Jim Baumer's Blog, page 19

Failures of Kindness

I’m reading a book of short stories by George Saunders. The librarian that checked it out for me waxed effusive about Saunders. His stories are good, although they fall short of another book of short stories I just finished by Ottessa Moshfegh.

I picked up Moshfegh’s book because I got a Google alert and discovered something she shared about Mark in an interview for Vulture, including one of his 50-books-in-a-year as one of 10 works she’d take with her to a desert island. I’d never read anything by her. She was in his MFA cohort at Brown:

We lost this brave genius last year, and the books he gifted us while he lived are so wonderfully strange and honest and beautiful, I can’t believe he even existed. He was more than a poet or performance artist — Baumer’s life itself was a work of art. He was truly radical, and the most openhearted, unjaded human I’ve ever met.

That was kind of her.

Reading short stories.

Someone who had been a central figure in my life during a formative time once sent me an email about Saunders and something he’d read about him, somewhere, how he’d unpacked some failure of kindness from high school decades earlier, about someone he called “ELLEN.” He got himself all worked up into a tornado, effusing regret that he’d been unkind to a high school classmate and “Saunders’ advice” struck a chord with him. Interestingly, as I’ve been mired in the muck of grief and loss, he’s not been able to muster anything beyond a letter that I “guilted” him to write weeks after Mark was killed.

People are unforgiving about others and yet, we’re all miserable failures when it comes to supporting one another most of the time. I know this all-too-well.

Words uttered without subsequent actions mean absolutely nothing.

 

 

We Deserve It

At the summit. (Business Insider)

Indignation’s become a cottage industry in America since the election of Donald J. Trump as our 45th president. I’d rather refer to him as our “Big Orange Cheetoh.” That’s probably too much for the Trump Kool-Aid Crowd to bear. But the guy obviously tans, as evidenced by the return of the goggle marks around his eyes. Not to mention, his most recent claim to fame prior to becoming president was that of a reality TV huckster.

None of this is new or revealing. All you really need to know about Trump’s fitness for the presidency can be gleaned from reading Michael Wolff’s book about the Trumpinator, since you won’t dig much deeper than that. And again, if you insist on wearing your ideological blinders (either the left or right versions), you’ll always get the reasons why we’re now ruled by The Donald, wrong.

There is a well-known quote that reads:

Every country has the government it deserves.

This is often wrongly attributed to Alexis De Tocqueville, which isn’t a bad guess. That’s incorrect, however. It was actually uttered by another Frenchman, Joseph de Maistre, author, moralist, and diplomat.

I realize that facts no longer matter. Perhaps this blog can simply become a repository that counters misinformation. It likely doesn’t matter to others, but I prefer accuracy, especially when it comes to history.

In terms of history, we’re at a low ebb. But, our slovenliness has given us our just deserts (or, just desserts), in our most slovenly president, yet.

And does anyone believe shit like this anymore after watching El Cheetoh over the past year? Written by a licensed psychologist and life coach. Sorry, don’t need your coaching!

But back to my main point.

I don’t think the election of Donald J. Trump is an aberration, a blip, or anything but a clear indication that unlike his mantra, “make America great again,” we’re never going to be great, and arguably, we never were. However, we were arguably better than we are right now and we’ll never find our way back to that place.

 

 

Pain in the Back

My back odyssey continues. I spent my weekend pretty much on my back. This sucked for a host of reasons including not being able to make a planned trip to the Finger Lakes region in New York for our 36th wedding anniversary. Miss Mary is the best partner a man could have, but I know she was disappointed, while also remaining sympathetic to my pain.

On my back, courtesy of a “back emergency.”

I know what the problem is. I’m just finding it hard to locate someone to treat it correctly. If that sounds weird, then you have probably been lucky concerning your health care affiliations.

While it’s been a difficult stretch filled with pain and reduced activity, I’ve also learned a host of things about my back. A book I found at the library, written by a doctor, Arthur Brownstein, offered some real insight into dealing with back pain and ways to treat it, holistically. Some of his tips for “back emergencies” really helped Saturday and Sunday.

A good friend is also struggling with back issues. Another friend was considering pulling his own infected tooth before he ended up having it done by a professional. Lots of other people are dealing with personal adversity.

Hoping to have something more optimistic to report, soon.

Left Coast Tacos

In a perfect world—which for me right now would be one without excruciating (at times) back pain—plant-based foods would be ubiquitous. But alas, I live in Maine, where snout-to-tail cooking and meat necklaces abound. Don’t get me wrong, Maine has some great food, it’s just not the greatest place to be a plant-based vegan.

I love tacos. I’ve even managed to develop a couple of my own versions that don’t rely upon meat fillings. One is made with tempeh, the other with a plant-based crumble that’s readily available in most Maine supermarkets (including Shaw’s and Hannaford’s).

Vegan tacos are the bomb! (The Minimalist Baker)

The reason why I’m talking tacos this morning is entirely due to the New York Times’ California Today newsletter that I’m signed up for and receive weekdays. As California goes, so goes the nation.

When we were out in Los Angeles in 2017, you could throw a rock and pretty much hit a vegan eatery in most parts of town. Some of them were absolutely amazing. In a city of 10 million people, economies of scale are a big factor in food options and variety. Instead of menus with minimal options nearly invisible due to burgers, chicken, and fish, you have chefs like this one, transforming native foods from her home country of El Salvador, offering more than 40 ethnically-authentic dishes.

Just an aside here. When I was in Buffalo, I discovered Root + Bloom Café, 500 feet from my Airbnb. Buffalo, folks! So, if there’s an eatery in Buffalo, not known as a foodie Mecca, why can’t Portland, Maine offer more than The Green Elephant, Boda, and perhaps Empire for sit-down eateries that vegans aren’t considered an afterthought? Just asking.

California-caliber food in Buffalo, NY (Root + Bloom Cafe)Mai

According to Technomic, which tracks global food trends, plant-based food are still hot. In fact, their recent Global Trends report indicates that countries with entrenched meat-eating cultures are adopting vegetarian, vegan, and health-focused concepts—places like Brazil, Australia’s Hog’s Breath Café, a steakhouse chain, now offers an avocado and vegan schnitzel wrap. In the U.K., the Temple of Seitan offers the vegan equivalent of chicken nuggets with a deep-fried, wheat protein-based “chicken” served up with French fries. Even McDonald’s is testing plant-based, meat-free dining with a McVegan burger in Sweden and Finland. Come on, Portland, get with it!

But back to California and tacos.

According to the editor of L.A. Taco, Daniel Hernandez, which posts daily stories on LA’s food, history, and subcultures, tacos are the “unit that binds,” the “most natural unit that represents who we are as a city and a culture.”

Is America fractured? I’d say “yes.” What can heal us? Perhaps the taco. Hernandez describes as a “unifier at a time when we’re so fractured as a country and we’re in a city that is so structurally fractured.” That’s pretty evident driving around and across the city on it’s ribbons of freeway.

There’s been much written about millennials not being interested in the news, or relying on decentralized sources for their daily updates. Hernandez said the site is particularly popular with Latinos and Asians in their 20s and 30s, the children and grandchildren of immigrants who grew up in the city and are comfortable with a multiplicity of cultures. In California, the multiethnic demographic is mainstream, not maligned.

I’m down with the taco being our symbol of reunification. I bet Trump likes tacos. But, maybe not.

Here’s a taco meal I’ve modified and made plant-based:

½ an onion minced.

½ red or green pepper chopped.

Saute your onion and pepper in olive oil or other oil.

Add a plant-based crumble; there are several varieties around. In Maine, I’ve found that Smart Ground® Original works well. You can also use tempeh. If you’ve never cooked tempeh, work on your tempeh-cooking skills, first.

Add as much (or as little) hot sauce as you like. I’m a fan of Frank’s RedHot® Original Cayenne Pepper Sauce. You can also add chili powder, but Frank’s makes it easy.

 Once your mix is heated up and mixed, remove from the stove top and set aside.

Prior to cooking your mix, assemble these options (and this list is a matter of taste: remember, it’s not prescriptive:

Black olives, chopped

Jalapeno peppers, chopped

Lettuce

Tomatoes

Salsa

Sliced avocados

Kimchi, sauerkraut, or slaw (optional)

Tortillas

Plant-based Mexican cheese (I like Daiya)

You can set up your taco accouterments on the bar or table and let people fix the taco the way they prefer.

Never Gonna’ Be a Rock Star

Watching this morning’s local newscast, the weather theme was dire: apparently, according to the two longtime morning hosts, it was going to be “too darn hot.” Warnings were proffered about excessive heat—along with “important” tips thrown out on hydration and the need to keep cool. All of this could be summed up as, “you need to stay home, with everything shut up and the A/C blasting.” Sorry, but that’s not how I plan to roll today.

Back on Saturday, the southern Midcoast’s version of a local summer festival, the Bath Heritage Days, launched what is likely the most ambitious line-up of bands and musical performers I can recall in these parts. Hell, even Portland doesn’t have a music event this summer boasting five successive days and nearly 30 acts!

Five days of music in Bath.

We live in odd times. People seem more enamored with the 0s and 1s that live inside their hand-held screens. My assessment mainly comes from being there from the start of the programming on Saturday at noon, at Bath’s Waterfront Park to hear my first performer. Actually, it’s more than that, too. No matter where you go these days, people are usually staring at their phones more often than they are engaging with their fellow humans.

The first musician I got to hear and watch perform was the talented Will Bradford (who also has a band, SeeeopleS). I enjoyed hearing Will with just his guitar, fulfilling his role as troubadour. There were about 20 of us gathered in this idyllic setting along the Kennebec River.

I’d first received an inkling that this year’s Heritage Days (the celebration has been going on since before I was in high school in the late 1970s) were offering to be different when I’d read an article in our regional local news weekly, The Forecaster. The piece (likely culled from a news release the paper received) indicated that this year’s festival would be highlighting a “broader musical lineup” than the usual assortment of “amateur-ish cover acts” (my take on prior festivals and their music offerings).

The article offered up the name of the event coordinator. It sprang from out of my past. The name? None other than Johnny Lomba. I know most people are so deadened to the past and even current events happening in their communities (let alone the places just miles from where they live), but for perhaps the two or three people who read my blog and have a sense of Maine’s rock music past, they’ll recall that it was Lomba who was the driving force  booking acts  at a place called The Skinny, on Portland’s Congress Street.

If you remember the venue, you’ll also recollect that it was housed in what had been The Fine Arts Theater, a porn emporium on Congress Street, back before that section of what is now known as The Arts District began getting a makeover. To have pulled off what Lomba managed to do back then demonstrates his entrepreneurial nature and vision of things prior to the crowd arriving. Or something like that.

I learned that Lomba is now in Bath. Since I’m still finding my way around as an official resident of Brunswick, I don’t pretend to know the history of the shipbuilding “city” that lies just north and is my neighbor. That’s probably why I didn’t know Lomba was a Bath native. I also just learned (in the course of following his adventures with Bath Heritage Days) that he’s opened a new eatery along Bath’s quaint Front Street (one block up from the Kennebec) called No Coward Soul. This is in what was the former Solo Bistro space, a place that foodies venturing to Bath and who had meal at that previous eclectic restaurant might recall. All this to say that Lomba seems like he’s not lost any of his prior verve and flair for making things happen.

One theme I’m picking-up in the bands and performers he’s curated for the festival in Bath is that many of the Portland-based artists likely date back to when Lomba was working his booking magic in Maine’s closest approximation to a city, in the late 1990s to the early-to-mid aughts. This idea presented itself to me yesterday afternoon while sitting on the shady bank and being blown away by Dan Capaldi (performing as Sea Level). I also recall Bradford in his between-song-banter on Saturday, when he’d mentioned that SeepeopleS had been around “for 18 years.” I did the math then, and again, yesterday.

Sea Level (Dan Capaldi) and Zach Jones perform at Bath’s Heritage Days.

“That’s it,” I thought, in answer to my curiosity about Lomba, the festival, and his booking ambitions. Bradford would have just been getting rolling in Portland’s close-knit music community around the time when Lomba was booking acts like Bad Brains and other nationally-known indie and punk artists at The Skinny. As I’ve been ruminating about all of this for the past few days, I ran across what I thought was a really great interview with Capaldi at a website I’d forgotten about, Factory Portland.

Sometimes I think my blogging is akin to that one individual sitting in their room with a four-track, laying down songs and accompaniment, simply for the sheer act of creation. Maybe that’s why Lomba’s ambitious music programming has resonated with me and why I’ve found myself sitting or standing in my usual spot along the Kennebec. It might even be somewhat connected to a writer who  left his acoustic boxed up in its case for years, taking it out two months ago and realizing that I still played as badly as ever. Or, it might be simply the continuation of months of ongoing grief at losing Mark and finding that seeing live music helps to mitigate a bit of the sadness (and senselessness) of having my only son ripped from me by the actions of a woman who I can’t think about or else I’ll lose my mind.

All of this nostalgia about music in my home state makes me recall that something else happened with me around the time that Lomba began booking bands at The Skinny. I was in my late 30s at the time and like happens with a lot of people, I began going out to shows less often. Bands like SeepeopleS and Sea Level sadly never made it onto my local music radar, or if they did, it was probably due to mention by Chris Busby or another writer at The Bollard (one of the musical sponsors during Bath’s Heritage Days).

Yes, I did make it out occasionally during this stretch to see old friend Jose Ayerve and Spouse, The Coming Grass (and Sara Cox), and even Phantom Buffalo. But I seemed oblivious to so many other bands and artists. The shows I attended were more-often-than-not at Space Gallery, which was the venue that took up the mantle of adventure that Lomba laid down when The Skinny closed.

One name I have to mention because like Lomba’s, it jumped off the music program for the festival was Chicky Stoltz. Stoltz is another local musician/entrepreneur/food guy who I remember well from that prior time.

Stoltz opened Chicky’s in Westbrook long before the hipsters even knew there were communities beyond Portland’s West End. They now Uber out there from Portland—their version of “slumming,” as it’s hard to get Brooklyn-ites moving to Portland to leave the three-block radius around their high-end Portland apartments. But I’ll leave gentrification and how the city’s changed since the days of The Skinny and Chicky’s, and let the topic lie for now.

Before plant-based veganism, Chicky’s was the only place I’d ever found north of the Mason-Dixon that knew how to do chicken-fried steak in the manner intended. Of course, Stoltz was a musician as well as a cook, so he booked some damn fine music into what was the closest thing to a juke joint that Portland had then and has existed, since. Does anyone remember seeing Sleepy LaBeef at Chickys?

Sadly, I missed Stoltz’s solo performance at the library bandstand on Saturday afternoon. I’d headed home earlier than I intended due to my balky back. But on Sunday, after hitting the beach at Reid State Park, visiting Five Islands for the blessing of the fleet at Five Islands Lobster Co., Miss Mary and I stopped-off in Bath and I got to hear Stoltz lead his three piece through the second half of their Sunday set on Bath’s waterfront main stage. Somehow, it felt like I’d made my way around the outer rim of some sort of circle, from a place in space and time where I’d have dinner at his Westbook restaurant and road house, and stay for blues, other roots music, or local indie rock, afterwards.

Today will be Day #4 for me heading out and seeing (and hearing) musicians brought into Bath courtesy of someone who thinks the town deserves something more than musical mediocrity and the usual fare. Not sure if the crowds will be substantially larger than they’ve been. Maybe tonight a few more people will find their way, down by the river, to catch the remaining members of Boston’s Morphine, headlining tonight. I’m excited to catch Dave Gutter’s Armies prior, and probably someone mid-afternoon.

To hell with dire pronouncements of the pending heat and humidity. I’ll bring my water bottle to stay hydrated. I actually got a foreshadow of this in North Carolina last week. Not only did I catch Steve Malkmus and the Jicks, but I also got to experience walking around in 100-degree heat and it didn’t do me in. This Northerner can handle it being hot. It sure beats freezing my ass off in mid-January, and I am one that prefers feeling my music in the open air to programming on Spotify.

Back From the Road

I’m home from the road. I especially missed my better half during my time out on America’s highways. There were those times when I just wanted to share whatever I was seeing or experiencing along the way with Mary. Social media is great. Texts and phone calls allow you to remain in-touch. But looking into the eyes of that special someone is something you can only do face-to-face.

Back issues have been a semi-regular affliction in my life. No matter how diligent I might be about exercise and taking care of myself, I can bend down and my back will suddenly “go out.” It doesn’t happen all the time, but enough so that it’s become an annoyance.

My method for dealing with ongoing back situations has been to keep a skilled Doctor of Osteopathy (D.O.) on speed dial. I first discovered the benefits of osteopathic manipulation under the care of Dr. David Johnson. Back then (1987), his practice was in Yarmouth. He was always overbooked, and I learned to bring a something to read and get used to waiting 45 minutes (if not longer) beyond my appointment time. The relief he provided was always worth the wait. He left for a sabbatical and I needed to find another D.O. Fortunately, I learned about Dr. Louis Hanson in Cumberland. I was with him for 25 years, even after he closed his practice due the demands of the 21st century medical model, and joined a practice group. I was devastated when he died in a plane crash, pursuing his passion of flying single-engine aircraft. Finding a new D.O. became challenging.

A mere two days prior to leaving on my road trip, I managed to tweak my back. Murphy’s Law, right? For the week I was driving, getting out of the car after a long stretch of driving yielded excruciating pain when I unfolded my body and first stood up. My first few steps across the rest area parking lot were taken stiffly and painfully, and then, the discomfort would dissipate somewhat. Then, after moving around a bit, I was back in the car only to repeat this chain of events again, over and over throughout my 2,000+ mile journey.

Numerous times at various stops along the way, the thought crossed my mind: “why am I doing this?” Was there something necessary about me driving to points on a map hundreds of miles from home?

Life affords all of us choices—options so to speak. We get to decide just how much (or how little) we want to engage with our world, other people, and places that aren’t part of our familiar orbit.

Since Mark was killed, I’ve pondered about why the road kept beckoning him back. Of course, there were his two walks. But before walking, he’d hitchhiked across America with Owen, his high school friend. This was done the summer after the two of them graduated from college. Apparently they’d made a pact of sorts in high school to do this at an appointed time.

Then, Mark drove across the country with his girlfriend, Gabi. They ended up in Los Angeles where the two of them lived until Mark returned to the East Coast after being accepted into Brown’s MFA program in Literary Arts in 2009.

If you’ve been following Mark’s story for any length of time, or read one of the many articles about his life, like this one, the best of many, you know that he’d trekked across the U.S. in 2010, doing it in 81 days. That walk was epic in a different manner than his final walk.

That vision quest got his parents off the couch in Durham, and into Miss Mary’s RAV 4, with us driving to Texas for a Baumer family reunion in Stillwater, Texas in July of 2010. We ended up being out on the road for two weeks that time.  Mark gave us a gift, teaching us that it’s okay to embrace the unknown and the slightly different.

In 2015, Mark hatched a plan to hitchhike to Los Angeles that fall for AWP. He didn’t have much success scoring rides, so he had to abandon the randomness of standing on the side of the road and flagging down a driver or he’d never made it to the conference in time.

We all know now that he was called out again in 2016 for what would be his final journey. The unknown beckons to all of us. Some hear the call—most however, don’t, or refuse to heed it.

I am no longer a believer in the supernatural or the metaphysical. My four years in fundamentalism and the lack of anything remotely resembling Jesus among believers burned away the fantasy that religion made a difference in the world.

Yet, while I was out on this last road trip, there were times when I felt Mark’s presence in a powerful way that I haven’t since he was killed. My time on the road separated me from the familiar. Is that what opened me up to new possibilities? I’m not sure. It makes me wonder if the routines of daily life ultimately deaden us (and close us off) to something beyond the realm of the “normal.”

*****

Waking up in a hotel in Shippensburg, PA the day after Father’s Day, my plan to head south seemed foolish. No longer did driving to the Raleigh-Durham area of North Carolina to see an indie band I’ve longed to see live seem reasonable. Of course, nothing’s felt reasonable in our lives since January 21, 2017.

Up to that point, my trip had a mission: find some geography where Mark walked in Pennsylvania and retrace a few of his solitary footsteps. I’d done that on Sunday afternoon, even burning my feet walking barefoot on PA-641, heated up by temperatures in the 90s. I could hear Mark saying to me, “Poor Papa. You better leave the barefoot walking to the professionals.” His manner was always one where he’d have said it in a way that wasn’t cruel or unkind—he liked poking fun at his overly-serious dad. I miss that trait like so many of his other endearing qualities that I’ll never experience again.

Mark was fearless. Or, better, he faced his fears head-on. Critics might offer that if Mark hadn’t felt the need to face his doubts or heed the call of the road, he’d still be with us. He might. No one knows these things. He wouldn’t have been Mark Baumer, vegan superhero, though. He would have been a shell of who he became as a man, a model of what a male could and should be.

Mark walked up this mountain (on the other side.).

Sitting in the parking lot in Shippensburg, my car packed and ready for the road, I had the urge to bail on North Carolina and head home. What did I need to find south of the Mason-Dixon Line? I’d accomplished what I set out to do. My back was hurting all the time. Why put it through any more than was necessary?

I asked Mark what I should do. Don’t worry, I didn’t hear an audible voice or anything. But I did sense that he’d have wanted me to continue.

“Dad, you’ve always wanted to see Pavement. Now you get to see Malkmus with the band he’s been with longer than Pavement. Plus, you’ve never spent any time in North Carolina.” I pointed my Honda Accord south.

Seven hours later, I’d arrived at the Airbnb where I was staying. My GPS directed me with precision. After unpacking the car late Monday afternoon, I called Mary. “I miss you,” I told her. “Do you think I’m stupid for coming all the way down here?” She could have said “yes,” but she told me, “you need to have this adventure.

Earlier that afternoon I’d stopped at a Food Lion to pick up groceries for dinner that night. I planned to cook something simple and make a big salad. When I was getting back to my car, I received a call. It was Gabi calling me from LA. I’d missed her call on Father’s Day. I returned her call, but we’d missed one another again, so I left her a voicemail.

She asked me about my trip and how it was going. She told me she’d laughed when I told her about what Mark’s reaction would have been to “poor Papa’s” burnt feet. We talked a bit and agreed to continue the conversation later in the week.

*****

Mark believed most people were good. I was reminded of his positive outlook on my trip. In Buffalo, two older woman gave me a hug in a restaurant after learning about Mark and my road trip.

A couple I met at Cat’s Cradle hung out with me between sets and told me a little about their own experiences moving to Virginia (from San Diego) for grad school (William & Mary). Then, jobs brought both of them to the Tar Heel state and Greensboro, about an hour west of the club.

The staff at Cat’s Cradle were chill. In fact, everyone I came across in my day-and-a-half in the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill seemed really mellow.

It was hot while I was there. Tuesday’s temps approached triple digits. Yet, I made the most of it, touring UNC in Chapel Hill and then, going over to Duke in the afternoon.

I met a young lady at UNC who worked in the school’s Visitor’s Center. Her name was Sarah and she was a New England transplant. Without her guidance, I would have come up short during my brief visit to the campus. Instead, she took the time to highlight places on the map: like Wilson Library, the Campus Y, and the Old Well. This dates back to the school’s founding in 1793.

Oh, and Thomas Wolfe, who wrote Look Homeward, Angel, a book that influenced one of my essays in my last book, began studying at UNC when he was 15!

I was blown away when I ended up at Duke in the afternoon. New England schools like Harvard have nothing on this venerable Southern institution of higher learning.

My goal was to visit the chapel and see a fraction of the 55 acres of wooded and landscaped areas making up the Sarah P. Duke Gardens, while making my way to the west side of the campus from the parking lot adjacent to the school’s Visitor’s Center.

Thank god for shade, a refillable water bottle, and water stations.

One reason I was fixated on visiting the chapel was that I’d read a great deal of Stanley Hauerwas during my last attempt to remain tethered to anything resembling Christianity. Hauerwas, a longtime professor at the Durham school, has always defied neat categorization within a theological framework. One of our last public intellectuals, many consider him an “evangelical leftist” for his very public disdain of American militarism and consumerism. He’s also been quite critical of mainstream liberal Christianity and democracy. Knowing he’d preached from the chapel’s pulpit and walked the grounds at Duke enhanced my all-too-brief visit.

*****

Life is what you make it, it really is. No matter what’s happened to you in your life, you have choices. Since Mark was ripped from Mary and me, we’ve tried to carry on. At times, I think we’ve accomplished it as well as any two people can.

No matter your station in life, I think doubt is a regular companion for many. Yes, if you have the world-class arrogance of Donald Trump, perhaps doubt never crosses your mind. But most of us, who have some measure of humility, and even lacking in self-confidence, will question ourselves.

As I went back through and watched Mark’s videos, it was quite easy for me to see that he had his own doubts during that final walk. Merely being on the road for a week, by myself, helped me to get a sense that it’s tough convincing yourself that you are doing the right thing when you go “off-script.” Yet, day-after-day, he summoned strength, found humor, and connected to the beauty he noticed all around him.

There were times on the trip when I simply marveled at the beauty surrounding me: at Niagara Falls, driving through the Allegheny Mountains, and passing through the Blue Ridge area of Virginia.

Back in Maine, reflecting on all that happened over 2,100 miles and 13 states, I’m working with my current D.O., Dr. Jessica Bell, to get my sacroiliac dysfunction addressed and my body back to where it was before. Bell is gifted in a way that my previous D.O.’s were not. She operates on a different plane. I’d say she is attuned in ways to how the body, emotions, and our spirits are interconnected in ways that few Western physicians ever consider upon graduating from medical school. For that I’m grateful.

Travel allows humans freedom to experience things that might not be possible during the work-a-day, nine-to-five routine that often sucks the life from us. But in a capitalist system, work and routine is the Faustian bargain struck that allows us to maintain some semblance of what some call “success,” but is merely a life filled with things.

I don’t know what the alternative is. I wish I did. I’m convinced that people like Mark were working to find a way outside the bubble. If he’d had more time, I’m positive he’d have created his own pathway and model I would have followed him into. Something much more viable than the lives most of us have crafted at the moment—lives that are often an illusion and not actually real.

That’s just some of the takeaway from one week removed from routines and the familiar.

One of my Spotify playlists from the trip.

Patience For the Ride

Travel days are often “lost days.” By that I mean that the effort and energy required to get from point to point often delivers a net loss in terms of value.

I actually spent two days traveling back to Maine after leaving my Airbnb location in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina.

Tuesday was a long day of driving, traffic snarls from DC north, and just plain gridlock in NYC as I hit the Big Apple at rush hour. Then, creeping northward into Connecticut, battling the worst drivers and driving I’d witnessed on the entire trip.

My goal on Wednesday was to get north of the city and I managed to do it, balky back and all. My back’s been fucked-up the entire trip. Any significant time in the seat was followed by excruciating pain upon exiting the driver’s position.

I wanted to stop-over in Providence and see Mark’s tree in front of the library on the Brown campus. I hadn’t seen the tree since its planting last fall.

The benefit of my marathon driving day on Wednesday is that I was in Providence at 8:00 a.m. and I had some time in that space remembering my son before things got busy. It was very emotional.

Mark’s tree at Brown.

The plague in front of John D. Rockefeller Library

I also got to spend the morning in the city, seeing some old places imbued with special memories. I saw a couple of people who’ve become special friends after Mark was killed.

Then, I pointed my Honda Accord for Brunswick, Maine, with the last 190 miles to be covered serving as familiar terrain. It felt good to pass the blue “Welcome to Maine” and by 3:30, I was home.

I spent a week on the road. I made it through another Father’s Day without Mark.

A few trip highlights:

Totals miles driven: 2,314

Favorite restaurant: Root & Bloom Café-Buffalo, NY

Favorite breakfast: Little Lad’s granola (packed for the trip)

Best convenience store: Rutter’s #64-Calisle, PA

Most chill stop: Raleigh-Durham, NC

Surprise location: Rochester, NY

Best show: Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks-Cat’s Cradle, Carrboro, NC

Favorite food in the car: Bing cherries

Hawks seen while driving: 40

Bunnies seen while at hotels: 2

Worst drivers: State of Connecticut

Toughest state to speed in: North Carolina

Most breathtaking vista: 1. Scenic turnout-near the Blue Ridge Parkway north entrance, Afton, VA Honorable mention: Allegheny Mountain pass in rural PA.

Favorite driving song: “Never Lose That Feeling” Swervedriver (from Mezcal Head)

Favorite CDs on trip:

Spouse There Goes The Road (Live 2003-2010)

Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks Sparkle Hard

The War on Drugs A Deeper Understanding

Duke University Chapel, Durham, North Carolina

The Blue Ridge Mountains

Map from the road.

Dad Goes For a Drive

I spent most of Sunday driving across the Allegheny Mountains, passing through rural villages and hollers. At times the sheer natural magnitude left me breathless. Mountains symbolize something bigger than ourselves. When I’m in their shadow, I’m left humbled. It helps me to realize how insignificant I am.

Along backcountry highways, I knew that here, many supported Donald Trump. It was also impossible not to notice numerous gun shops and signs trumpeting patriotism. Being on the road is a reminder that we are living in a collection of states where people hold contrary views, with little to bridge the divide. I’m not sure I see that story ending well.

This sign should read, “Trump Country.”

Passing through the land of guns, God, and glory.

Late in the afternoon, I found PA-684. This is the road where Mark began walking after crossing the river from Harrisburg. He stopped at The Healthy Grocer.

I was able to find a parking lot to leave my car and walk a ½ mile retracing Mark’s footsteps he left behind. It was a hot Father’s Day and the sun had heated up the pavement. My plan to walk barefoot briefly resulted in the bottoms of my feet being burnt. I could hear Mark’s voice chiding me. “Poor papa—he needs to leave the barefoot walking to professionals.” He’d have laughed at me, not in a malicious way, but in the good-natured way he reminded me not to take myself so seriously.

 

Mark was happy when he found this place (Day 033).

Usually on Father’s Day, Mark would call me later in the afternoon. No call would be coming, just like the year before. This will be Father’s Day here on out for me, without him.

Not only did I try to connect with Mark and his memory by walking (briefly) barefoot, but I decided to only eat foods similar to what he’d have been eating while on his walk.

I ended the day in Shippensburg. I’d found some Epsom salt to soak my feet. Sitting in my hotel room along the town’s Main Street, I made one concession on the food/drink end. Mark didn’t drink. But somehow, savoring my ice-cold Genesee, eating simple foods that Mark would have enjoyed sharing with me, felt right at the end of a long, emotionally-wrenching day. In many aspects, my experience approximated many of his nights, especially early in his trip. The exception is that I hadn’t spent 12 hours walking. Instead, I was out road-tripping in my own personal death machine.

What I ate on Sunday:

Black beans, baby carrots, bananas (2), an apple, salsa, roasted vegetables (purchased at The Healthy Grocer).

Always a Father

Death affects people in  various ways. If you are a parent, where does the role you’ve occupied for more than three decades go? Are you still a father (or a mother)?

Last year on Father’s Day, we drove down to Providence and retraced the beginning of Mark’s walk when he left his house on Pleasant Street, setting out on what would be his final walk. A friend of his, James, helped us figure out the steps Mark took as he left his beloved city. A small group of friends and co-workers walked out to a point on the city’s bike walking trail and turned back. We walked nearly 11 miles.

Mark, in addition to being an award-winning poet, activist, and a one-in-a-million son, also collected geography, while passing through places in Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania. He reached Zanesville in Ohio. He got on a bus. He’d concocted a plan designed to subvert the coming of winter and what that meant to his bare feet. It was the only way he could come up with for continuing to walk. It seemed like a brilliant idea. Hell, it was a brilliant idea!. How could he know that the Greyhound was taking him south was actually transporting him closer to something dark and tragic waiting for him in Florida’s Panhandle?

On the day devoted to being a father, others will be spending time with their dad. They’ll visit, take him out to dinner, maybe a ball game, or they’ll call him—basically, they’ll dote on him just a bit. They should. I’ll never have that again.

Last year’s walk was a way to mitigate the sadness and sense of loss that had occurred for me and simply make it through the first Father’s Day spent without Mark. No phone calls, no more visits—nothing.

Today isn’t Father’s Day. But I’m preparing for it.

Heading towards a destination.

I’m traveling. Some of my trip will be spent seeing two bands. I’ll go to a place where our unit of three share special memories near a big waterfall. I’m spending two nights in a city nearby like many in America—simply trying to figure out how to be a city in the 21st century. I’m doing the Airbnb thing, instead of a hotel. I’m looking forward to getting out on foot and exploring and then, I’ll get to see Sloan for the second time in a month.

On Sunday, I’ll be walking across the hallowed ground of Gettysburg National Military Park. I’ve never been here. I’ve always had an interest in the history of the Civil War. Strangely, it seems appropriate to be spending time among the ghosts of sons lost to fathers a long, long time ago.

Without Mark, am I still a father?

Crossword Puzzles

I’ve probably done five crossword puzzles in my life. Puzzles never really interested me. Then, inexplicably, I decided to tackle Sunday’s puzzle in The New York Times Magazine. It was harder than I thought it would be. However, I kept at it for two hours and then, came back to it at night. I still didn’t finish it. Actually, I kind of sucked at it!

My first Sunday crossword was a learning experience.

There have been people in my life devoted to puzzling—like my late father-in-law. He would sit at the table after returning from one of his endless nighttime meetings and work his way through a daily puzzle as a way to unwind.

I was somewhat encouraged reading this:

A crossword puzzle is not a test of intelligence, and solving is not really about the size of your vocabulary. Becoming a good solver is about understanding what the clues are asking you to do.

Alright. So maybe there’s hope for me after all.

Who are the people who go right to the daily (and/or) weekend crosswords? Anecdotally, I’d guess the demographic was an older one. Apparently, I’m right. Michael Sharp, a professor at Binghamton University, a crossword aficionado, as well as a crossword blogger (who knew there was such a thing?) posits that who does puzzles tracks who still gets their news via print. This would be, predictably, seniors. Sharp says that “the average puzzle-solver is a college-educated white woman in her sixties.” So I guess my newfound interest in the crossword makes me a bit of an outlier.

Does solving crossword puzzles have value? It might. It’s probably better than violent video games, or maybe watching mindless television. But who am I to decide?

While I struggled with my first one, I think I’m going to give the puzzle a shot for the next few weekends and see if I show any improvement.