A Seafood Extravaganza - Part 1

Dateline: Gainesville, Florida

I am just about one week into what is turning out to be a very rewarding road trip.  We departed our Maryland home in the predawn darkness this past Tuesday morning.  The temperature was in the high 20s and the sun only began to peek over the eastern horizon as we approached the northern fringe of Richmond Virginia.  Thirteen hours after our departure, and 800 miles later, we arrived in Gainesville, Florida just as the sun was dropping below the western horizon.  The temperature stood at 80F.  I have driven this route so may times over the past 37 years I think I can do it in my sleep while blindfolded.  And the farther south we drove, the greener were our surroundings.  The trees were beginning to leaf out and the dogwoods and redbuds were in full bloom, and the azaleas are just beginning to pop out here in north central Florida.  Not only had we driven south, we had driven into spring. Or so we thought.

The day after we arrived the skies were overcast and the temperature began to drop into the 60s and eventually into the 50s.  After sitting in the car all day on the trip down, this was a day to relax and unwind.  I am reading Orhan Pamuk’s sophomore novel, Silent House, which was originally published in Turkey on 1983 but only recently released in an English translation.  I also brought along some writing projects and notes which require some attention even when I am away from home.  So this was my original plan when we left home; a quiet and pleasant venue where I might catch up on my reading and writing. 

Our first day here in Gainesville I snuck off to my favorite sushi place for a relaxed lunch of über-fresh sashimi and tuna maki rolls served with wasabi seaweed and miso soup and Kirin beer on draft.  Little did I know that I was setting the theme for this trip.  There is also another restaurant in town that serves some of the best sushi-grade ahi tuna encrusted with white and black sesame seeds and topped with roasted red peppers, green onions and a garlic ginger soy wasabi sauce.  It is almost worth the drive down here!  So I figured this visit could evolve into a regular seafood extravaganza, if I planned it right.

The next day we drove over to Cedar Key, on the Gulf of Mexico.  I had been there a couple years ago and fell in love with the sweet-tasting littleneck clams from the local aquiculture beds surrounding the island.  I could almost taste them on the hour or so drive to Cedar Key.  Unfortunately the weather was not the best with overcast skies, unseasonably cool temperatures, and a few drops of rain.  Still we were able to enjoy our walk along the ramshackle streets and waterfront that strikes me as a smaller and certainly more sedate version of Key West.  As bent as I was on eating clams, my mind and tastes suddenly shifted gears as we rolled into town past several signs hawking stone crab claws.  They are only available during a  short season and are often hard to find in markets and restaurants even then.  And when you do find them, they can be prohibitively expensive.  Having just arrived in Florida I had not realize that they might be available now.   Soon I was belly up to a table in a local clam bar where I slurped down the local oysters (the main diet of stone crab and therefore, in my mind, more appropriate than clams) and feasted on a pound of steamed and cracked stone crab claws served with the traditional horseradish mustard.  And all washed down with pints of a local microbrew.  Not only is the claw meat exquisite, but the fact that only the claws are harvested while the crab is returned to the water where they regenerate in new (and equally tasty) claws.  A truly sustainable seafood!  So the seafood extravaganza was well underway!

One of the main reasons I came to Florida at this time was that I was scheduled to  delivered a talk at my alma mater, Florida Southern College.  This necessitated a trip from Gainesville down to Lakeland where we also had an opportunity to visit with old friends and college chums.  Afterwards we took a side-trip over to the Gulf coast and Tarpon Springs where I visited with my mom, who is also down in Florida for a few days visiting friends and old neighbors, and where we all went to dinner at one of my favorite seafood joints in that area.  I feasted on Greek-style steamed shrimp (marinated in extra virgin cold-pressed olive oil and lemon juice before steaming) and served with a horiatiki [village] salad consisting of cucumbers, tomatoes, pepperocinis, red onions, green peppers, kalamata olives, thick slabs of feta cheese, sprinkled with lemon juice and drenched in an oregano and garlic-infused red wine vinegar dressing.  OMG!  Can one ever get enough of this wonderful seafood?

This afternoon we drove out to Cross Creek, made famous in the books of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, which is situated less than twenty miles southeast of here.  My first blog posting back in December 2008 was the result of a visit to the Rawlings farm and orange groves at Cross Creek - http://lookingtowardportugal.blogspot.com/2008/12/down-on-creek-notes-from-florida.html
I returned there a couple of years ago after which I wrote inter alia about a meal I enjoyed at The Yearling restaurant just up the road from the Rawlings farm -
http://lookingtowardportugal.blogspot.com/2011/04/cracker-chidlings-dispatches-from.html
I was disappointed last time I was there as there was no cooter (soft-shell freshwater  turtle) available; almost all of it was being sent to Japan.  So this afternoon the great cooter quest began anew.  Besides this delicacy, I was once again looking forward to digging into a platter of cracker swamp food. Disappointment, however, reigned supreme when I did not find cooter on the menu (although the restaurant’s motto still remains “Eat Mo Cooter!”  It is once again protected as an endangered species by US Fish and Wildlife.  And well it should be, I guess (it is probably endangered because it tastes so damn good!).  This disappointment did not stop me from savoring a plate full of succulent frog legs, soft-shell crab and catfish and the ubiquitous hushpuppy.    Hmmmmm, boy howdy! The "seafood" extravaganza continues!

When I planned for this now almost annual late winter sojourn in Florida, my original intention was to spend the next few weeks here in Gainesville, returning home in early March.  This is a trip I have made over the past three years; an opportunity to escape the cold and damp of a Maryland February.  Instead, I reconsidered my original options and current timetables and strategies, and changed my mind.  Instead of remaining here, I am departing tomorrow morning after less than a week in the Sunshine State.  I have decided, however, to forego one more breakneck trip home and take a few days to explore coastal Georgia and the Carolinas, areas that we by-pass virtually without notice each time we scurry up and down Interstate 95 between Washington, DC to Florida.

Tomorrow will be an easy day as I am only driving as far as Savannah.  An early start to the day will afford me an opportunity to sample the wild Georgia shrimp as I make my way north from Jacksonville via Brunswick, Jekyll and St. Simon islands and the low country between there and Savannah.  And tomorrow night I will be dining on more delicious seafood as the extravaganza continues.  More reports to follow.

A Joyful Noise: Two Sermons - Part 2

We finally called a new pastor after a year long period of transition.  This past Sunday I was scheduled to serve as the lay worship leader when our new pastor asked me to stand in for her.  The guest pastor she had invited to replace her while she was traveling had to cancel at the last moment.  So I ended up handling the entire service.  Whereas my last sermon [see Part 1] was on a subject of my own choosing, this past Sunday I followed the lectionary for the Third Sunday of Epiphany.  Still, I made the message my own.

Some Body That We Used to Know?
1 Corinthians 12:12-31

I must admit that I feel humbled standing before you this morning.  Pastor Jill has asked me to fill in for her at the last minute when today’s guest pastor was forced to cancel unexpectedly.  I will freely admit that I am not a pastor, nor am I a Biblical scholar or a theologian of note.  I am one of you, standing here before you asking, I hope, the same questions you are and looking for the same answers.  We are one and the same, united in the body of Christ.  So I want to share a few thoughts with you this morning and I thank you for your patience and indulgence.

If you are at all plugged into the current pop music scene, then you are more than likely familiar with the phenomenal success of the Belgian-Australian singer Gotye and his hit song “Somebody That I Used to Know.”  If you have heard it, you will remember it; it is one of those catchy tunes that burrows into your skull and you just can’t seem to shake it.  I liked it the first time I heard it, and this is good, because it a hard one to forget and I find myself singing it under by breath as I go about my daily routine.  He is singing about a single person, a somebody that he use to know that has left him alone and feeling rough, mistreated and unwanted.

The title of this morning’s sermon, a reworking of the song’s title, is not referring to a single individual, but rather the collective body, a sum of its individual parts.  If we look back at today’s Scripture reading - 1 Corinthians 12:12-31 - we can see that this is the foundation of Paul's argument to affirm, against the arrogance and self-centeredness of many of the Corinthians, that all members of the body are needed and that despite whether the weaker members are convinced of their place, or whether the stronger members are not convinced of the weaker person's place in the body, God is the One who has placed all the members in the body and who works with them so that there might be no obvious divisions.  God condemns division.

As it was for the Corinthian and others to whom Paul brought the good news, so too it is for all of us.  We - all of us - are a single body in Christ and the survival of that body is dependent on each one of us bringing our individual gifts and talents into play so that the body, the community, can survive and be whole.  It makes no difference what color our skin might be, what nation we come from, what language we speak, the manner in which we worship and pray, who we choose to love, or whether we are rich or poor.  We are all equal in the eyes of God.  And God want us to be together, to stay together, to work and play together.  The body, Paul tells us, cannot survive and function properly unless all its members exist in harmony and fulfill their roles properly.  And for this to succeed, no single member can assume the body can survive and function without it. Although there in no sin in cherishing our individuality and our unique talents and gifts, God wants us each to apply these talents and gifts so that all of us can reap what we sow together.  We need each other, plain and simple.  We sometime forget this - we forget the body that we use to know, when we become wrapped up in our own lives and forget about others, just as the Corinthians did.

And we often tend to forget that those less fortunate, those with lesser talents and gifts, still contribute to the survival and wellness of the body.  Each and every one of us has a mutual relation and subserviency, and each has his or her proper place and use in the grander scheme of things.

Those of us who appear weaker, or are made to feel weaker by others, are indispensable Paul tells us; the weak and the dispossessed, those who are looked down upon by others, should be treated with greater honor and respect.  God, by calling on us to function as one body, is leveling the playing field so that there should be no dissension among us.  We must care for others just as we need to be cared for.  If one of us suffers, we all must suffer.  If one of us is looked down upon as inferior as a result of ignorance and prejudice, then we are all likewise diminished.  The body becomes unhealthy and is unable to live up to its full potential.  On the other hand, if each one of us is honored and respected for our individual talents and gifts, regardless of what they may be or how they may be judged, then we are the mutual beneficiaries of this honor and respect.  Then we will properly know our place and what is expected of us.  We are the body of Christ just as God intended for us to be.  As this was the message Paul brought to the Corinthians, so too he told the church in Rome - “ For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you.  Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.” [Romans 12: 3-5]

This, in a sense, is what the Body of Christ and community of faith is – God’s hands delivering the promise of good news to all who come in need. Afraid? We may ask those around us. Come here to find courage. Lonely? Come join our community. Ill? Come here – or better, let us come to you – to care for you. Isolated? We will visit you. Discouraged? Let us gather together and encourage one another.

This is a valuable lesson that we can apply to our daily lives.  Individuals and families function within the context of a community, which in turn functions within a larger society, nation, and world. The individual's and family's well-being is bound up with the community's well-being, and likewise its well-being is inseparable from the peace and prosperity of the society, the nation, and ultimately, the world. Religious precepts undergird community by teaching the virtues of cooperation, friendship, justice, and public-mindedness. These create the spirit of unity by which community can thrive and prosper.  Unity is first of all a gift of grace--a manifestation of the oneness and the reconciliation of those who would otherwise be enemies.

Like many of you, I’m sure, I listened with great interest, and with hope in my heart, to the President’s second inaugural address on Monday.  He also reminded us of the importance of unity and working together so that we may enjoy those freedoms afforded those of us who are lucky to live in this country.  He recalled those words penned by our Founding Fathers - “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men (and women, although it took many long years for them to be properly recognized) are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  Yet he reminded us that although we have been endowed with these rights as a gift from God, they must be secured by God’s people on earth.  We must work together to insure that we all equally benefit from these rights.  In order to move forward, we must move forward together. To retain fidelity to these rights and the principles which guide us in the preservation of our individual freedoms, ultimately require collective action.  We cannot meet the myriad  challenges of today’s world by acting alone.  No single person, or group of persons, has the answers to meet all of these challenges.  Each one of us must cultivate his or her own gifts and talents.  Now, more than ever, we must do these things together as one nation, one people.  We are equal, not just in the eyes of God, but also in our own, and each and every one of us, regardless of our skin, our creed, our beliefs, deserves these God-given rights and the dignity to exercise them for the commonweal.  This is how we will preserve the planet, commanded to our care by God.

There is no harm in reminding ourselves of our duties as individuals.  The body of Christ is a body we have come to know, yet unless we take care to work together with a common effort and purpose to guarantee that all of us benefit equally, we will never fully know and understand it and our place in it.

A Joyful Noise: Two Sermons - Part 1

What follows is the text of sermon I delivered at the Twinbrook Baptist Church on May 20, 2012.  Our pastor had left and we were facing a rough period of transition and the congregation was finding it difficult to decide which direction we were going to take.  We are an independent and progressive congregation and while serving on the transition committee, I asked our temporary interim pastor whether I might address the congregation.  She agreed and this is what I had to say:

Gone Fishin'
Luke 5: 1-11

Sally Ann and I have been members of Twinbrook Baptist Church for almost a year now, joining in early June of last year just before we departed for our summer hiatus in Maine.  We can’t tell you how much it has meant to us to be a part of the Twinbrook family and we thank you all for welcoming us among you.  When it was announced that I would be speaking this morning, a number of you came up with words of encouragement, and I was even asked if there might be a little fire and brimstone in my message.  I am afraid that is not my nature and so I can only hope you won’t disappointed in what I have to share with you today.  It was also hinted that I keep it short and sweet; to paint pictures with a few well chosen words.  Some wondered if I could talk for 15-20 minutes.  That has never been a problem; you only have to ask Sally Ann about that. She’ll tell you the truth of the matter.  Brevity has not been one of my better qualities when it comes to speaking.  So I am happy to see everyone here this morning.  I will keep it short and to the point . . . I promise.

Just a week ago I participated in what has become an annual rite of spring.  Gathering with good friends on Tilghman Island, on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, we set off before dawn for a day on the Chesapeake Bay in search of trophy rockfish.  It is a time to celebrate friendship and camaraderie on the fantail of a 46-foot fishing boat as we trolled our lines over fishing grounds that have been good to us in years past. We have always caught fish.  Always . . . but not this year.  The season was right, the weather was right, there was plenty of baitfish, but the usual plentiful rockfish were nowhere to be found.  Perhaps early onset of warm weather this spring upset their biorhythms.  Who knows?  But such is the nature of fishing.  Sometimes they are there; other times they are not.

I am reminded of Isaiah 19:5-8.  Israel was confronting an invasion by the Assyrians, and there were proclamations calling for the destruction of Assyria, Babylon, and Egypt.  There was change; the ebb and flow of history.  It is written that the waters from the sea will fail, and the rivers will be fouled, wasted and dried up.  And the fishermen - those who cast hooks and spread nets - will languish and lament.  By the very nature of their work, fishermen have learned to expect disappointment for there is always famine between times of rich harvest.

During his early ministry, which was then centered in and around Capernaum, Jesus was walking one morning along the shores of the Sea of Galilee when he chanced upon two fishermen, Simon Peter and his brother Andrew, cleaning and drying their nets after a fruitless night of fishing, busy at their task and unaware of the multitude who had gathered along the shoreline to hear Jesus speak. They were accomplished fishermen and the fact that they had not caught a single fish was not due to their lack of ability or industriousness.  Sometime the fish just aren’t where and when they are suppose to be.  Jesus certainly sensed Simon’s and Andrew’s disappointment and recruited the two men to row him a short distance from shore so that he might better address the crowd who had gathered to hear his message.  After addressing the crowd and while still standing in the boat, Jesus bid Simon Peter to lower his nets into the water, which he did although he had yet to catch a fish. However, when he gathered his nets back into the boat they were filled to capacity causing them to begin breaking under the sheer weight of the catch.  A neighboring fishing boat manned by two brothers, James and John, came to the aid of Simon and Andrew and they also gathered so many fish that both boats began to sink.  The four fishermen are amazed and astonished by the sea’s bounty.  Who was this man who could command fish to appear where there were previously none?  Jesus told them to fear not, for henceforth they would become fishers of men, and the four men left their boats and nets behind and walked in the footsteps of Jesus as his first disciples.

In this manner, Jesus eventually gathered around him twelve faithful disciples, literally “those who learn,”  whom he charged to go forth as apostles, as teachers, and bring God’s word and promise of a new kingdom on earth to all people, to force out evil spirits and to heal the sick.  Jesus also warned his new disciples that their task would not be an easy one for there would be those who would threaten them and attempt to silence them.  Keep the faith, he told them, for God would guide them, give them wisdom, and tell them what to say.

Jesus’ invitation to the disciples was a simple one: “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will fish for people.”   Yet, it was an invitation that would alter their lives forever.  Jesus took these simple Galilean fishermen and transformed them into the apostles that would tell the world of the coming of the Kingdom of God. He would teach them that every life matters to God regardless of whether a person is rich or poor, sick or healthy, a believer or a skeptic.  They all matter, and Jesus loved them all and hoped to win them all over to that promise of a better world ahead.   Jesus told his disciples to go into the world, to make certain their nets were tight and firm, and then to cast them wide and deep.  If they did, they would be amazed at the bounty they would gather in.

If you think about it, all of us here at Twinbrook Baptist Church, as we practice our own discipleship as individuals as well as members of this congregation, can take a lesson from Jesus’ message to his earliest disciples, especially during this time of transition when we look at the life of our church and its congregation and wonder what the future holds for us.  We are all fishers of men (and women).  The lives we lead, and our dedication to the future of this church, are our small yet important contributions to spreading the good news.  We, too, are in the business of casting our nets in everything we do and say, and everywhere we go.  Just as Christ and his disciples shared their message everywhere they went, so, too, we go about our daily lives trying to follow His lead.  He used every situation as an opportunity to talk to someone about the promise of a better life to come.  And isn’t that what we are trying to do as members of Twinbrook Baptist Church?

And we are not alone in this effort.  We have each other and we are working hard together to find a future course for our church.  No one person, no small group of people, can alone do the heavy lifting that is required of us as we cast our nets wide and deep.  For there is a rich bounty to be gathered in.  It is no use to believe that one person, or a small group of people, can haul a net full of fish on board.. They are not going to be able to do it any more than Simon Peter and the early disciples were able to land their catch single-handedly. And even when they worked together, there was the threat that their boats might sink from the weight of their catch.

Last weekend, as my friends and I trolled our dozen and a half lines at a variety of depths and back and forth across the fishing grounds of the Chesapeake Bay, we knew that we were covering every conceivable place where the fish might be.  If there were fish down there, we were going to catch them.  Maybe we did not catch them that day, but it was not for a lack of ability or hard work.  There is an inherent truth in what we were doing.  Fishing boats manned by a decent sized crew are always going to catch more than a person fishing off the end of the pier. 

This same truth holds when it comes to the matter of growing our church by living the life God has taught us to lead.  We have to heed the words Jesus spoke to his disciples.  We are going to go where the fish are.  We are going to have to go outside the walls of Twinbrook Baptist Church, we are going to have to go into our community, into our neighborhoods, with our nets mended, strong and ready.  God will guide our steps to those places where the fish are biting!  He will send us to the right places if we will follow Him and fish how and where He tells us to!  There is a possibility He will send us to fish in a place we feel might not be the best place to cast our nets.  But we have to cover every conceivable spot where the fish might be, and there we must cast our nets wide and deep.  At that moment, we face a decision.  Will we follow Jesus and fish where He says, or will we do it our way and come up empty?   There is so much to be learned from the lessons of the past.

Let me repeat something I said earlier.  “By the very nature of their work, fishermen have learned to expect disappointment for there is always famine between time of rich harvest.”   Our Twinbrook family has been dealing with disappointment in our recent history.  Yet amid the disappointment there is always a reason, many reasons, to hope.  There has been a great deal of soul searching going on and a variety of options have been brought to the table and discussed openly and honestly.  But the simple truth of it is - just standing around the tackle shop talking about fish doesn’t put any fish in the boat.  There is that old saying.  It’s time to fish or cut bait.  Friends, it is time to go  fishin’!  Our patience and our determination will eventually overcome any disappointments in the past.  Our nets will soon be full and we will be amazed and give thanks.

A Novel Approach - The Next Big Thing

I was recently contacted by my friend Bernadette Geyer, whose new book of poems, The Scabbard of Her Throat, will be published this year by The Word Works [http://bernadettegeyer.blogspot.com], and tagged to participate in the blog interview,  The Next Big Thing.  The format is simple; answer ten questions about a just recently completed or current writing project.  I have chosen the draft manuscript of my first novel.

Ten Interview Questions for the “Next Big Thing”:

1.   What is your working title of your book (or story)?
An Unheard Whisper.  The title is taken from 1 Kings 19:12.  “And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.  And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper.”

2.   Where did the idea come from for the book?
I took a spur of the moment road trip to Halifax, Nova Scotia during the summer of 2011 at which time I came up with the germ of an idea for a novel.  I returned to Halifax in early 2012 when I explored the possibilities further and began to map out in my mind where I wanted the story to go.  For the past year I have been outlining the chapters and drafting character studies and narrative summaries.  Now I am writing and hope to finish this year.

3.   What genre does your book fall under?
It is a novel - a Bildungsroman - constructed of several books.  I would consider it more literary than popular fiction.

4.   Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
There are a great many characters in the novel covering a period of time from 1914 through 2001.  Much of the narrative is set in the late 1990s in Europe, Canada and New England.  I see the main characters from this period being played by Matt Damon as Geoffrey Kingston, Jennifer Lawrence as Susanna Emerson, Shawna Waldron (she played the daughter in The American President [1995]) as Kelly O’Shaunessy, and Anthony Hopkins as Professor Duncan Massey.  There are a series of flashbacks to World War I and the great Halifax Explosion of December 6, 1917 and its aftermath.  These are peopled with a rich variety of characters, and my wife insists that one of them should be played by George Clooney.

5.   What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
The main story line revolves around Geoffrey Kingston, a historian attempting to write a book about the Halifax Explosion of 1917.

6.   Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I hope to publish through an established publishing house or small press.

7.   How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
I am currently deep in that process.

8.   What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Hugh MacLennan’s Barometer Rising (1941), Robert MacNeil’s The Burden of Desire (1992), and Jennie Marsland’s Shattered (2011).  All three of these novels, written by Canadian authors, use the Halifax explosion as a focal point of the narrative although their individual denouements are widely varied.  As far as I know, I am the first to construct a novel on the subject from a mostly American perspective.

9.   Who or what inspired you to write this book?
My visits to Halifax, Nova Scotia over the past year and a half (and another one in the planning stages) and my readings on the Halifax explosion and its place in modern Canadian history and culture.

10.  What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?
They might find the balancing of foreshadowing and flashbacks interesting as they both lend verisimilitude to the suffering of the people of Canada, and especially Halifax, during World War I.

I, in turn, have tagged Miles David Moore [http://www.scene4.com/milesdavidmoore] who will post next week.

A Few Notes From the Panic Hole

Here is the first blogspot of the new year after an extended holiday season.  Where did January go?!?!
__________ 

“I have never seen a grander or more beautiful sight than the northern woods in winter.” These are the words of a young Theodore Roosevelt describing his regular sojourns to a wilderness camp in northern Maine’s Aroostook County.  I could not agree more.

For the past several years, as I have written here in earlier postings, I have been making regular trips to northern New England during the height of winter.  Trekking the ridges and hollows hard on the border with Québec has proven a palliative and it has helped me put my life in perspective on more than one occasion.  These environs have become my “panic hole” which, as defined by Gerald Vizenor, is a physical or mental locus offering respite from the real or imagined pressures and stresses of daily life and the responsibilities that go with it.  That sounds about right.  It was on one such trip three years ago that I headed into the snowy back country to consider retirement and what the rest of my life might hold for me.  The mind cleanses itself with each inhalation of the crisp, cold mountain air.  When asked why he liked the desert, T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia) supposedly replied: “It’s clean.”  The same can be said for the Great North Woods of New Hampshire.

I watched the countryside gradually turn white as I flew north from Baltimore to Manchester, and from there I continued above the White Mountain notches into the north country at the roof tree of New Hampshire.  There is one constant here in late January . . . the days are short.  The sun does not inch above Mount Magalloway and the eastern ridge lines until around 7:30am, and from there it makes a slow arc above the southern horizon and sets around 4:30pm below the western height of land that marks the US-Canadian frontier.

One afternoon I trekked along the margins of the Third Connecticut Lake less than a mile below the Canadian frontier.  I was looking for animal tracks and hoping I might be lucky enough to come across a shed, a moose or deer antler no longer required by its former proprietor.  It is not all downhill skiing or snowmobiling up here where speed seems to be the common denominator.  I prefer snow-trekking, the slow and often painstaking movement across deep snow and ice.  Slow is good.  You can see what there is to see in the winter landscape while enjoying a silence interrupted only by the sound of wind blowing through bare, creaking branches.  I first snowshoed on my grandparent’s Michigan farm when I was a kid.  Back then it was the old wooden frames and webbing made of deer hide.  Now snowshoes are constructed of tempered steel, aluminum,  and plastic and are much easier to navigate. My wife and I first tried these new-stye snowshoes a few years ago in western Montana and I was sold.    

I chanced upon several whitetail deer on the trail.  I approached from upwind and got fairly close before we made eye contact.  The snow was over two feet deep in most places, and drifting even deeper, so there was no clear path of escape.   We stood there . . .  motionless for a minute or so, watching each other.  Soon it tired of this and it sprang quickly and quietly into the snowy puckerbrush. 

I did not have anything as momentous as possible retirement to ponder on this visit to one of my favorite places on earth.  It was just a pleasant opportunity to be far away from another human soul and alone with my thoughts as the vast expanse of ice stretched out before me with miles of unbroken and snow laden forests beyond.  Teddy was right.  It doesn’t get much grander than this!

Happy New Year!

Wishing everyone a Happy, Healthy, Safe and Peaceful New Year.  May 2013 see us accomplish what we failed to do in 2012!

I Want My Maypo!

It is a snowy day here in Maryland, our first real snowfall of the season (although it did not last very long).  A good time to enjoy a piping hot cup of coffee and a bowl of warm oatmeal with a few dried cranberries tossed in for a splash of color.  While doing so I thought back to my youth (and we are going back quite a ways here) .  Some of you will have no idea what I am talking about, but I think there will be a few of you for whom this traipse down memory lane will be a pleasant read.

It was late autumn of 1956 and I was living on my grandparent’s southwestern Michigan farm and attending the local one-room Acorn School, in Almena (which I have written about previously).  My regular breakfast in those days was hot oatmeal much like what I enjoyed this morning although I tended to eat it plain without any additional healthy blandishments.  Another one of my regular activities in those days was watching Saturday morning cartoons on the old black and white television in the parlor (on those days I often enjoyed my oatmeal in front of the TV).  And this is where the story begins.

One of the popular and frequent commercials back then was for Maypo, a maple flavored oatmeal cereal originally developed in 1953 by the Maltex Corporation, in Burlington, Vermont, shortly before the company was sold to Heublein, Inc. of Farmington, Connecticut.   By today’s standards of animation, it was a pretty cheezy 60-second spot.  It features a tyke with tousled hair and big ears decked out in a cowboy outfit (boots, six-shooters, gloves, neck bandana, and a floppy hat as big as he was pulled down over his eyes) being beckoned to the breakfast table - “Come and get it!” - the same way my grandmother got me to settle down at the big dining room table on the farm.  The boy scrambles to the table and climbs up on his stool.  In a baby-like voice he asks “Do you have a surprise for me?” to which a now visible man (presumably the boy’s father) is stirring a bowl situated next to a box of Maypo.  He announces this new cereal and tries to get the boy to take a spoonful while asking him to remove his hat.  He refuses to do both and the man snatches away the hat to which the boy crosses his arms and demands, “I want my cowboy hat.”  He is promised it after breakfast but he wants it now!  The man asks the boy if he likes maple-flavored  candy, which gets his attention until he stares into the bowl to find only oatmeal.  The man then tries the old “airplane flying into the hangar” ploy only to have the hangar door shut just before the plane, aka the spoonful of Maypo, arrives.  The lightbulb comes on and the man puts on the boy’s hat and tell him cowboys like Maypo as he places the spoon in his mouth.  His eyes light up after which the boy finally takes a taste from his bowl and realizes he likes it after all.  By this time the man is devouring the cereal to which the boy, soon to be dubbed “Marky Maypo,” announces “I want my Maypo.”  A new cultural icon is born. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXnSe7MYPGM

Marky went on to star in another commercial, this time a dyed-in-the-wool Maypo convert who tries to get his Uncle Ralph, sleeping on a sofa, to try the cereal by mixing it in his homburg.  This commercial also ends with the now familiar cry, “I want my Maypo!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=SBvoWr2kUUY&feature=endscreen

 After watching that original commercial numerous times on Saturday mornings, I decided I wanted my Maypo, too.  Enough of that bland, flavorless gruel I had always enjoyed before.  Maple flavored oatmeal seemed just the thing.  I wanted my Maypo!  I prevailed on my grandmother and so the next time she visited the Spartan market in Paw Paw she picked up a box and thereafter, when she called out for me to “come and get it,” I was treated to a bowl of hot Maypo.  Still no fruit, but the maple flavor was a nice touch.  No plane into the hangar was necessary.  Maybe cowboys do like it.  It really didn’t matter to me.  I liked it.

So I was thinking about this earlier today and I was curious whether Maypo was a thing of the past or not.  I quickly discovered that Hueblein, Inc., which manufactured Maypo at a cereal mill in Highspire, Pennsylvania, was acquired by the Uhlmann Company, of Kansas City, in the mid-1960s, and following additional acquisitions, the Maypo brand name today belongs to Homestat Farms, Ltd., in Dublin, Ohio, and production continues at the Highspire mill.  And little Marky is still around, too, still wanting his Maypo.

I also learned that John Hubley (1914-1977), the originator of the Marky Maypo character who also designed the commercials, was a former Walt Disney animator who worked on such Disney staples as Fantasia, Dumbo, Pinocchio, and Bambi, before leaving the company in 1941.  He later joined other former Disney artists to form United Productions of America, in Los Angles, which played a major role in the evolution of animated productions with characters such as Mr. McGoo.  He continued at UPA until he as fired in the early 1950s when Walt Disney denounced him and others as communists to Joe McCarthy’s House Un-American Activities Committee.  Hubley continued as a freelance artist and animator until he was approached by the Heublein company to develop an animated commercial for its recently acquired Maypo brand, which was not selling well.
 
What he produced was a commercial with minimalist animation and a voice over created by recording his own four year old son Mark.  From the outset neither Heublein nor Hubley realized what a hit Marky Maypo would become, or how well Maypo would sell as a result.  This relationship eventually deteriorated over the company’s desire to cash in on the popularity of Marky through a number of commercial merchandising ventures (banks, dolls, etc.) while Hubley tried to retain his artistic integrity.  They eventually parted ways and there were no more Hubley-inspired commercials.  By that time I had moved on to other things and I no longer wanted my Maypo.

In fact, I haven’t thought about the cereal for years; I didn’t even know whether it was still on the market.  But this morning, as I sat down to my breakfast oatmeal, I fondly recalled those simpler times when I was a kid.  For me, Maypo is not just a maple-flavored cereal I use to eat when I was younger.  It is a benchmark for the good old days when kids did not have to worry about being murdered in their classroom, or all the other things that are forcing them to grow up much too fast.  Childhood was and should be a time of innocence and free from the fears that now continually encroach on all of our lives.  At least this is what I was thinking when I was eating my breakfast this morning.  OK . . . I’ll admit it.  I want my Maypo!  I think we all want our Maypo.

80,000 Hits So Far!

Thanks to everyone worldwide who has visited Looking Toward Portugal since December 2008. 

Happy Holidays!

Wishing Everyone a Very Merry Christmas and the Happiest of New Years!

On Second Thought

Yesterday I was filled with anger and stunned by the senseless and unspeakable horror visited on the people of Sandy Hook/Newtown, Connecticut.  Now I am overcome by an intense sadness and a profound sense of loss.  I do not know anyone who lives there, certainly not any of the victims, yet there is a sense impression that all has changed.

Most summers over the past quarter of a century, as we made our way to and from the lake cottage in Maine, we have become accustom to stopping in Newtown  to gas up and to have a bite to eat.  It has always been a convenient place, a friendly place, to take a breather after making our way around NYC, on the northbound trip, or to savor one last breath of New England air and Yankee tranquility before navigating the Big Apple on the way home.  I recall in particular an ill-fated attempt to eat at the charming Sandy Hook Diner last New Year's Eve day only to find it closed so that everyone could be home with their families to ring in the new year.  It is less than a half mile from the school where yesterday’s massacre unfolded.  Who knew what the new year would bring to this quiet and pleasant community.  Sally Ann and I tried again in October on our way home from Maine.   We found it closed again late on a Sunday afternoon.  But we always find a place to stretch our legs and seek a little nourishment for the road.

Now I will never be able to look at that charming rest haven the same way again.  Somehow evil and terror found their way here.  Our prayers go out to all the families, friends, and neighbors whose lives have been horribly changed forever.  We also pray for a nation that needs to wake up and make certain this never happens again.  We are all diminished by what has happened in Newtown.

Most of the victims were not just children . . . they were mostly six-year old children. Even as old as seven!!!   NRA - put that on your tote board. How do you sleep at night? Folks, it's time to stop being angry. It's time to take a stand. Make gun control the gold standard for weighing your choices in the future. If a politician won't stand up to the NRA, then he or she is not interested in taking this country back from the extremists, the survivalists, and those whose solutions to challenges and problems are only found through the barrel of a gun.  Wake up America!

Time to Stand Up!

There is a sickness in this world. How much more blood . . . childrens' blood . . . will it take for you people to wise up? I don’t care what anyone says, I hold the National Rifle Association [NRA] responsible for the cruel, wanton and sadistic murder of over two dozen innocent people, most of them elementary school students, in Sandy Hook [Newtown], Connecticut this morning.  “I want to say those fighting words for everyone within the sound of my voice to hear,” former NRA President Charleton Heston stated proudly in May 2000 claiming Americans should not surrender their right to bear arms.  “From my cold, dead hands!  Out of your cold, dead hands?”   Mr. Heston is no longer with us, but many who believe what he said twelve years ago are.  Last year 48 people were killed by handguns in Japan.  Eight in Great Bitain, 34 in Switzerland, 52 in Canada, 58 in Israel, 21 in Sweden, 42 in Germany . . . and 10,728 in the United States!!  The murder and mayhem in this country continues unabated and it will eventually catch up with even the NRA.  What if it were their children who were slaughtered in their classrooms this morning?

I am pointing the finger at the NRA for not supporting reasonable gun control and registration in this country. I am not against guns per se. I believe people should be able to own them, and I support hunting and those who hunt. But you don't need to have a machine gun to hunt. You don't need cop killer bullets to hunt.  There are those who own guns responsibly and know how to store and use them properly.  But there are many out there who should not have guns, and the NRA knows this and does nothing about it.  Yes, the NRA protects the right of those who own guns legally.  But it also protects those who go out on a nice sunny New England morning and murder innocent children.

See this gun?  It is legal in the USA.  And this morning it was used to kill lots of little kids.  Does anyone really need to have one of these? I mean, really?  This weapon was designed to kill people. If you don't plan to kill people, you really don't need to have one. I think that is reasonable.

Unfortunately, when it comes to the issue of gun control and registration, it is the unreasonable on both ends of the spectrum that seem to win the day while the moderates, those of us who try to see the issue from both sides, who seem to get lost in the fray. But on days like today, it is often hard to seem reasonable when all reason has gone out the window.

We need to stop mourning the victims of gun violence and start doing something that will reduce . . . nay prevent more victims of gun violence. I'm getting tired of seeing the flag at half staff. That does nothing. It is time to get serious folks, and not just wait for it to happen again. And sadly, it will happen again . . . and again . . . until we wake up and stand up. If a politician won't stand up to the NRA, go out and find one who will.  It is the only way this madness, this senseless murder, will stop.

A Day of Dozens

This date will be that last instance when the month, day and year match for the next 100 years.  I thought this was worth mentioning.

The number “12" has long been recognized by mathematicians and scientists as a sublime or perfect number, a quality it derives from its divisibility. There are relatively few small numbers that can be evenly divided into so many subsets. The number 12 can be evenly divided into halves, thirds, fourths, sixths, and twelfths. Multiples of 12, by definition, retain this divisibility.

But that is not all!  There are 12 months in a year.  There are 24 hours in a day - 12 hours ante-meridiem and 12 hours post-meridiem.  Noon and midnight are 12pm and 12 am respectively.  The basic units of time - 60 seconds, 60 minutes, and 24 hours - are all perfectly divisible by 12.

A basic non-metric unit of measurement is a dozen (12 units).  A foot consists of 12 inches.  A troy pound is 12 ounces.  Force 12 on the Beaufort wind force scale corresponds to the maximum wind speed of a hurricane.  There are 12 basic hues in the color wheel.  12 individuals sit on a jury of one’s peers, and 12 men have walked on the moon.  The human body has 12 pairs of ribs and 12 pairs of cranial nerves. The average man has 12 pints of blood.  And for my Canadian friends . . . the House, or the circular scoring area in curling, is 12 feet in diameter.

There were 12 Olympians in the Greek pantheon of gods. Hercules had 12 labors. The Western and Chinese zodiacs each have 12 twelve signs or constellations.  King Arthur's round table had 12 knights.  Virgil’s epic poem The Aeneid, as well as John Milton’s Paradise Lost, are each divided into 12 books.

Muhammad had 12 successors known as Imams.  They were infallible and had a close relationship with God.  When the twelfth Imam returns he will bring justice and peace to the world.  According to the Quran, “And there gushed forth from it twelve springs, and every people knew its watering place. Eat and drink from the provision of Allah.” 

The Bible is full of twelves.  Revelations 21:12 describes the city of Jerusalem descending from the heavens: “And had a wall great and high, and had twelve gates, and at the gates twelve angels, and names written thereon, which are the names of the twelve tribes of the children of Israel.”  Jacob had 12 sons who were the progenitors of these 12 tribes.  Ishmael also had 12 sons. There were 12 minor prophets in the Old Testament, and the New Testament’s 12 Apostles gave the world the teachings of Christ.  And 12 days of Christmas which will soon be upon us.

Like I said, it seemed worth mentioning.

Two Epiphanies

http://ruesansregret.blogspot.com/2012/12/maples-leaves.html

http://ruesansregret.blogspot.com/2012/12/storm-petrels.html

Tomorrow I will join Jonathan Vaile as a featured reader at the Iota Club & Cafe, 2832 Wilson Boulevard, Arlington, Virginia. The program begins at 6pm.
http://www.iotaclubandcafe.com

The Beginning of Advent

Today we begin the Advent season.  Let us lift up our voices during this joyous time of year with a deeply felt commitment to the future.  We do this with great hope despite the violence and uncertainty we see around us.  It is a time to celebrate light in the midst of darkness.  We have been taught that nations will enter into warfare, and that all inhabitants of the earth will experience and suffer great disasters and calamities.  These will challenge us and try our patience and our abilities to cope.  These trying times offer us opportunities to test our faith, and to steel our hopes and desires for a better future, a time to stand tall and be brave.  Let us hope that swords will be crafted into ploughshares and spears into pruning hooks.  May there be a renewed pledge for gentleness, compassion, justice and peace in the world as we enter into this joyous season.  Turn hatred into love and our grievances into forgiveness and help us to  strengthen our faith.  For if we are faithful to the end, darkness will turn to light and there will be salvation for all the nations and peoples of the earth.

A Town Called Romney

In the wake of the recent national election extravaganza which, in my humble opinion, went on way too long, my fellow road warrior Michael G. Stewart and I recently set off in the pre-dawn hours on a long anticipated road trip across a scenic swath of central Maryland and the West Virginia panhandle.  I also thought it might be fun to visit Romney, West Virginia with the idea for a post election blog with little or no politics in it.  Why not visit a town that shares it’s name with one of the presidential candidates?  Romney seemed the best bet since Obama, a city located in the Fukui Prefecture of Japan, did not seem a practical choice.

Our trip first took us across the undulating Maryland Piedmont Plateau, from the northern outskirts of the Washington, DC metropolitan area, past Frederick, to Harpers Ferry, the easternmost town in West Virginia situated at the confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers in the northern Blue Ridge Mountains.  This entire area is rich in Civil War history, and West Virginia owes its statehood to that conflict.

Cutting across the narrow eastern neck of the West Virginia panhandle we passed into Virginia and we soon found ourselves in Winchester and the northern reaches of the Shenandoah Valley.  Michael and I were here on a road trip about this time last year and so we did not tarry here long.  A few miles west of Winchester on US Route 50, also known as the  Northwestern Turnpike, is the tiny unincorporated town of Gore, another locale sharing a name with a prominent political figure of the recent past, situated in the Valley and Mountains region of northern Virginia.  Gore lies in Back Creek valley and serves as the western terminus of the Winchester and Western Railroad which runs via Winchester and Martinsburg, West Virginia, to Hagerstown, Maryland.  The American author Willa Cather was born here in 1873 and her birthplace, and her childhood home in nearby Willow Shade, survive to this day.  The family moved to Red Cloud, Nebraska, in 1873 and Cather’s writings are associated with her later life on the Great Plains.

Departing Gore we passed over several eastern ridges of the Allegheny Mountains and soon arrived in Hampshire County, in the Potomac Highlands of West Virginia.  We cross the Cacapon River at Capon Bridge, and continued through lilliputian Augusta, Pleasantdale, Shanks and a handful of other hamlets before we arrive at our destination.

Romney, with a current population hovering around 2000, is situated on the South Branch of the Potomac River and is the seat of Hampshire County. It shares the claim to being the states’s oldest town with Shepardstown, over in the eastern panhandle, having been settled by trappers in the early 1720s when it was first known as Pearsall's Flats.  Nearby are the sites of Fort Pearsall, Fort Kuykendall and Van Meter Fort, dating from the 1750s and the French and Indian War.  The town was formally chartered and incorporated on December 23, 1762 by Thomas, Lord Fairfax of Cameron who renamed the town Romney in honor of one of the five English Channel ports in Kent.  As far as I can ascertain, the town has no historical or genealogical associations to the ancestors of George and Mitt Romney.  It did, however, vote for Romney in a 2-1 margin over Obama reflecting the town’s current voter registration.

Driving and walking around Romney, which is celebrating its 250th  anniversary this year, it is difficult to understand what drew people to the area, or why they have stayed.  There does not seem to be much going on.  It is the country seat, as well as the home to the West Virginia Schools for the Deaf and Blind dating back to the late 19th century, but other than that it is just a small shire town where local folks come to do their business.  Still, I love to visit small places with big histories.

On May 23, 1861 the citizens of Virginia voted in a statewide referendum to approve the Ordinance of Secession and join the Confederate States of America. Although Hampshire County voted almost four to one to approve Virginia’s ordinance of Secession in 1861 while raising monies to support the Confederate war effort, it was among the several northwestern counties of the Old Dominion that subsequently chose to secede from Virginia and the new state of West Virginia was eventually admitted to the Union on June 20, 1863.  Nevertheless, a vast majority of the local men chose to wear the gray and butternut.

No Civil War battles of any lasting significance took place in or around Romney which is situated astride a natural invasion route to the Shenandoah Valley, to the south, and to the main stem of the Potomac River and the adjacent C&O Canal and B&O Railroad, to the north.  General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson conducted a campaign in this area in January 1862, severing Union transportation routes along the Potomac north of here.  Scourged by both the Federal and Confederate armies, the town, with a wartime population hovering around 450, changed hands 56 time between 1861 and 1865.

Romney is perhaps significant for Civil War history by the fact that one of the very first Confederate war monuments anywhere in the United States was erected in the town’s Indian Mound Cemetery on September 26, 1867.  It stands there today flanked by Old Glory and the first Confederate national flag (used until 1863 when West Virginia seceded and joined the Union).  The cemetery, named for the ancient Native American burial mound found there, is the original site of Fort Pearsall and the final resting place of many of the soldiers, mostly Confederates, who died in and around Romney during the war.  Many of them, as their markers state, are known only to God, and their graves were decorated with small Confederate flags when we visited.  Also buried here are two former governors of West Virginia, a former Secretary of the Army, several state politicians and local notables, and a former owner of the Washington Redskins.  We wandered around the cemetery taking note of some wonderfully carved tombstones.

The town’s architecture is a mixture of old and new.  The stately neoclassical courthouse in the center of town, was erected in 1922 to replace the original 1833 brick building on the site which burned the previous year.  The oldest structure along Main Street is the Davis House (now the Davis History House), a log cabin erected circa 1798.  It was truly a house divided; the Davis family sent three sons to fight for the Confederacy although one later joined the Union army.  It is now a Civil War era museum operated by the adjacent county library.  Unfortunately it was closed the day we were there.  A few doors up Main Street is the Literary Hall.  Constructed in 1870 to replaced the first Literary Hall (1825) destroyed in 1862, it was the home of the Romney Literary Society established in 1819. Prior to its destruction during the Civil War, it contained the largest library west of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  The Society also established the Romney Classical Institute on the eastern edge of town in 1846.  Its campus was eventually sold to the state for the deaf and blind schools, and the Society disbanded in 1886.  The building is now a museum (also closed that day).  Liberty Hall (1858), on Main Street, was Stonewall Jackson’s headquarters in Romney. 

We enjoyed a nice lunch at Shirley’s Diner, just off Main Street on Marsham Street.  The small building housing the diner was originally Cresap Creamery, and later a saddle and tack shop and a taxi stand.  The sign over the door reads “Come a stranger, leave a friend”.   The food was good and the service fast and friendly.  A nice way to end our visit to Romney.

We took a different route home, making our way to the small hamlet of Paw Paw, West Virginia.  Located on a bend of the main stem of the Potomac River, it was once a thriving town along the B&O Railroad and the C&O Canal and its nearby Paw Paw Tunnel, and home to a large tannery that operated here in the 1930s. George Washington use to pass through this area when he was a member of the party surveying this region for Lord Fairfax. There is not much here to speak of today, and we turned westward following the Cacapon River and crossing the Appalachian ridges to Berkeley Springs (originally Bath for the natural springs located here), another West Virginia town with a close association with George Washington and his family who were some of the first landowners in this area.

Driving north we crossed the Potomac at Hancock, Maryland and set our sights for home.   After dropping Michael off I pulled into the garage thirteen hours and over 300 miles later.  A good road trip for sure.

4th Anniversary of "Looking Toward Portugal"

Four years ago today I launched this blogspot with the following post: I have been kicking around the idea of starting my own blog. For a long time now I have been reading those of others and so I think it is time for me to chime in. I will try to update this every week, or whenever the inspiration comes. So stay tuned.

Just a few days ago I passed the 75,000 hit threshold for the 200+ postings to date! I had no idea when I began this site it would be as successful as it has become.  Above all, it is a satisfying outlet for all the things I have chosen to write about over the past four years.  I still have a lot more to say and I am not going anywhere.  I hope you will join me in the coming weeks and months as I continue to share my random notes from the edge of America.  So stay tuned.

49 Years Ago

This is not the first time I have written on this subject, but sitting here on this beautiful, sunny Thanksgiving morning, I am reminded of a darker time almost a half century ago.

I was sitting in my 7th grade math class in Asheville, North Carolina when the principal’s static voice came out of the classroom squawk box mounted over the blackboard. President Kennedy had just been shot in Dallas.  “I’ll keep you posted” he told us as he asked us to return to our studies.  How was that possible?  A short time later the bell rang and we moved to our next class.  In my case, it was art appreciation.  As I arrived in that classroom our teacher walked in, eyes red and tears streaming down her face.  “The President is dead.”  Classes were dismissed early on that clear, late autumn Friday afternoon.  I grabbed the books I would need for the weekend and I caught the bus home.

When I arrived my mother was crying, watching the news from Dallas.  There, for the first time, I saw those now iconic images of Walter Cronkite replaying on our black and white television.  White shirt and dark tie, with papers scattered around him, trying to make sense of the conflicting reports out of Texas.  Of course I already knew the outcome, but watching those replayed images of Cronkite I thought maybe it was OK.  Maybe the president had survived.  Then came that image I will never, ever forget.  Cronkite taking his glasses on and off . . . those thick-framed glasses . . . as he told us of blood transfusions being given to the stricken president, of a Catholic priest being called to the emergency room at Parkland Hospital to administer the Last Rites.  Later he shared Dan Rather’s report from Dallas saying that President Kennedy had, in fact, died. Then came that moment when Cronkite put his glasses back on and ran a finger quickly along the edge of his nose.  A pause as he removed his glasses again, looking at a studio clock as he told us what we already knew.  From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official: President Kennedy died at 1 pm Central Standard Time. 2 o'clock Eastern Standard Time, some 38 minutes ago.  Trying hard to keep his composure Cronkite went on to tell how the ship of state would continue to function.  It was a lot for a twelve year old boy to grasp.  Thinking back on it today . . . 49 years later . . . it is still difficult to grasp.

Over the next three days the American people were flooded with lasting images as the nation, shrouded in grief, said farewell to its leader, and perhaps to its innocence.  The muffled drums, the riderless horse with the boots turned backwards in the stirrups, the crowds in the streets as the cortege passed down Pennsylvania Avenue, a young son saluting his father for the last time, the broken note as a bugler played “Taps” at the hillside grave in Arlington National Cemetery.  Those who watched will never forget them.

Now . . . finally . . . it all seems so long ago.  But will we ever really forget?

Wishing Everyone a Happy Thanksgiving!

Wishing all of you a happy and festive Thanksgiving holiday with family and friends wherever you happen to be.  Please travel safe.

Being a Haligonian for a Day

 I launched this new poem last night at a reading at the Nora School, in Silver Spring, Maryland.  

                             HALIFAX
                     walking along
                    Gottingen rain blows
                    hard & cold
                    she touching hands
                    whispering cryptic
                    words so gently
                    what is this place
                    why are we here
                    walking along
                    wet pavement
                    Gottingen in the rain
                    song says winter
                    is so cruel here
                    into a Sally Ann
                    seeking warmth
                    for heart & soul
                    nothing there for us
                    walking along
                    Gottingen rain blows
                    hard & cold

Two New Poems . . . .

I launched these two new poems on Sunday evening at the Iota Club & Cafe, in Arlington, Virginia.

http://ruesansregret.blogspot.com/2012/11/looking-for-linda-hinkley.html

http://ruesansregret.blogspot.com/2012/11/for-christian-petzold_13.html

I will be be a featured reader at Iota along with Jonathan Vaile on December 9 at 6pm.
http://www.iotaclubandcafe.com/

I will also be reading at the Nora School in Silver Spring, Maryland this Thursday evening at 7:30pm.
http://www.nora-school.org/

I hope to see you there.

Celebrating Our Nation's Veterans

To our fathers and mothers and friends, and to all the men and women who have served in uniform . . . our sincere and deepest gratitude for your sacrifices. Our country celebrates our soldiers and veterans. I only wish it took better care of them.

America's First Precinct

The Ballot Room in the Balsams Resort Hotel in 2010

The Ballot Box

I always enjoy writing about the North Country of New Hampshire.  I have written lovingly of the time I have spent in Maine each summer, but when it really comes down to it, it is the rolling forested hills of Northern New Hampshire, its myriad lakes and streams, that are  true God’s Country for me. I would like to thank my friend Donna Jordan, the managing editor of the Colebrook Chronicle, the voice of the North Country of New Hampshire, who provided me with a running commentary of last night’s balloting in Dixville Notch.  Thanks, too, to Chronicle reporter/photographer Angie Wheeler for the photograph appearing at the end of this posting.  Now the rest of the story . . . .
__________

“The Epicenter of America” - this is what the Granite Staters would have us believe about the great state of New Hampshire.  This could have been the case earlier this year when several prospective Republican presidential candidates were tripping over each other on the chicken dinner circuit in the weeks and days leading up to the first Presidential primary in February (the date remains  flexible to insure that it remains the nation’s first primary).  The eyes and ears of the country - even the world - were attuned to what this gaggle of candidates was promising to the sometime taciturn inhabitants of this small and relatively sparsely populated patch of New England.  Each candidate in turn told the local folks why he or she should be the next President of the United States.  Each hoped that by winning the New Hampshire primary he or she would become the heir apparent to the Republican nomination.  The Democrats didn’t have to fight over New Hampshire this time around having already decided to anoint President Obama for a second term.  The political obituary writers were already sharpening their quills.

Every four years the first Granite Staters, indeed the first Americans, to cast their primary and general election ballots are the small handful of registered voters in the  hamlet of Dixville Notch which is situated in the rooftree of New Hampshire just a few miles below the Canadian border.  They assemble in the waning hour of the day before the primary and general, and at the stroke of midnight they cast their ballots.  New Hampshire state law provides for the closing of a poll once all registered voters have cast their ballots.  The votes are tallied, the results posted, and everyone goes home to bed having done their civic duty. 

This tradition was begun in Dixville Notch during the 1960 general election when Richard Nixon won all nine votes cast.  And it continues to this day, having correctly predicted every Republican nominee since then.  The balloting has taken place in numerous locations; at the latex rubber products company found by Neil Tillotson, as well as at the adjacent Balsams resort hotel which Tillotson bought at auction in 1954.  It is Tillotson who is credited with creating the midnight voting tradition at Dixville Notch which was incorporated for the singular purpose of allowing local citizens to vote near home rather than travel dozens of miles to the polls.  In 1948, a neighboring community, tiny Hart’s Location, began its own midnight voting tradition which continued through the 1964 election.  It resumed this voting in 1996, but it is Dixville Notch, with fewer inhabitants than its neighbor, which completes its balloting so quickly and therefore continues to lay claim to “First in the Nation.”

In more recent years the local voting has been held in the wood-paneled Ballot Room in the Balsams Resort Hotel proper, a small room adorned with photographs of previous candidates, both winners and losers, and other election memorabilia. This past February midnight primary voting took place there despite the fact that the hotel had been sold by the Tillotson family last year and later closed for major renovations. There were nine registered voters, a lot fewer than previous years -  three Republicans, two Democrats and four undeclared voters (there are no “independent" voters in New Hampshire, only “undeclared.” There is a national  Independent Party, which is not recognized as an official party in New Hampshire). When the magic hour of midnight arrived, they cast their open primary votes in less than a minute and the polls closed.  Former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney and former Utah Gov. Jon Huntsman each won 2 votes .  Former House Speaker Newt Gingrich and US Representative Ron Paul (R-Texas) each received 1 vote. Even thought there was no official Democratic primary this year, the three ballots were cast for President Barack Obama. 

Last night the voters of Dixville Notch reassembled to cast their ballots in the general election.  With most of the contents of the historic Ballot Room preserved and stored away until the hotel renovations are completed and the hotel reopened to the public, including a new Ballot Room, the now ten registered voters braved snow covered roads as they gathered shortly before midnight at the Balsams Wilderness Ski Area .  Voting booths, one for each voter, were set up for the balloting.  A few items from the old Ballot Room were on display to maintain some of its former ambiance.  The name of each voter was placed into a pot and names were pulled to determine the order in which each voter cast his or her ballot.

I sat in front of my TV here in Maryland watching CNN and awaiting a live feed from Dixville Notch while monitoring regular Facebook postings by my friend Donna Jordan, the managing editor of the Colebrook Chronicle, who was reporting from America’s first precinct along with fellow members of the Fourth Estate from all over the world.  Even Chinese television, and CBC from north of the border just 20 miles to the north, were there to tell the story of ten Granite Staters exercising their franchise as Americans. Donna reported that everyone was snacking on sandwiches, brownies, fruit and cheese platters, and drinking coffee and trying to grasp a little warmth from a couple of turbo-shot heat blasters brought in for the occasion.

While President Obama and Governor Romney were giving their final campaign speeches elsewhere, each of the Dixville Notch voters were in their individual booths awaiting the countdown to midnight.  In the final minutes all of the heaters were turned off so that folks could hear what was going on.  “All the media are wicked quiet,” Donna reported as the last minutes ticked off.  She had never seen so many camera phones and laptops in Dixville Notch.  Truly the eyes of the world were focused on this makeshift ballot room.

The midnight hour struck and there was a CNN reporter broadcasting live from Dixville Notch.  Each of the 10 voters left their voting booths and placed their paper ballots in a large wooden box.  In less than a minute the polls were closed, the ballots retrieved from the box and quickly counted, and the results for President and Vice President, Senate and the House of Representatives posted.  For the first time since 1960, it came down to a tie with five votes each cast for President Obama and Governor Romney.  For the record, nearby Hart’s Location reported its results after Dixville Notch.  There Obama received 23 votes to Romney’s 9 with one vote cast for Libertarian candidate Gary Johnson.  Prior to last night’s balloting, the voters of Dixville Notch had a 7-6 record of picking the eventual winner of the general election. It has historically voted 11-2 Republican although in the 2008 election, the vote was 2 to 1 in favor of Barack Obama over John McCain.  The results of this year’s general election are still to be tallied.

This morning I waited for one and one half hours to cast my vote.  I waited until 11am thinking the lines might lessen from earlier in the morning.  Such was not the case.  In fact, the line of voters was even longer when we left the polls. I must admit that I have never seen this many people at the polls for any election I have ever participated in, and I have voted in every election since 1970!  Standing in line, I thought how wonderful it would be to vote in Dixville Notch.  I also thought . . . . how wonderful it is that this many people have exercised their right to vote regardless of the wait involved.

2012 General Election at Dixville Notch [Angie Wheeler/Colebrook Chronicle]

It's Time to Stand Up and Be Counted

The last thing I want to do is turn this blogspot into my own personal political bully pulpit.  I am not endorsing any candidate for any office in the coming general election; one’s votes are a personal choice and no one need feel compelled to justify that vote.  That said, I want to encourage everyone to get out to the polls next Tuesday (or vote early, if you can, or send in your absentee ballot before the deadline) and make your vote count!  Don’t let a few make important choices for the many.  Voting is a right we should ALL exercise.  See you at the polls.