   When I was 18, and working at the General Electric Company’s Riverworks, in Lynn, MA, word came up the pipes that one of our town’s favourite police officers, Augustine J. “Gus” Belmonte, had been slain, while busting up a robbery attempt at a Saugus restaurant.  Rumours flew about that it was an execution, ordered by this or that Mob boss.  Gus was a man of the people, and enforced the law in an even-handed, humane manner.  It turned out that the killers were Irish-American thugs, but not tied to any crime family, per se.  All Saugus turned out to see Gus off to his place in Heaven.

I was a jerk-wad kid, back then, and probably struck a lot of people as being barely able to tie my own shoelaces, but I thought the world of Augustine J. Belmonte.  He was in the prime of his life, forty-four years of age, when the Lord called him home.

Fast forward, nearly forty-six years later, to Flagstaff, AZ.  Tyler Stewart, a young man from north Phoenix, serving in his first year as a police officer on the Flagstaff force, responded to a domestic violence call, in one of the mountain town’s few tough neighbourhoods.  The perp got the officer’s confidence by seeming to be polite and co-operative, then got the drop on Officer Stewart.  Tyler Stewart was 24.

Flagstaff is a university community, a ski resort and an outdoorsman’s year-round paradise.  The San Francisco Peaks, an alpine sky city, loom to the north and smaller peaks like Mount Elden, Mars Hill and Kendrick Peak beckon to hikers and runners, as well.  It is also a railroad town, as anyone seeking a good night’s sleep in any of the motels along Old U.S. 66 can attest.  Drifters and the troubled find their way here, en route to or from California or  Las Vegas, and many stay.  Robert Smith, who killed Officer Stewart before turning the gun on himself, was one of those troubled souls.  He was 28.

While this transpired, on a sunny Saturday-after-Christmas, I was in a faith-based conference in Phoenix, learning of systemic alternatives to greed, rapacity and vengeance.  It occurred to those of us who heard of this incident, over dinner, that there is, when people feel utterly trapped, and at the mercy of wolves, so to speak-they revert to savagery, however tempered by cunning that it may be.

We often worry about high-profile catastrophe: Mass murders, such as the Twin Towers, Newtown or Peshawar; missing and ill-fated airplanes, of which there have been three this year; or almost incomprehensible global phenomena, such as the Mega-Tsunami of ten years ago, Friday.  The more common tragedy is, collectively, like death by a thousand cuts.  Four police officers have been killed, in the line of duty, over the past two months. Some blame an obscure street gang, which has “declared war” on police. To date, that group has not carried out any of its threats.  The deaths which have occurred, are all random results of a torn social fabric.  The mentally ill, from unrestrained sociopaths to schiziphrenics, who are shunted aside by the hipsters and the Men of Purpose, have, in each case, been shown to be the perpetrators.

While there is no conspiracy, there is an issue that needs to be addressed.  Registration of firearms, as appealing  and, in many cases, necessary as it is, resolves only a small part of the problem.  It has not been that many years since I had to explain to my then-teenaged son how it was that a schizoid man could behead his own flesh and blood, and toss the head out of his moving truck, onto a highway full of horrified commuters.  No human being can long be made to feel that he or she is irrelevant to the very people in whom trust has been placed.  The rest of us will soon have to bear the full cost, and dollars are a very small part of that cost- as everyone who has tried to make mental health care all about the money has learned, to their chagrin.

In a couple of days, most of us will assess this departed year and gaze ahead at the broad horizon of anno novo. The sunrise and sunset will appear the same.  Perhaps somewhere, an overloaded ferry, in a far-off place, will be the first reported disaster.  The jails will be full of those who over-celebrated.  In New York City, a young widow will wake up alone, and two fatherless boys will look at the empty dining-room chair, where their father used to sit.  In the Anthem neighbourhood of Phoenix, a veteran State Police officer will look out the window, and tears will stream down his face- as he wonders “Why MY son?”. even as he knows the answer, full-well.  In the Old Town section of Flagstaff, a young woman will also wake up, without the man she thought she could trust, and hopefully not blame herself.

Life is beautiful, under the shadow of the Peaks, and it is also grim.