Jim Baumer's Blog, page 24

Poets

I wish I was better-versed in how to read and understand poetry. Part of that longing emanates from a place of loss and grief—Mark was a poet—as well as being an activist, a performance artist, and one special human being always in search of his better self. His writing and poetry was part of his process.

The Tragically Hip had a song called “Poets.” When I was thinking about this post while making like a fish in the pool this morning, the song was in my head (and has been much of the day). I’m sad to say that we lost another poet and always-evolving human when Gord Downie “shuffled off this mortal coil” a few weeks back.

I was stricken with The Hip the first time I heard the opening chords to “New Orleans is Sinking.” Then, I went to Canada, their homeland where they were rock gods. Mark was probably five at the time. Downie’s poetic ruminations, framed by a rock and roll backbeat captivated me for more than a decade. So maybe I was more familiar with poetry than I thought. Perhaps Gord and Mark are somewhere reading together.

Last week, I was at Curtis Memorial Library in Brunswick. Now that the power has been restored in Brunswick-proper, the library has resumed it normalcy, which for me is mainly, a place where people come to find and check out books. I found Stephen Burt’s the poem is you: 60 Contemporary American Poems and How to Read Them perched on the new releases shelf. “This is the book for me,” I thought. I was right.

A book about poetry.

Burt includes 60 poems, collected from 1981 forward. Interestingly, the featured poets were all “shipping” their work across the approximate span of Mark’s lifetime (he was born in 1983, the year after my better half and I tied the knot).

The first poem, John Ashberry’s “Paradoxes and Oxymorons” was published in 1981 and the final one, by Ross Gay, “Weeping,” was released in 2015.

When Mark realized he was a poet, he also came to terms with the landscape where his writing would be living and breathing, I felt like this was when his work was destined for bigger and better things. Of course, little did I know what lay ahead.

Burt, who now is known as Steph, is an intriguing figure within the realm of poetry and literary criticism circles. There are those who don’t care for his “cheerleading” for poets. Of course, we live in such a cynical world obsessed with tearing others down that being accused of “indiscriminate positivity,” “blurbing good cheer,” and “comprehensive enthusiasm” seems destined to get you disliked and even hated. Whatever.

Mark was of good cheer, too. Because of that and some of his own unorthodox ways, others have directed their hate and vitriol his way via YouTube, and other social media platforms, too. Fuck the haters!

I read another one of Burt’s selections and poets this morning: a woman named Lucia Perillo. Her poem, “Viagra,” was a “funny poem” that takes its title from a well-known pharmaceutical that inflates flaccid penises. You’ve probably seen one of the commercials.

Perillo was a person with a disability. She was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis when she was in her 30s. She wasn’t shy about taking on the issues affecting people like her in America. Sadly, I learned this morning while doing research to write this that she died just after Mark began his walk last October. She was only three years older than I am when she died. I keep coming across these poets lately and I wish I could ask him about them, if they were people he was familiar with and had read. But of course, I can’t.

As I make my way through Burt’s fantastic book (see, his cheerleading is rubbing off on me), I’m learning that poets like Perillo and many others did other things besides just writing poetry. She had been a researcher for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service prior to earning her MA in English from Syracuse University. A.R. Ammons studied chemistry and biology at Wake Forest. He then worked for a biological glass company for twelve years while honing his chops before his poems shaped by his math and science skills began to get noticed by the poetry community.

Mark worked in a library as a content management specialist. He was an activist, and he also took time to put his feet on the ground to traverse this wide and surprisingly diverse nation of ours. He was writing poems as he walked. He was teaching those of us paying attention that the more you get out and about, the more you begin to realize that while we’re the same in many ways, we’re also different, too.

Rugged individualism plays well in some corners (mainly conservative talk radio), but in much of the real world, we all need (and rely) on others. If we don’t, we become bitter, twisted, and just plain lonely, I think. Or your world becomes darkened by fear and hatred of “the other.”

I’m still finding my way forward with poetry, but Burt’s helped me along and I’ll continue to grow my understanding of the genre. I also now recognize that the poems and poets I was made to read in high school and hated are no longer required in adulthood. Plus, the palette of flavors is much broader than I ever imagined.

The Day After The Election

Last fall on the day following the election of Donald Trump as president, Mark woke up in a hotel that didn’t have power in some of the rooms. The night before, he went to his room with his room key and flicked on the light switch. Nothing.

The hotel, an odd little place on the side of Old U.S. 22 in Shartlesville, PA, placed their room key envelopes fastened together with an elastic and sitting in an old coffee can. Mark merely had to go back to the front desk and pick another room key.

Sitting along what had once been a major east/west corridor, the interstate usurped this road’s importance. Like many similar roadways that once were important overland routes for travelers dating from the time of covered wagons up through the earliest days of Happy Motoring in America, most have fallen into disuse like much in a nation built around planned obsolescence. Mom and Pop lodging matching the place where Mark spent the night last fall struggle to remain solvent. Perhaps the owners had simply taken a page from the austerity playbook, implementing measures like asking guests to forgo electricity. Mark also noted that there were signs indicating to boil the water prior to drinking.

On his blog, following the election of the worst candidate we’ve ever called president (thus far), he made a connection between the new POTUS and what MAGA might actually mean when he wrote, “I hope the motel where I stayed isn’t an omen for the future of America. Some of the rooms didn’t have power and you couldn’t drink the water.”

His previous day’s video ended with usually upbeat Mark showing wear and tear, as well as feeling discouraged, and moved by the emotional communication he was receiving from friends and other activist colleagues. Some of it might have been simply their projection of fear, anger, and legitimate concern about what Trump’s America might mean for women, blacks, immigrants, gender-nonconforming people, and everyone else who isn’t a white male. Mark was keenly aware of this and of his own privilege as a white male.

But in imitable Mark fashion, he rallies the morning after. While he began the day a bit down, it didn’t take him long to experience an upshift in his attitude. He begins ticking off ways we can all impact the planet positively. This allows him to locate the energy source we all knew and loved—he was back as Mark being Mark!

We see Mark talking about how giving up meat is the single most effective way that we can lessen our impact on the planet: this is one of the reasons why I stopped eating meat and dairy the week prior to Mark beginning his walk. It was one of the best things I’ve ever done. I’m also thankful that Mark knew I’d become plant-based. We got to share some great conversations over the 100 days of his walk about this new way of living.

He gets really “geeked” when a guy that doesn’t believe in climate change hands him $1 to fight climate change.

Mark mentions talking with “my mom.” I love the look on his face when he  calls her, “my mom.” There is this obvious affection and pride in the way he says it. You see it on his face. He loved his mom so much. I’m guessing because she didn’t “wreck” him, he was able to be open and treat females with the respect that they deserve. A white male who wasn’t an abuser of women—that’s a big deal! The current president is a serial abuser. And yet, Americans wonder why we continue to have mass shootings by angry white men? C’mon—use the brain you were born with for something other than a storehouse for sports, porn objectifying women, or hatred of others who are different than you.

How many of you felt something each time you watched one of Mark’s videos or read his blog posts? I know I did. His life mattered. It’s why I keep on keeping on, despite being overwhelmed by the sadness and loss associated with him being gone.

In the days and weeks following his death, I heard from so many people sharing how Mark had touched their lives. Some of those very same people now seem to have disappeared. I guess they’ve gone back to wallowing in the muck that he was trying to pry them free from with his daily practice of putting feet down on the pavement, while offering up his own example as something worthy of striving towards. These weren’t empty words or platitudes, people.

Watching his life lived out via videos one year from when they were made offers a different space to see new things and think differently about some of what he was saying and doing. He was a poet and an artist. His walk was a performance and meditation worthy of attending each and every day.

Mark ends his day-after-the-election video offering wisdom far greater than most 33-year-olds would be capable of sharing with viewers. It’s still out there to emulate. His message continues to speak to the time we’re living in. A time when the deeply disturbing “eye for an eye” hatred, heavily armed, continues wreaking havoc on communities and gatherings.

If there’s one way you could honor Mark and make his death have some meaning, it’s to internalize his words and begin applying them in your own daily interactions.

“We are all machines built to create love, compassion, and kindness in the world. If you don’t feel like you have any of those things inside of you, maybe you need a tune-up.  I know a good place to get a tune-up. It’s called hanging out with good people, and having fun, and being kind and compassionate towards them until you love them. If you feel like you can’t do that, well, maybe hang out with a dog. And be kind and compassionate to that dog until you love that dog. And then, once you love a dog, then all you ‘gotta do is pretend all the humans around you are dogs. And then you treat all them with compassion and kindness until you love all them. Once you get to that point, you’re a human!! Built to create kindness and compassion in the world.”

Save Yourself (But maybe not)

Today is Day 04 following the Great Windstorm of 2017. Have they officially dubbed it a hurricane? To be honest, I have not been consuming much news this week, so if there’s a name for the storm that landed Sunday night, wreaking havoc across Northern New England, please clue me in.

We’re fortunate. I say “fortunate” because we didn’t have any trees land on our house or garage. We had a partial window shatter (the outer pane in a two-paned weather-resistant window facing the water), but no water invaded our domestic confines. Poor Lucy, our cat, slept about as well as I did Sunday night and early Monday morning, which means hardly at all. She’s been in recovery mode all week, sleeping during the day, rather than watching birds and squirrels from her usual perch in a window. Oh to be a cat like Lucy!

We have several trees lying on the ground. We had some water coming in around a vent above the garage and it’s leaking through the ceiling. This isn’t related to this storm, as we’ve had issues with this during prior heavy rains. Given that the summer and early fall have been bone dry, this hasn’t presented itself until re-surfacing a week ago. The property manager is dispensing his handyman to the house on Friday. Based on past practice, he’ll figure out what needs to be done while making an assessment about our window situation. I think the tree crew will be out next week, but that’s conjecture at this point.

We got electricity back Tuesday night. We were fortunate. Many CMP customers are still in the dark. Others are freaking out about their website. Perhaps technology can’t save us? It sure as hell can’t restore downed power lines.

We contacted friends we know in our area offering a place to charge devices, take a shower, and have a hot meal. People did the same for us earlier. People helping people.

That latter point is one I want to spend the rest of my post talking about and circling around.

We’ve all heard the reports from other places affected by storms that were much more severe than what we’ve just come through. Puerto Rico, islands in the Caribbean, Florida, Houston—the list could be extended far beyond. Highly-publicized weather events like Hurricane Sandy that hammered the shoreline of New Jersey in 2015, and of course, Katrina (we don’t even call it Hurricane Katrina any more) in New Orleans are etched in our memories.

I could certainly touch down with the fury of a microburst about the climate issues affecting and causing weather events to increase in intensity, as well as frequency. Our son, Mark, was walking with bare feet trying to draw attention and awareness to the issue. He was far more effective than I could be with mere words. Not only was he gifted using words as a poet, but he was a performance artist, too. That gets missed by some, especially those leaving hateful comments on YouTube, demonstrating their obvious sociopathic signatures.

A drumbeat I’ve circled back around to frequently in blog posts over the past few years has been the importance of public infrastructure. That could be our bridges, highways, electrical grid, dams—a few components of an essential public framework that serves as America’s backbone. I even was hopeful of finding a publishing home for a series on the subject. Without “beating a dead horse,” the past two years have been incredibly disappointing for me as a freelancer. Actually, last fall during the time we were readying our house in Durham to be sold, I seriously considered packing-up my writer’s toolkit and accepting any old job that offered a decent salary and some measure of job-security. I shared this with Mark.

You probably already know what he said to me if you’ve read any of my stuff from the previous 10 months since he was killed. We had a special father-son relationship and bond. Mark often said, “keep doing what you’re doing, dad.” He offered this, not in some rote, robotic response, trying to “fix” me, but from a place of honesty and understanding. In case you’ve never noticed it from watching his 100 days of videos, but there were times when he didn’t know if he could accomplish what he set out to do. But he kept on keeping on, because he was Mark Baumer, vegan superhero!

Infrastructure matters. Maintaining that system requires public investments. But investments in public resources have become a point of contention for what might be half of all Americans. Their fixation on lower taxes framed by a childlike petulance could be represented with a phrase like, “government be damned!”

Congressional Republicans, a sorry lot of humanity indeed, seem hellbent of making sure that our joke of a president gets one thing accomplished—tax cuts. That’s fine. Cut taxes to the bone, I don’t care—just be prepared for the day when the government that you enjoy and even rely upon is no longer there.

I hate to paint so broadly, but I get a sense that a certain white male over the age of 65 thinks that government is always the problem. Of course, he is likely receiving benefits under Original Medicare, and now, has additional options like Medicare Advantage and Medigap plans if he can afford them. If he can, it’s probably because he had a job working for some large firm, like Bath Iron Works, and has a nice pension and retirement nest egg to take him into his twilight years. And while he rails against government, he conveniently overlooks a key fact—his lifestyle is tied to government contracts being funneled up the Kennebec River for his enrichment. Funny how that works.

Monday morning, Mary and I walked to the end of our street that abuts Route 24/Harpswell Road. She wanted to see if she could get out and head into Portland to work. We didn’t have power, everything was in the able hands of master freelance writer and jack-of-all trades, Mr. B, so why not? One problem. There was a tree down that prevented a vehicle exiting the neighborhood.

Then, like a white knight riding in to save the day in an old-time Hollywood movie, a bucket loader appeared from the north, pushed the tree aside. We gave the operator a thumbs-up as he whizzed by, up the hill surveying our cul-de-sac to the end and like he arrived, was gone in a flash. I’m guessing he was from the Town of Brunswick.

Downed tree pushed aside by bucket-rider.

Our bucket-riding cowboy was about triage and efficiency, there were still tree limbs, large branches, and a host of other debris left behind. Each time you drove in or out, you had to go around it, or get something wedged up under your car, like happened to me on Monday.

I intended to take care of this myself if someone else didn’t. And then, I got busy.

Monday became Tuesday. I went into town to charge my phone and do some work at Wild Oats Bakery at the Tontine Mall. They had electricity and coffee. I had calls to make at the end of the day, and then I was off to tutor at the private school in Bath where I’ve been tutoring since the start of their school year.

On Wednesday, I fully expected my neighbor to have taken her tractor and cleared the remaining debris. Others on the street have been driving over it, and it was started to annoy me. When I got home at 10:00 last night, it was still there. I vowed to take care of it myself when I hauled the trash to the end of our driveway on Thursday.

Thursday is trash day at the cove. I put out my one receptible of trash and my accompanying recycling bin and made my way back down the driveway to retrieve my metal rake. Mr. B was going to take on neighborhood clean-up duties.

I wish you could have seen me with my metal-pronged leaf rake, igniting sparks with each flourish across the pavement, sending branches, pine cones, and other debris flying for cover on the shoulders of the street. I was even composed a song ala Mark, and really embellishing my follow-through. I’m sure drivers passing on Route 24 thought I was looney tunes. I’m surprised someone didn’t call the cops on me, just like passers-by did nearly every day on Mark during his final walk, especially while passing through Trump Country. When you see something different in America, we’re trained to call the PoPo, at least if you hold to the myth of “law and order.”

Rake-work on the cove.

“Whoa, pardner!!” You’re talking a man with a rake, clearing debris, not waiting for government to take care of it—that’s crazy different. But, it might become a necessity and the norm if the tax-gutters get their way.

It might be time to work on those raking moves. Maybe even launch a professional raking league. How about the National Professional Raking League (NPRL)?

Buddah guarding “the rake.”

The Wind Howled and the Power Stopped

The Great Ice Storm of ’98 is something that’s nice to have in your back pocket, in a “I was without power for 08 days and learned to shit in the woods like a bear” sort of way. It’s nostalgic, something you can dust off and regale hipsters who maybe just moved to Maine, or just bought a house in the country after living on the West End for five years. However, I’m not really keen about re-living it, at least not this year.

I got about three hours sleep Sunday night. I was sure a tree was going to snap off and come through the roof of our bedroom. We live about 100 feet from a cove and the winds were gusting well above 60 miles per hour about 2:00 a.m.

Our gray Chartreaux, Lucy, was troubled all night. She came up to snuggle with us prior to the winds making a sound like a freight train outside our deck door. But, like me, she knew this wasn’t a normal night for sleep. Mary seemed to be okay, as she’s a much sounder sleeper than I am.

I heard a crash around 4:45. This was after I’d gotten up, watched some bad TV, charged my phone and crawled back under the covers at 4:30, just as the power flickered twice and went off. At this point, I wasn’t getting back up.

Dozing off fitfully until the first flickers of daylight shown into the room, I looked out and could see the carnage. Trees had snapped off and fortunately due to the wind driving from the south and southeast, pushed them away from the house. The crash was one of the panes shattering in our double-paned window that looks out from our kitchen nook onto Woodward Cove. At least pane #2 remained intact.

Once we were up, we went out and surveyed the damage more closely. I pulled the top of one of the two spruce trees in front of the house that had snapped off. The other one got uprooted and was lying on its sided across the front lawn. Our circular driveway was partially blocked, but we could get out to Leeward Cove Road and also Route 24. A large tree had come down where those two intersect, but there was room for a car to pass.

Our 30-foot tree was no match for the wind.

Mary called Portland and work and they had power. She left around 8:15. She told me she’d stop at Starbucks at Cook’s Corner and if they were open, bring me a coffee back home. She called and said the power was out there and that there was a tree “pulling down the wires” on Route 24, the main road between Brunswick and the islands on the Gurnet/Bailey/Orr’s Island side of Harpswell.

I’m pretty sure that CMP must have dumped the substations to kill all the major circuits right around the time that our power went off. This was also at the height of the storm’s wind and when the damage was occurring from trees snapping off. This prevents further damage and issues with energized wires being contacted by flying tree limbs and trunks.

The main feed coming up Harpswell Road has two poles twisted sideways. Both of the crossarms on the affected poles are badly twisted and will need to be replaced, if the pole itself doesn’t end up being reset. The linemen that do remarkable jobs in all manner of inclement weather will have their work cut out for them. I’m just hoping the damage isn’t as extensive to the power grid as it was back in 1998. If it’s not, then I’m guessing restoration will proceed much more quickly. I don’t anticipate having electricity today, however.

In terms of the other adversity we’ve faced this year, being without electricity is pretty minor. Still, when you become accustomed to creature comforts, it does “ding” you just a bit.

This morning, things are returning to normal nearby. Starbucks was open after being closed all day on Monday. On my way home from the Y where I swim and today, mainly went to have a shower, I stopped and heard two of the baristas talking about people stopping by and “circling the building” while they were closed, yesterday. The big issues for many on Monday were coffee and gasoline. There was an hour-long gas line in Topsham. Makes me think about what things might be like if we ever faced a longer-frame disaster than one lasting a few days or what might last for some up to a week. 70 percent of the island is still without electricity 6 weeks after the island being flattened by a hurricane.

I posted something earlier on Facebook about “disaster capitalism.” We might be in the early stages of a new way of life, one where decisions are made solely to enrich the few, ignoring the needs of the larger group.

Sitting in a local coffee shop/baker downtown, I’m privy to a host of conversations. The crowd is mainly older seniors. Most have lived good lives free from privation and lack of excess. Almost all of them lead me to believe that few of us are capable of lasting more than a week without electricity, let alone five weeks. I wonder about my own capabilities.

Weather events like this one are yet another reminder of how powerful nature is, and how insignificant we really are. Unless we change our ways (and I’m doubtful that we will), she could rid the planet of us in short order if she ever wanted to. And yet man still thinks he can tame nature, and disregard the Earth for his own greed and avarice.

Positively Podcasting

Are you into podcasts? I know a lot of people are.

I worked on an article this week that I was assigned by the editor at the auto trade magazine I’ve been writing for since 2015. She wanted me to gather some podcasts for their end-of-the-year “best of” issue.

Mark was a big fan of podcasts. When he’d email me from the road last fall and winter, he regularly shared something he learned from one of the rotating podcasts he was listening to. Sometimes he’d tell me about a topic covered by Rich Roll, one of his favorites. Do you remember on Day 009 how excited he was when Roll tweeted about him? He also liked Malcolm Gladwell’s  Revisionist History. Because of his enthusiasm for these podcasts, I started listening.

Over the past year, I’ve gotten out of the habit of listening to Roll and Gladwell. The past few days, I immersed myself in the world filled with innumerable people broadcasting and streaming outstanding and maybe more important to me—uplifting content. I don’t want to let the “cat out of the bag” in terms of my future article, but I will share a few things I learned by simply taking time to fill-up with something more positive than the latest angry tweets from our president.

I’ve been a fan of Gladwell’s for a long time. He’s such an outstanding writer. I fell in love with his writing after reading several of his long-form pieces he wrote for The New Yorker. He had a talent for taking a topic that you thought you knew something about and turning it on its head. I then read The Tipping Point, How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference. I still can’t believe that book is more than 15-years-old.

Gladwell launched Revisionist History in 2016 and produced 10 episodes. He just concluded the current season and there are another 10 episodes available. Each one takes the listener on a journey through the overlooked and misunderstood—through the lens of a person, an idea, or even a song. His question each time is always, “did we get it right the first time?”

While the story angle for my article was getting content into the hands of busy business owners—with the assumption being that they don’t have time to read—I was able to file a sidebar with a few book recommendations, too.

I’m highly recommending Tom Rath’s book.

One of them I picked up and wrote a snippet on was Tom Rath’s Are You Fully Charged? The Three Keys to Energizing Your Work and Life.

I read Rath’s book late in the afternoon on Tuesday, the day I brought it home from the bookstore. It took me about 90 minutes to read, not because it was lacking, but because it was so damn good and it really spoke to me. I love it when that happens with a book!

It’s easy to see why Rath churns out best-sellers with the ease of breathing—or so it seems. Are You Fully Charged? is his sixth book to make various best-seller lists.

Oh, and I thought a book from John Maxwell would be worthwhile for anyone who really is serious about success, too. I chose How Successful People Think: Change Your Thinking, Change Your Life.

There’s a reason why Maxwell—in a similar manner as Rath—has books that are read by large numbers of people. In Maxwell’s case, it’s because he has the ability to uncover timeless truths, while distilling them down into edible portions that don’t require weeks to plow through. I read through How Successful People Think in two nights.

Change your thinking, change your life.

So here’s what happened over the course of three or four days. Because I was interacting with content designed to push me towards success and seeing the world a certain way, I began feeling better. Not happy. Not parroting some Pollyanna-ish claptrap, but feeling better.

Rath draws upon extensive research to make his points. Like, be 80 percent positive. Rath says that being “blindly positive has more in common with perpetual negativity” than he would have imagined. Both of these tend to be off-putting and cause others to be frustrated, annoyed, or they will simply tune us out. So, when he suggested having 80 percent of your conversations “focused on what’s going right,” I thought I’d try it. In fact, it’s something Mary and I have been doing all week. Here’s the breakdown on how to make it work. For every negative thing you mention or talk about, you have to counter it with four things that are positive and/or uplifting. It’s not that hard if you commit to doing it.

Mark was a positive person. He wasn’t Pollyanna-ish, but he tended to focus on ways to impact people and his world in a positive manner involving direct action. I was really taken by the example he was setting when he took off from Providence last fall on his final walk. Watch any of his videos from that walk and tell me you don’t feel better (even if they make you sad, too) in some way. Oh, there are those who didn’t “get” Mark and his performance art, but I really don’t care about those people. I want to be around others who see the world in a more positive way.

I’m also guessing that there are those who know me and recognize that I haven’t always been a “glass half full,” guy. I admit that. However, we can always change, and according to Rath, Maxwell, Gladwell, Tim Ferris (another podcast I listened to) and others, human beings have that power. Mark would surely concur, as that’s how he had living, focused on the good and the positive over the last segment of his never-boring life.

Grief and loss steals your energy. Think of it being similar to driving around in a car that’s had its low fuel warning light on for the past 10 miles. At some point, your vehicle will stop because you’ve run out of fuel.

We’ve been living on fumes for much of the past nine months. In that place, you simply do your best and try to surround yourselves with people and experiences that allow recharging, not ending up stranded, out of gas.

Perhaps it’s possible to be positive and also, to be really, really sad. It’s happened to me countless times all week. I’d be listening to something amazing and I’d want to share it with Mark. Or, something I was reading reminded me of him, almost like he was speaking directly to me, saying “see dad, you don’t have to see the bad side of people all the time.”

While I can’t say I’ve turned any corners, or this was an epiphany, I can say that it’s been helpful to some degree, coming to this awareness.

On Friday I Went for a Walk

A year ago at this time, Mark had been walking for a week (actually, he was on Day 008), and had been posting videos that we were all watching, as his following grew larger. He was in New Haven, CT, and had just stayed with friends. The day was rainy, but per usual, this didn’t bring Mark down. He’d later walking into a Taco Bell and yell, “I’ve got the hook-up,” hoping to win 100 bean tacos. He didn’t.

As I’ve been watching his daily videos a year out from when they were made, it feels similar to last fall. I’m still learning things (as we all were) and his life and actions make me want to be a better person.

Last Friday, we were at Brown, as colleagues from the library and the school’s literary arts department remembered Mark and touched on his legacy at the school. One of the speakers (I don’t recall which one) talked about Mark and his walk and I jotted down a note to myself, “start walking every week.” What I was telling myself is that I needed to do a walk weekly where I left my house and walked out a certain distance. My intention was to think about Mark and his own walking practice during my own walks.

The past week has been a hectic one. I had two articles to write for the auto trade magazine that I write for. I am also selling Medicare Advantage insurance this fall during Medicare’s Annual Open Enrollment Period (AEP) and have two seminars planned for early next week. I’m also tutoring at a private school four to five evenings a week. Still, I didn’t want to miss the chance to get out and do a walk and think about Mark and what he was doing like I’d planned to do a week ago.

Today was the day. I was up early, doing my final edits on my articles and had them done by 8:30. I changed into my walking clothes, grabbed my water sling and fanny pack, and I was out the door a little after 9:00. My plan was to walk out and back for a total distance of six miles.

The first 35 minutes were uneventful. I even did a video of my own. Compared to Mark’s, it’s pretty pathetic. I apologize for sounding so out of shape and out of breath. I was walking uphill while doing it. Again, I don’t recall Mark ever sounding out of breath.

When I got to the intersection of Coombs Road and Route 24 (known as Harpswell Road), a truck heading south made a left-hand turn onto Board Road in front of me as I was waiting to cross. A Prius following close behind the truck swerved to the right and came right at me. I had to jump back or I would have been hit. The woman continued on like nothing had happened.

This pissed me off. But I’d read a book this week by Tom Rath that talked about “assuming good intent,” and being “80 percent positive,” so I had to find a way to turn my attitude around after I made my way across Harpswell Road and began walking east on Board Road. I was struggling and swearing aloud when I realized why this woman nearly hit me.

Driving a car causes all of us (myself included) to lose our humanity and our ability to be humane. We become an extension of a machine that we know has lethal capabilities. Only by consciously getting outside of our cars literally are we able to break free of this and reconnect with our humanity and our humane capabilities.

This woman wasn’t trying to hit me, but simply doing what drivers often do—focus intently on what’s directly in front of them (the truck turning left)—while in probably 95 percent of the cases with drivers, being oblivious to pedestrians or anything else that’s not a vehicle.

Don’t misunderstand me, here. I am not absolving this woman of her responsibility. If she had hit me and seriously injured, or even killed me, she would have been at-fault. But, I was able to “talk myself down” and recognize what had just happened.

I completed my walk. The remaining hour and fifteen minutes was meaningful as I zoned back in on why I was doing my little six-mile walk.

When I was close to home, I removed my shoes and walked about ¼ mile barefoot. My feet felt pretty good, although rocks hurt the soles of my feet from time-to-time. When I got back to Route 24, I put my shoes back on and walked the rest of the way back to the house with shoes on my feet.

I marvel that Mark was able to accomplish so many things on his two walks. He didn’t get to complete the second one, but it wasn’t due to any short-comings on his part.

Taking time to go out and walk and remember him also offers a shade of meaning and helps temper the pain and loss.

Walking and Remembering

I’ve been thinking about walking. Admittedly, thoughts like these have their origins in reflections backward to this time one year ago. Mark said “goodbye” to his house at 38 Pleasant Street, and walked down the hill on his one-way street commencing yet another cross-country journey into the unknown. He’d done a similar one in 2010, but this one was different in a host of ways.

He let readers know some of the reasons why he was making this trek. I knew the road had been calling out to him across the expanse of the previous six years since he stepped into the Pacific after wearily making his way across the sands of Santa Monica Beach at the end of that epic march.

Mark wasn’t the first writer who’d been drawn to the realm of walking. Perhaps the obvious name that crops up when talking about writers who valued the walking experience would be Thoreau. There have been a host of others. There seems to have been some deeper, intuitive connection between walking, thinking, and then, writing. We of course have by-and-large lost this. I’m sure part of this stems from being immersed completely in our American version of Happy Motoring.

I found an older article in The New Yorker by Adam Gopnik. He details how at one point in the mid-19th century, walking was actually “the dominant spectator sport in America.” Could be that if enough fervently patriotic football fans abandon the NFL, then walking might make a comeback? That would be a shame because if there was a figure who could captivate fans of professional walking, it would have been Mark.

Beginning a cycle where I plan to watch each one of Mark’s 100 videos he made from Day One through the final one he posted last January, I’m happy to champion the Mark Baumer Walking Fan Club. While I’ve watched them all before, I’m pretty sure this new round of viewing will offer up treasures I missed the first time. However, spending time with these videos is also sad, reminding me yet again that we’re now in a season of anniversaries related to missing Mark. October 13 is simply a starting point of sorts.

On Friday, close friends, some of Mark’s Brown library co-workers, union colleagues, activist brethren, along with members from literary arts, as well as MFA buds celebrated Mark’s writing, walking, and uniqueness. They invited Mary and me to join in. This all was rolled into Josiah Carberry Day at the school. To say it was emotional or special doesn’t do it justice. To everyone who showed up and celebrated Mark, we send a heartfelt “thank you!”

Remembering is hard. Anniversaries are difficult. But knowing that Mark was someone who affected so many people helps ease the pain a bit.

We’re very grateful that a tree was planted and a plaque will be added in Mark’s memory in front of Rockefeller Library. We now have something to look forward to in the spring when the Eastern Red Bud blooms.

Planting a tree for Mark (what it should look like when it blooms in the spring).

The Kindness of Strangers

I met Richard one morning early in 2016 at the Bath Y. He was a regular and I’d see him per my routine early swims, usually Tuesdays and Fridays (or sometimes Thursday, if I couldn’t swim on Friday).

The Y is similar to other places where I’ve worked out in the past (like Auburn’s Planet Fitness)—the early AM workout crowd tend to be creatures of habit and generally, a little older. We’re there to get our reps/laps/miles done and then, it’s off to whatever the day throws at us. Across the context of two strangers’ paths crossing, a bond sometimes develops. You see the same person week after week. Unless you’re a misanthrope, you’ll have a conversation or two. Before long, seeing that person becomes part of the routine.

Richard’s 14 years older than me. That means he fought in Vietnam, is nearing retirement, and has accumulated a bit more life experience translating into wisdom. He’s solidly middle-class, probably a tad more conservative than I am, but I know he didn’t vote for Trump, either based the accumulation of our AM conversations.

There was something inherently likable about him. He was a no BS type of guy, and I have always had an affinity for males of that stripe. As the months passed, I found out he was working part-time at The Home Depot in Topsham. He’s “retired,” but like many seniors, retirement now means holding a job to supplement retirement savings—Americans are living longer and longer and staying topside costs slightly more than chump-change.

Last fall, we were in the midst of selling our house of 26 years, not knowing that the floor below our lives was about to open up and try to swallow us. I’d also see him at work, as I made numerous runs to Topsham to pick-up home improvement supplies like mulch, landscaping fabric, spikes to repair my sagging retaining wall, patio stones, and a host of other things for sprucing up the house for what would be a future sale.

Interestingly, Richard was also in the middle of his own home improvement project. He’d bought a foreclosure a block from the Y that he was renovating. He kept me apprised of its progress in that guy sort of way, and we’d talk about wiring, heating systems and other building infrastructure.

Being so close, he’s now able to walk to the locker room in the morning. Richard also shared his penchant for ambles downtown to Bath’s vibrant Front Street at night and having an ice cream cone at Dot’s. He justified caloric excess with the quip, because “it’s all uphill back home,” and his trademark wry smile.

Richard’s only one of a two Y acquaintances that know anything about my year from hell and Mark’s story. When he now asks “how are you doing,” I know it’s something more than the usual perfunctory greeting.

My bi-weekly swims are an essential part of keeping me somewhat sane—a form of grief self-care.  Being greeted in the morning by Richard, his face red from working out, as he’s usually on the way out as I’m coming in, is equally welcome.

I doubt that we’ll ever be fast friends, but he’s been a reminder of the many salt-of-the-earth people in the world that we often never know very well. They also help offset the evil in the world, infusing it with goodness and grace.

Invasive Prayer

Prayer’s been all around us since Mark was killed in January. People have forced prayer on us, even though none of us (including Mark) held out any hope that petitioning a deity would alter the universe in any way. I’m still curious where God might have been back on January 21. Perhaps he doesn’t travel Highway 90 in Florida.

Every time a tragedy occurs, Facebook lights up with “prayer” and a host of other religiously-draped sentiments. While some of those directly affected might find comfort knowing that there are a legion of warriors out there “wrestling with their God,” directing His/Her “comfort and healing” earthward, lives remain forever altered.

I’m not telling anyone what to believe. If you want to talk to your conception of a deity, have at it. However, to impose those ideas that have no actual basis in science and reality seems invasive at the very least.

Here’s what I think about the platitudes and prayers offered to those of us who’ve had our lives turned upside down by tragedy. Prayer and words that may or may not be infused with anything more than a sentiment help make you feel better and even heroic. But for us living with loss each and every moment of every day, it changes nothing. In fact, when I’m forced to endure another round of this happy horseshit, it just makes me tune it out.

My experience for the past several months has been that Mary and I have been shouldering along pretty much on our own. No God has lowered Himself (or Herself) and rescued us from the stress, weariness, or administrative overload the two of us have been living under. Mark had a house and it’s three hours away in Providence. Trying to manage the house, and then recently, dealing with the machinations of selling that house have pushed us to the wall. I think the only thing that has kept us upright throughout this process has been an amazing seller’s agent (the woman who helped Mark find and purchase the house). She epitomizes the goodness in people that Mark believed in.

Most of my days since June have been spent alone in a big house, trying to figure out how to pay my bills and move forward through the landscape of grief I’ll inhabit until I’m no longer above ground. Mary is back grinding it out in her job. I’m also out four nights a week tutoring. This is capitalism in action.

That’s not to say that life is hopeless and without some slivers of light.

Mary and I have managed to laugh between tear drops. There have been a handful of people that continue regularly checking-in and actually measuring up as friends in the truest sense of the definition. I’ll be out hiking with one of them on Saturday.

Words do have an effect on others. And words devoid of any substance and meaning fail to comfort or add any value, at least based on my experience with them. Please stop forcing them on me. It’s repellent.

When stars pray.

Actually, the last few days have been pretty hard to take on social media. That’s why I’m tuning out. Because when a country music star mentions “prayer” on Twitter, people go ga-ga, to the tune of half a million of them “liking” it and thousands commenting.

Maybe another added “benefit” of living through what we’ve been through with Mark is that it now makes us hyper-sensitive to all the BS inflicted on us by a culture obsessed with false ideology, violence, and make-believe.

Keep that in mind the next time you really want to “help” someone.

Validation

How often do you affirm other people? I mean, honestly recognizing qualities and positive traits—some amazing skill or ability they have. I’m guessing not very often.

Yesterday, I spoke to two friends. One of them I’ve known since 1988 when we were both new meter readers at our local power company. The other one, I met in February, the weekend we held Mark’s Celebration of Life at Brown.

The former knew Mark from the age of five and saw him grow into his teenage years. We’d lost touch as Mark got into college. But with true friends, a sabbatical isn’t a deal breaker.

My old friend was crushed when he learned Mark was killed. I’d called him the next day because I knew he’d find out and I wanted him to hear from me. He’s been there for me over the past eight months.

My newer friend and Mark were colleagues at Brown. Both navigated the school’s Literary Arts program together, earning MFAs. They are also poets.

We’ve been calling every other week and have deep and meaningful conversations about life. Yesterday, we were talking about how rare it is in this life to receive validation.

It’s interesting that our current president is a man who has made his way to the top by doing the opposite—tearing down others and seeking to destroy them. That says a great deal about the value that Americans place on catching others doing good and authentically recognizing that.

The summer of 2017 has been a living hell and that’s no exaggeration. I find myself sad, bitter, and at times, wanting to give up. But for some reason, I haven’t quit. I’ve even managed to find the best in others as I’ve been making my way through this season of grief.

I’m a fan of Seth Godin. His book, Poke the Box, profoundly changed my trajectory in 2012. I’d been about reinvention for nearly a decade at that point, but Godin’s book helped re-orient me at a time I needed a tune-up. Mark and I discussed the book and he read it, too. Godin also said that “validation is overrated.” What?

Seth Godin’s best, IMHO.

I get that. If you wait around for it from others, you’ll likely die alone in the corner, and your project will wither and die before someone pays you a compliment. Find another way to validate who you are and what you are doing that’s amazing. If you aren’t doing anything that you think is amazing, take steps towards it, today. Get better at what you do.

Today, I’m mailing a copy of Poke the Box to another “new” friend that I’ll be hiking with in two weeks. He’s embracing some new things and I’m confident he’s going to rock it hard. I wanted to let him know I was thinking of him, and acknowledge my admiration for what he’s doing. I think Godin will inspire him, too.

Find someone and let them know you appreciate them, and their uniqueness. If not today, then real soon.