Tag Archives: Montreal

The Hana Chronicles: Month 8, Day 14

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Posted by on in children, collaborating, Community, Education, Family, Hiking and Nature, Historical, Inspiration, Personal Values, Service Activities, Slow Food Prescott, Social, Spiritual, Striving, Travel

September 4, 2026- Hana listened, with rapt attention, as a home foundation specialist was explaining his observations to her mother and me. How much she retains from this sort of discourse is anyone’s guess. but it would seem to bode well for when she sits in a classroom and expected to pay attention.

My granddaughter has a very strong sense of place and is finding her way into participating in various situations. There is a canister, in which Yunhee stores yellow beans. Hana used it as a hand drum, this evening after dinner. I played a drum given me by a friend in Arizona, about eight years ago. She stopped her own drumming and started to dance a little bit.

Between her increasing vocalizations and keen awareness, I sense this Autumn is going to find a very active little girl keeping everyone busy.

HANA’S NOTE- I like drums and I am sure Papa will let me play his drum, as long as I don’t try to chew the stick.

YEAR IN REMEMBRANCE-2018 When one reaches a certain level, in personal growth, the Universe is there to put that growth to the test. This was a year for me to be tested

The first several months were quiet and peaceful enough. The Spring semester went well in the Autism Program and I made a visit to southern California, focused on Orange County alone-as Aram had been transferred to Busan, South Korea and was thus back to his roots. In June, I headed off on another lengthy cross-continental journey. Carson City was my first stop, for a three-day visit with one of my soul families. Then came places like Pioche, NV; Salida, UT; Limon, CO. Sedalia, MO; Carthsge. Il and my customary stops in Wilmette and Mishawaka.

I felt comfortable about driving in Canada, and so explored a bit of London, ON and Toronto, before stopping in Montreal for a weekend. As it happened, it was Formula 1 Racing Weekend, and the town was a madhouse. I still found a hostel in which to spend Friday night and Sunday night. Saturday would be at an Air BNB, I took in a great deal of Montreal on Saturday, and when it came time for an afternoon walkabout near McGill University, I parked Elantra on a quiet stretch of road, west of the University. 40 minutes later, I returned. My belongings, a suit to be worn at a family wedding and an anniversary gift were all in the back seat. That turned out to be a dumb arrangement. The back left window of the car had been smashed and my laptop, with my passport, was gone. Everything else was left. Once the insurance company had been called and the police had come along and processed the scene, I took Elantra to a parking garage, taped a plastic bag over the window frame and went with my bag to the Air Bnb. I was the only guest, amazingly, so the owner said I could take turns sleeping in each of the the three bedrooms. I found one to be more than sufficient. After a Sunday of exploring more of downtown, I was treated like royalty at the same hostel where I had spent Friday night. On Monday morning, I reported my lost passport to the U.S. Consulate, which alerted the border station in Champlain, NY, that I was cleared to re-enter the U.S. After getting my window replaced, I bid farewell to Montreal and drove to Plattsburgh, NY-my maternal grandmother’s hometown. Grama watched over me the rest of the way. I took in Ausable Chasm, historic sites in Scranton, and Valley Forge, over the next few days, followed by an evening visit to Oley.

Next came Philadelphia, and the wedding of my youngest niece. Aram and Yunhee, seriously dating, flew all the way from Korea for the wedding. It was an exquisite affair, and my family wholeheartedly welcomed Yunhee. The next day was Father’s Day. We all enjoyed the post-wedding brunch at the hotel where the wedding party was staying. Then the three of us bid farewell to the family and went off to explore more of Philadelphia. After an early dinner, I bid bon voyage to Aram and Yunhee, who had to head clear back to Korea on Monday morning. My destination for the evening was Baltimore. I spent the day there, including a visit to Fort McHenry-one of the places we didn’t get to visit on our journey in 2007.

The road then took me southward, with a three-day visit to eastern Virginia’s historic sites- Williamsburg, Jamestown and Yorktown. A short visit with a dear Xanga friend, in Virginia Beach, preceded the historical jaunt. I made what would be my last visit with my mother-in-law, in Spring Hill, FL, afterward, and bought a new laptop there, thus not having to depend on my phone for all communication. Driving back across the South, I visited another Xanga friend in Crossville, TN, then drove westward, taking in the Civil Rights Museum, in Memphis, as well as Beale Street. Three days later, I was back in Prescott.

Passing the test of losing a couple of important possessions was not all that hard. In the Fall, a well-meaning friend thought I needed female companionship. I had a good lady friend in Prescott, already, but he had “a better idea”. The person with whom he connected me was unsettled, had been abused in childhood and was quietly seething-looking for a target. She saw fit to question my very worth as a human being, essentially. After two weeks of turbulence, we agreed it was not a good idea for either of us, to continue our friendship.

2018 ended with my self-concept and equilibrium in balance. The Red Cross was calling on me more often, I was involved in Slow Food Prescott and was becoming a regular volunteer at Prescott Farmers Market. I was almost out of harm’s way.

The Hana Chronicles: Month 6, Day 30

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

July 21, 2026- My little girl cried for nearly a half hour, this afternoon, before finally letting go and falling asleep on my shoulder. She sometimes is so tired that, like many a toddler, she fights sleep, while remaining miserable. She has a little way to go, before being a toddler, but her mindset is already there.

On either side of the meltdown, Hana was happy-with her lunch, with our little walk, with playtime and with the story I read. We went outside while it was still relatively mild (87 F). The temperature eventually hit 107. We didn’t have to face any of that.

This caps six months of life outside the womb. In that time span, Hana has mastered crawling with her body elevated, sitting up independently, eating pureed solid food, sipping water from a cup with a straw, feeding herself with a soft spoon and calling for her mother and father by title.

HANA’S NOTE- I was so tired this afternoon, I just cried and cried. Papa was patient and I slept in his arms for a long time. i heard him say it was one and a half hours-whatever those are.

YEAR IN REMEMBRANCE-1973 This was the second year at North Shore Community College. I had to leave the Beverly house, in May, because the owner sold the house and we all dispersed. After looking around at different options, I went back to my parents’ house. Work was at United Parcel Service, sorting packages by destination, in the wee hours of the weekdays. I also worked security at Crane Beach, in Ipswich, MA during the summer and in the stockroom at our local Sears, Roebuck, during the fall. This was a year for taking in the Winter Carnival in Quebec City, running a college tour to Montreal and taking a road trip to Prince Edward Island, in early June.

I ended the year by preparing to transfer to the University of Massachusetts-Amherst. I did credibly at NSCC, earning an Associate Degree in General Studies.

The 2018 Road: Honours, Learnings and Observations- Part 1

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Posted by on in Assistance, collaborating, Family, Social, Spiritual, Striving, Travel

September 2, 2018, Prescott-

The forty-day journey, whose chronicle I have just completed, is now well-past the reflection stage.  The longest trip I have undertaken, since 2015, has passed without controversy, among those of my family and friends who have viewed my travels in the past, with some consternation.

There were mostly good things that happened, this summer that is nearly passed.  I want to first note those who have honoured me with their presence, in the deepest of ways.  Then, I shall note the learnings I picked up from the trek. Finally, some observations are in order.

Honours-

The first of these always goes to my family: Being in Christ Church, Philadelphia, for the wedding of my beloved youngest niece; having my son, Aram, and his girlfriend next to me during the service, throughout the reception and for much of Father’s Day.  I’m grateful to her, for having given him much happiness; being with all of my siblings, nieces and nephews and nearly all of my extended family.

My northern Nevada family has always been there for me, as well.  This year, over Memorial Day weekend, was no different.

My sister in spirit, Corina, drove an hour each way to visit with me a bit-once I got to Wilmette, but to no avail.  My arrival was way too late, so back she went, to spend Sunday afternoon with her beloved. I feel honoured, nevertheless.  Just being in the embrace of the Baha’i House of Worship is a singular honour, in itself.

Having dinner with friends in Mishawaka, IN, was a sublime blessing.  Thanks, Val and Sparky.

I cannot say enough, for the staff and fellow hostelers at Auberge Bishop, Montreal, for confirming my worth as a human being, in the aftermath of a serious loss.  I am also grateful to the agents at USAA, for mitigating that loss.  It was a joy to take lunch at one of  the restaurants of a friend’s establishment:  La Panthere Verte.  I would feel similarly honoured, again, at hostels in Baltimore and in Memphis.

One of the greatest honours is to connect with the spiritual energy of one’s ancestors. My maternal grandmother’s hometown, Plattsburgh, NY first welcomed me, and a few weeks later, my sister and a maternal cousin connected with some of Grama’s grandnieces and great grandnephews.

Penny’s family will always be my own, as well.  They helped me greatly, in the wake of Montreal.  A few days’ respite, in the family home, in Spring Hill, FL helped me rest before the home stretch, and reaffirmed our bond.  Paying my respects to her departed cousin, a few days before, in Maryland, was essential.

There are many, across the nation and world, who I regard as spiritual family. They are of all Faiths and of no Faith.  Connecting with a woman who is like a daughter to me, in Virginia Beach; an immigrant friend who is like a brother, in Salisbury, NC; and my Tennessee brother and sister of the heart, in Crossville, have made all the difference in healing a part of me that still grieves, somehow.

Being in Memphis, and feeling the pain that all of us who are of good heart experienced, the day Martin Luther King, Jr. died, was cathartic.  I had not cried in a good long while, and this overwhelming sadness brought out a lot.  Later in the day, walking along the banks of the Mississippi and along Beale Street, felt like a dirge was playing.  Dr. King honoured us all.

NEXT:  Learnings

 

Sudden Leghold

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Posted by on in impediments, Personal Values, Striving

June 9, 2018, Montreal- 

I will remain here. In a mostly majestic city, for two more days, and possibly three.

No details, and I am safe. In fact, thanks to the Grand Prix that is taking place here, I am alone in a big, empty palace.No one else wanted it, and I had no place else to go, so here I am, for one night. Tomorrow, it’s back to a hostel. I am without a computer, for several days, so The 2018 Road series is on hold.  No details beyond that, for the time being. I am safe. I have a car that works  and now, I am going to sleep. See you tomorrow.

No Habitant, He

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Posted by on in Entertainment, Inspiration, Striving

May 14, 2018, Prescott-

(This is Segment 4 of the Antonio Ribeiro saga.)

Antonio found his way to one of the few remaining public phones in Valleyfield.  He had made it away from the Palmieris. for the time being, by jumping on the back of a flatbed truck and staying prone, so quiet that the distracted operator of the vehicle didn’t know of his extra passenger until he drove into the small city, south of Montreal.

“Sacre Bleu!”, the discomfited truck farmer sputtered, once he did find a wayward Acoreno on his premises.  “Voulez-vous un grand battement, EH?”  Tony kind of, sort of, put the message together in his head and bolted down the street-not looking back at the still raging driver, who was now on the phone to the Provincial Police.  It took a good ten minutes of bobbing and weaving around the alleys, before he figured he had a shot at getting to Montreal.

So he rested in the shadows of a dumpster, before noticing about three Canadian dollars worth of coins, lying near a phone booth.  “God rules all!”, the former florist told himself, deciding to call the number that his late cousin had given him.

“Allo?”, Astrid Conejos answered, whilst lounging outside on her patio.

“Hey, my name is Tony R., from Massachusetts. I need to speak with Toro.”

“Voulez parler avec Arturo?”

“Yeah, ……I mean oui”, Tony said, using one of the five French words he actually retained from his high school class.

“Un moment”, the teenager sniffed, before bounding up to find her brother.

Arturo Conejos had come to New Bedford from Vigo, a Spanish city with a fair amount of traffic with Portugal.  He therefore fit in with the Azoreans, quite nicely.  The family moved to Montreal, after Toro had been arrested for drug trafficking, a few too many times.  They had kept a low profile, until Arturo came of age.  His sister had been born two years after the move, and mainly spoke French.

Arturo was a baggage handler, at Pierre Trudeau International Airport.  He would be an integral part of Antonio Ribeiro’s next move.  Toro was, at the moment, a bit tired. He was awake enough, though, to switch to the King’s English, once he got on the phone.

“Ya sumbitch, why call me here?  You come alla da way to Montreal, for what, exactly?”

Tony was flustered, but held his composure.  “Listen, Toro, there was a shootout, near the border.  My cousin, you remember him-the blond, blue-eyed Guanche?  He got blown away.  The border patrol nailed the Palmieri goons, but I took off.  The Italians, they don’t know where I am.”

“So, this involves me, how, exactly?”, the still-irritated Galician snapped.

“I got a card, a Visa, from my uncle.  Cuz gave it to me.  I need to get a flight out.  Please just get me to the airport.”

“A shootout, chaos, and you still have a Visa card?  Whattabout da passport?”

“I have that, too.  I just don’t have much cash, maybe two bucks, American though.”

“I didn’t think you were carrying Cuban pesos, El Tonto!”

“So, can you do this?”

“Yeah, and you get to experience life in a duffel bag, for the next seven hours.  Don’t worry, it’s cotton, it breeeeathes!”

“Hey, you mean I’m gonna be luggage?  I told you I have a Visa card.”

“That’s right, and you pay ME, instead of the airline.  C$ 300.00, all the way to Barcelona.”

“Aaaargh!”

“Antonio, take it or leave it.”

” Okay, I’ll do it.  But if the Catalunes flush a stiff from underneath the plane, guess who gets a visit from New Bedford.”

“No worries, I got this worked out.  Here’s my address.  I’m calling you a cab, right now.”

Two hours later, Arturo Conejos was putting a heavy duffel bag on an Iberian Airlines flight to Barcelona.

Crossing The Line

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Posted by on in Fiction

May 6, 2018, Prescott-

I called Papa and told him of Antonio’s ruse.  He uttered a Sicilian oath and then told me to stay on his tail.  “Keep the receipts and remember, this is business.”

Marco Siqueiros opted to get off I-84, at Rte. 9, and headed north.  I figured, correctly, that Tony just didn’t want to pay tolls- so there was no Thruway and no river crossings.  The chiselers blazed past Albany; so we did, too.  When they stopped for gas, in Lake George, we waited by the curb, until they were almost ready to leave.  Aurelio, a Mexican chauffeur for my Papa, was not known to Tony, so with cousin Donnie and me slumped down, “Rico” was able to gas up.  As luck would have it, Marco had to use the facilities, so we still left in tandem with the schmucks.

The woods and plains of northeastern New York passed by in agonizing slowness, as Marco seemed rather leisurely in his northward jaunt.  It was dark, when we followed them into Plattsburgh, where they took a room in a lakeside motel.  Aurelio got a room in the same motel, while Donnie and I walked across the street to the Motel 6, with Rico promising to take cat naps and set the alarm for 3 AM, then for 6, and to alert us when he saw movement.

It was 4 AM, when the Acorenos woke- and the God of us all rousted Aurelio, with a full bladder.  The driver threw himself together, mercifully taking a minute to brush his teeth, before following the two of them at a discrete distance.  We got the signal, and were ready when our vehicle pulled to the curb.

From there, Tony and Marco took a predictable route- headed for the Canadian border.  Papa had foreseen this, and had a plan in place, for this eventuality.  When we buzzed home, Sonny answered and told us to turn around.  “Youse don’t have any more to do.  Papa has men to take over, on the other side.  Head back to Baltimore.”

“Jeez Luweez!  What are we, chopped chicken liver?”, I protested.  Papa got on the line, posthaste.  “Listen, Gino, you did a magnificent job.  Now it’s time for me to call in a favour, from the Palmieri family in Montreal.  Their guys are already waiting for Tony and his cousin.  Come on back home.  I love you, boy!”

We turned around, on a side street in Champlain.  Aurelio did not see the bogus police cruiser pull in behind us.  In a matter of seconds, the gunfire had taken him out, and wounded Donnie in the chest.  I got by with a flesh wound, but we all were transported to the hospital, by a random farm worker, who called in the hit to the county sheriff.  New York State police nabbed the two hit men,  about seventeen miles out of Champlain, headed towards Massena, on a county road.  Tony’s Plan B had run amok.

Poor Marco, though.  The Palmieris took him out, with a single shot, three minutes into Quebec.  Antonio Ribeiro was now in hiding, with no knowledge of the French language, and no car, as Mikey Palmieri had seen to the getaway car’s tires and radiator.  At least he remembered his passport.

My Life Thus Far: The Seventies

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Posted by on in Family, Inner Struggles, Social, Striving, Travel

February 11, 2016, Prescott-  Today was brutal, for many people about whom I care.  It wasn’t so bad for me, personally, because I stayed put-mostly out of financial prudence.  Things will be better that way, tomorrow.

So, I will continue recounting what has been good, and not so good, with the years gone by.  A lot of you, my faithful WP readers, despised my account of the Sixties.  Brace yourselves:  Things went a tad south for me, as twentysomething, but I lay the blame at my own two feet.  Therefore, if you were rankled by me as a teen, skip this post.

1970-High Point:  Being in Fort Myer for the entire year.

Low Point:  Stan E. getting killed in combat.

People in the heart:  Cathy P., my best long-distance phone friend; my three faithful roommates in the TriService barracks; Don and Charley,my co-workers; Stan E., who died for his country.

Places in the heart:  Georgetown, DC; the C & P Canal Towpath; Lynn Beach, when I was on leave.

1971-High Point:  Being stationed in the Cholon section of Saigon.

Low Point:  Wretched, crowded, chaotic Long Binh Army Base.

People in the heart:  Jim T., who stood up for his girls; Tay Lanh, who honoured my dignity; Bill B., Arnie P. and Roger D., my buddies in Cholon; the Henderson family, who overlooked my surly temperament, while I was in Sydney; Tommy W., who didn’t deserve to have been left alone, while injured.

Places in the heart:  Cholon; Vung Tau; Tauranga Park; Woollahra.

1972- High Point:  My hitchhiking trip across North America.

Low Point:  Ignoring what I had been told about spiritual truth.

People in the heart:  Dave G., who gave me my first post-Army job; my workmates, Jimmy, Jan, Donna and Franny; Jim F., my long-suffering boss; Lillies S., the college office manager, who told me to always set my sights high; my hometown buddies, who welcomed me back from ‘Nam; the Gordon family, of Toronto, who camped with me, along Lake Superior; Kathy B., with whom I almost fell madly in love; the Bullocks, who hosted me in Baltimore, for a week; the anonymous truck driver in King of Prussia, who introduced me to the Baha’i Faith; Sandy and Al, my housemates; Donna G., who tried to be a good friend.

Places in the heart:  North Shore Community College; Montreal; Lake Superior; Edmonton; Jasper; Lake Louise; Babb, MT; Morgantown, WV; Baltimore; Ocean City; Bethlehem, PA; my little room in Beverly, MA.

1973- High Point: Visiting Prince Edward Island.

Low Point:  The Chelsea Fire.

People in the heart:  Geary C., Alan A., Sandy G. and Angie D., my friends at NSCC; just about everyone I met on PEI; the hipster who filled my tank with gas, for giving him a ride from Ellsworth to Boothbay.

Places in the heart:  Beverly,MA; Salem; Boston Public Library; Prince Edward Island; New Glasgow, NS; Boothbay Harbor, ME.

1974- High Point: Working at Quisisana Resort, ME.

Low Point:  The botched attempt to serve as editor of “Sage Revisited”.

People in the heart: All my NSCC and Beverly friends; Kathy H., Annette K, Tom & Fricky J., Sandy M., the Grices and Dave B., who were my friends and co-workers at “Quisi”; Dr. and Mrs. Ziv, my “Jewish grandparents” from lower Manhattan; Jimmy S. and Mr. McGregor, who offered me work close to home; my dorm mates in Orchard Hill, at UMass-Amherst.

Places in the heart: Quisisana Resort, Lovell, ME; Bar Harbor; North Conway; Amherst; Fisher Island, NY.

1975- High Point:  Hiking the Presidential Range, in New Hampshire’s White Mountains.

Low Point: Getting fired from a part-time job, on my 25th birthday.

People in the heart:  My campus buddies at UMass; Mrs. Braman, the housemother in my rooming house, in Northampton; Steve R., Paul W. and Ken C., my brainy, irreverent and totally sloppy first housemates in South Deerfield; the Rivard family, who moved in, after the guys were evicted; Allan D., my internship co-op teacher; Lloyd Z. and Linda D., who imparted good pedagogy; every child who put up with me in that little U.S. History class; the Zivs.

Places in the heart:  Amherst; Northampton; South Deerfield; the White Mountains; lower Manhattan.

1976- High Point:  Graduating from UMass.

Low Point:  Almost losing a sibling, in an accident.

People in the heart:  Dave C. and Janet C., my Quisisana friends and a most unlikely couple; Fred L., aka “Doctor Dirt”; Clay R., my younger doppelganger; the Smalls, who lodged me in Bangor; the Bryants, who fed me, whenever I tutored their son; Mr. Bluestein, who stressed the value of a dollar; Peter W., who hired me as a Teacher Aide; Cheryl Q., who mentored me.

Places in the heart:  Bangor, Brewer and Etna,ME;

1977- High Point:  My brother, David’s, wedding.

Low Point:  Being evicted, on false pretenses, in the middle of February.

People in the heart:  Cheryl Q., Peter W., Greg F., Susan C., Grace P. and Evelyn L., who tried their best to be mentors and friends; Lucy and Ronnie R., who took me in from the dead of winter; John and Mary M., my cousin and his wife, who were always there for me; my eight unsettled, troubled and always worthwhile students, in the Behaviorally-Challenged class; my first and fourth-graders, that second year, who re-assured me that I could serve as a teacher.

Places in the heart:  Brewer, Etna, Vinalhaven and Fort Kent, ME; Fredericton and Edmundston, NB; Riviere Bleu and Lac Megantic, QB.

1978- High Point:  My sister, Cheryl’s, wedding.

Low Point:  Losing my temper on a school field trip to a museum.

People in the heart:  My friends and well-wishers at Etna-Dixmont School; my new supervisors at Villa School, Toltec, AZ; many of my students, at both schools; Mrs. Knox, my landlady, over the summer.

Places in the heart:  Bangor, Etna, Dexter and Kingfield, ME.; Mactaquac Park and Saint John, NB; Toltec, Casa Grande, Phoenix, Tucson and Grand Canyon, AZ; Amarillo; Chicago; Toledo.

1979- High Point:  My first solo visit to Mexico.

Low Point:  Encountering a dangerous sex offender, in the New Mexico desert.

People in the heart:  Lynda E., Patrick G., Bill K.,  John G.- my co-workers at Villa; the vast majority of my students; the two sisters who drove me from Little Rock to Albuquerque, without regard for my disheveled state; the majority of my fellow travelers, between Phoenix and Boston, and back; the young lady who gave me a ride from Grand Canyon to Las Vegas, in an empty tour bus, just for the sake of having company.

Places in the heart:   Casa Grande;Grand Canyon; Tucson; Puerto Penasco; Hermosillo; Ensenada; Woodfords and Bishop, CA;  Hodgenville and Mammoth Cave, KY.

This decade brought a lot of painful personal growth to my doorstep. There are many people from those days who, if they were never to see me again, it would be too soon.  There are others whom I miss, sorely.  The big lessons are that alcohol and autism are a  wicked combination.  Lack of even rudimentary social skills surfaced, at the worst possible times, though thankfully, it was all pretty much done by the time I moved to Arizona.  When a rough-edged former co-worker tried to nail me with  the label of “loser”, towards the end of 1979, his words fell on deaf ears.

The Eighties would be, by and large, awesome.

 

The Road to 65, Mile 33, Part II: The Gate Stayed Open

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Posted by on in Hiking and Nature, Social, Travel

December 31, 2014, Prescott-  When I returned to North America, on 6/29/14, I had the pleasure of a long and varied conversation with a fascinating young lady from Montreal, who is a baker by trade.  The flight back was thus energizing, rather than draining.

July- I spent the first week of July visiting family in the Boston area.  My brother, SIL and I took in a Red Sox game on July 2, which was as marvelous an experience as the team itself was awful, in its play. Fenway Park and the surrounding area are old enough to be somewhat a cross, to me, between old Europe and the modern U.S.  Our fireworks, two days later, were rained out, but some local youths tried anyway- so we had some sky colours.  Going back to Phoenix was an experience.  I ended up staying overnight in Charlotte, as the plane out of Boston was delayed for six hours, due to some problem in Miami, of all places.  At least this way, I didn’t get to Phoenix at 1:30 A.M., so the Universe was looking out for me, in an oblique way.

August-  The interment of my father-in-law’s remains, in Arlington National Cemetery, brought me back to the East Coast, at the beginning of the month, for four days. This was the least a grateful nation could do for him.  I also visited several war-related places on the National Mall, and the 9/11 Memorial west of the Pentagon.

In a rustic camp, west of Prescott, a group of us formed a well-running team, serving Slow Food Prescott’s 50-Mile Dinner,consisting entirely of ingredients from within a fifty-mile radius of our town.

September- In the middle of the month, I drove from Prescott to Salt Lake City, for an annual convention.  Staying in a cheap, Baha’i-owned motel and scrimping where I could, got me through this time, and still I got a  lot out of the convention itself.  Driving all the way back home, in one fell swoop, though, is probably something I would prefer to avoid in the future.

October-  There is very little I won’t do for my son, the only responsibility I really still have, outside of self-care.  When he called, in July, and said I was on the list to take part in the ship’s return cruise, from Honolulu to San Diego, I got the paper work done, made flight arrangements to Honolulu, and enjoyed  1 1/2 days in that exquisite city.  Waikiki, Iolani Palace and Pearl Harbor were each every bit as fascinating as others had said.  The cruise itself was 6 1/2 days, and I learned much about day-to-day shipboard life and about the many hues of blue and aquamarine that are visible from the deck.  After a short few days in San Diego and Crystal Cove State Beach, I drove home, exhausted and just wanting to be in Prescott again.

November-  The month was quiet, until  Thanksgiving weekend.  I went back to San Diego, enjoyed the holiday with Aram and a friend, in Julian, and celebrated my 64th, in low-key fashion, visiting La Jolla and enjoying a Korean lunch.

December- Western New Mexico was where Penny and I first met, 34 years ago, in the Pueblo of Zuni.  I had a salubrious visit to some of our old favourite spots:  El Morro National Monument, with ancient Puebloan ruins and petroglyphs/inscriptions of several time periods and Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge, with its myriad sandhill cranes and raptors.  The town of Truth or Consequences, named for a 1940’s and ’50’s radio/TV show, was a lovely revelation.  Its Old Town, centered around the original hot springs resorts, kept me fascinated to the point where my original plan, of visiting the Gila Cliff Dwellings, was put off until another date.  Paying respects to the Apache chief Cochise was accomplished, as was Christmas Eve and Day with some friends who had moved to the Tucson area, from Oklahoma.  The 30th annual Grand Canyon Baha’i Conference was a fitting end to this most filling of years. We got eight inches of snow, on New Year’s Eve.  I rang in the new, by watching Prescott’s midnight fireworks, from my front porch.