First Camp, Day Five: An Unexpected Allergen

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June 6, 2023, Bellemont- On this forty-first anniversary of Penny’s and my marriage, I could feel her spirit, as ever, with many expressions of appreciation for my efforts, coming from the campers. Of course, I won’t ever be as popular as the chef, and she reminds me of that at every turn-but it’s with a twinkle in her eye. I will slowly get over the deeply ingrained doubts over my place in the world-with a few loud exceptions, most everyone these days is my well-wisher. It is only the latter who are here at camp. I don’t miss the others.

A young man found himself in the throes of an unexpected allergic reaction to something that had never bothered him previously: Eggs. He was surrounded by caring adults and peers,and between the sous chef and me, a good supply of antihistamine was soon on site and the suffering teenager was back in the spirit of things by late afternoon. For good measure, he will be kept away from any egg dishes for the rest of camp-and a package of antihistamine will accompany him, in the hands of his lead tutor, tomorrow as they head back home.

Many times, we lack the self-knowledge that would protect us from mental allergies. Those things about others, that remind us of perhaps vulnerable things about ourselves, are ever the trigger. It matters none, though; we each get the same challenge time and again, albeit in different guises-until acceptance of a flaw, and conscious effort to transcend it, become the order of the day.

So it goes, as I learn as much about myself from the campers, as we wind down our time together.

Power, and Its Exercise

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June 6, 2022- Seventy-eight years ago, a huge force of Allied troops made landfall on Utah Beach, in Normandy and would go on to defeat those who used brute force, lies and deceit to hold onto power. Fifty-four years ago, Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated, possibly at the behest of those who treasured power above all else. Forty years ago, Penny and I took vows of marriage, with the promise of sharing the power that comes from mutual respect and love for one another, above all earthly considerations.

Of course, I still feel her presence, all day, every day. The spiritual connection, once made, never dissipates. She was behind me, from the moment I woke up, through my chores, and into an evening exercise session on Zoom, where I shared the significance of this day in my life. There was a time when I sensed we would have forty years together. We had twenty-nine, as husband and wife. We will have an eternity as helpmates, long after this life of mine has ended.

The power that we had came form transcending our two significant egos, and the egos of those around us, who sought to drive a wedge between us-largely because their own interpersonal experiences had been such a mess. We overcame a lot, the two of us, and I stayed her best friend, all through her decline and my facing down my own demons. We raised a fine son, who was my wingman, even in the midst of fighting battles of his own. In the end, it was he who made the right call, and let her transition in dignity.

Those who seek to take power by unsavory means may prevail for a time, but they will always fail, after a fashion. There is no power that lasts, without being shared.

Reflections on A Day Taken Off

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June 6, 2021- Thirty-nine years ago, today, Penny and I formalized our commitment to one another-and the marriage would last, through thick and thin, for twenty-nine years. I was hoping for at least forty, but we take what we are given. Some people are married for fifty years plus, and are inwardly miserable. We were not either. Speaking of which, as an aside, an indie artist, at a gathering on Saturday night, played a clip of his, on which a local philosopher opined: “”One who claims to be miserable, and at the same time insists he is right, is stating the impossible. It can never happen.”

Processing the loss of one of my closest cousins, I received word that a fellow member of the American Legion Post to which I belong had suffered a heart attack and is in hospital, facing the now de rigeur bypass surgery. He is one of the regulars, at our Sunday morning breakfasts, holding court and waxing eloquent about everything under the sun, in the style of an English aristocrat. That he is of Sicilian descent matters not. T’s heart and soul are rooted in the Merry Old Isle.

My day was otherwise occupied with the mundane-getting laundry done, gluing the front right quarter panel of my Hyundai, with the same substance that’s kept the back left in place, for nearly three years and watching episodes of “The Underground Railroad” and “Peaky Blinders”. Five of us pondered another set of quotes from the Universal House of Justice’s (Baha’i Governing Body) compilation on Social Action. I got in another workout.

In all this, I am looking at what is going on in the wider world, and just shaking my head, keeping up with it all, yet feeling as if it’s all a dream. The most important things in my life are all revolving around family, friends and the children-always, the children.

One of the traits that my cousin, John, had was presence, centering on who was in front of him, for as long as the person needed. That has not been my strong suit, though I am getting better at it. I am still not great at the perfunctory- greetings or conversation for their own sakes, especially online or long-distance. Birthdays and anniversaries are different; they draw my attention, because they matter so much. The rest of it-well, maybe my agenda is too broad and the next thing is always on my horizon. Still, I am making progress at being present, with someone who is in front of me, at any given time.

Twenty-nine years did teach me something.

The Summer of the Rising Tides, Day 61: What I Want In August, Part I

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July 31, 2020-

My parents were wed seventy-one years ago, today. They got to be together, in the flesh, for thirty-seven of those years. They left several good road maps for us, and Mom is still blazing the trail of how to live long and prosper. I was thinking, last night, that I will be honoured to live into my nineties, perhaps even hitting the Century Mark. I would, however, have to be of use, to have most, if not all, of my faculties.

Today, so far, has been quieter than the previous two. I received a message from an African friend, for whom I had written a project proposal, bemoaning that those to whom we had sent copies of the proposal had not responded as yet. It’s been a week, so my take is, check in with them weekly, until mid-August. He asked me to send each of them a montage of photos of the worksite. I can do that,around some other tasks that have arisen, since I turned fostering of the project back over to him. Life does not stand still.

I have thought about what I want to do, in my own sphere, as well. As hard as life is for many people, I cannot just put myself into one hundred percent abnegation, though some will no doubt find that odious of me to say. There actually isn’t all that much that I want for myself, though.


August is said to be a month of masculine energy, so the first thing I want to do is to bring some health supplies to a rendezvous point at Holbrook, close to the Navajo Nation, which is still itself off limits to outsiders, due to COVID. In Holbrook, I will meet the same friend who I met in Flagstaff, in the Spring, to transfer the items. That is Monday’s agenda.

Synergy, the health elixir cafe operated by friends in Sedona, reopens on August 8, so that will be my place of refuge and celebration, next weekend. “Double” days are most often special to me.

I also miss my farmer friends in Paulden, up north just a bit, so maybe the afternoon of the 16th will find me there. The following weekend, Friday- Sunday, will likely be a time to visit Bisbee, a vibrant and eclectic Southern Arizona cousin to Prescott

The month will climax with Farm-to-Table Dinner, on the 29th, and unless the COVID cops declare our most stringent safety precautions inadequate, I will be among the masked and gloved servers and busers, tending to a smaller, but no less fervent, group of patrons of our vibrant Farmers’ Market.

What I want is for life to go on, carefully of course, but not dancing to the tune of one group of tyrants or another.

The 2018 Road, Day 11: The Essenhaus Kerfuffle

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June 6, 2018, Ridgetown, ON-

On the 36th anniversary of my wedding, I sat on the edge of the bed in Ridgetown Inn, pondering the power of one word.  Not seeing the word, tomorrow, on a friend’s post, cost me a fine dining experience, at Essenhaus, an amazing resort property in Middlebury, IN.

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All the comforts of the homey Midwest are captured here, and thousands of visitors flock to Essenhaus, each year.  I waited for my friends, in the foyer, for twenty minutes, re-read the message that had been sent early this morning, and, yes- as another friend said, not long ago, “It’s the reading comprehension, stupid.”

Not feeling right about dining alone, in the midst of so many happy parties of seven and eight, I headed up the road, found the delightful Hilltop Restaurant, and enjoyed a fish fry/salad bar.  I still stood out, being one of the few “English” patrons, in what is a favourite of local Mennonites and Amish, but folks were no more inclined to leer, than in any other small town establishment. I found Hilltop a delight.

 

Having had the Elantra serviced, earlier today, in Elkhart, I felt confident heading northeast, through Michigan, and across the Ambassador Bridge, the older of the two large commuter thoroughfares between Detroit and Windsor. I wanted to get as close as possible to Toronto, this late night, in the event I was able to meet with two friends there, tomorrow.  Their minds, and schedules, change as often as their clothes, though, so I remain open to doing Toronto solo, this time.  I love my friends, though, just so we’re clear and we do have a plan to get together, when I make a Trans-Canada trek, in summer of 2020.

Anyway, Ridgetown is a pleasant little burg, in west-central Ontario, so this is where I settled, for what was left of the night.

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NEXT:  Ontario’s London