[Above photo: A tombstone in the Western Cemetery. Corporal Abbott served in Trowbridge’s Cavalry in the War of 1812 and lived 52 years.]

10 April 2022

I am happy to emerge from the darkness of Winter. And I’m glad it was dark because it makes Spring so much more vivid.

My daughter was at her boyfriend’s cabin in the woods outside of Lincolnville, 2 hours up the coast on Friday night. There was a deluge and when they tried to drive to town to buy groceries, the road had been washed away. There was an 8 foot wide, 5 foot deep chasm over which no vehicle could pass. She called me and I drove up yesterday morning to rescue them. It was lovely going up and down the coast. When the trees fledge the drive will be very special. And the bakery café on Route 1 in downtown Wiscasset has divine baked goods.

We shall have a Supreme Court Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson! That is wonderful news, long overdue and a cause to celebrate. Thank you, Senators Collins, Murkowski, and Romney for your part. Shame on the disgusting no-nothings Cruz, Hawley, Graham, and too many more to name for their ignorant, hostile, and crude interrogations of Judge Jackson. It is yet another example of the disappointingly racist GOP Senate. As numerous Black women students at Harvard Law noted, her treatment by powerful white men was neither surprising nor unfamiliar to them. Democracy is clearly not alive on that side of the aisle, just open fists grasping to maintain power. Anything, anything, that Biden does will be attacked, criticized, and obstructed, especially if it is good for the economy and good for the country. They so want him to be reviled that they are willing to burn the place down in attempting to achieve their end.

It is an honor for her and for us, of course, for Judge Jackson to be appointed to the highest court in the land. However, unless the court membership is increased, she’s signing up for a lifetime of frustration, as the hyper-politicized block on the Right has the majority and will for the foreseeable future. It is impossible to compare Judge Jackson’s character with that of Brett Kavanaugh—or Clarence Thomas.  They seem from different universes—she is a model of temperance, graciousness, and diligence, none of which descriptors fit those two. It must mean the world to many Black women [and men], akin to President Obama’s election. My god, we are so slow to learn, to change! 

I have the obsessional trait of struggling to make a decision, repeatedly weighing all sides, and, then, impulsively choosing. I likely should have paid the extra $5000 to buy the next level electric car with an extra 100 mile range. That will only be a nuisance, I think. I revisited a house yesterday that I was seriously considering making an offer on. It is crucial to look 2 or 3 times. The immediate romance is tempered by noticing broken or rotten shingles, a lack of furnace service records, an old leak here or there, a shaggy roof that needs replacement, a tall but dead tree that must come down.  I realized that the guy who lived there for 8 years and, according to the selling agent, “just loved it”, never did a lick of work on it until it was time to sell, his Everlast bag and free-weights in the basement and golf clubs in the garage notwithstanding.  I’ll pass on a huge project house, thank you. I may have to look further afield. Like the mouth of the Fal or the mouth of the Yar.  I spoke about my plans with my landlady and we are good. If I leave before my lease is up and she is in Bangkok, for the UN is demanding she go soon, I’ll screen applicants and show the place to get a good new tenant. Who knows, I may be here indefinitely.

The ”Bootstrap” creative writing class I’m taking is so instructive. I never imagined I could write fiction; I felt like I was (sic) lying. But I can and easily. We were asked to choose from one of 4 photos, headshots, and write a brief character description and then a letter to our fictional person. One looked to me like “God” in Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling portrait, so I wrote a funny description—“Of his family, he had only one son from an adulterous relationship with a Middle Eastern woman named Mary who was married to a carpenter, Joseph.  His relationship to his son was unconventional as well, since he allowed him to be crucified by Roman legionnaires.” Then I wrote a letter from an ad company, offering to assist him on increasing his popularity by getting a grooming and clothing makeover and focusing on the “Big Three”—pestilence, war, and famine. It flowed very easily and was pretty funny. I’ll read it aloud in class next Friday, hoping not to seriously offend any in attendance. Anthropomorphizing a god is perhaps the only way most can imagine such a concept but it easily lends itself to satire.

I heard the Brentano String Quartet Friday night, having supper outside a restaurant before with friends. One of them is on the Board of the Portland Chamber Music Society, a musician and composer in his own right. Mainers are unfailingly polite. I received a call 4 days before the concert, wondering where I’d like to sit. “Front and center”, I said. Well, we were in the front row of the center section, practically in the musicians’ laps. I could get used to it. They played, among other pieces, the magnificent late Schubert quartet in G major. It is difficult and requires considerable athleticism, as the musicians confirmed during their performance and in the subsequent Q&A. The hall is small with wonderful acoustics. And parking in the attached, covered garage is free. Overall, a reminder of the benefits of civilization in the midst of the awful cacophony of the wars in Ukraine and Myanmar.

I walked 4 miles last weekend on a trail over the Scarborough Marshes. It was grey and windy but there were many joggers, walkers, and bikers.  I can imagine the 3000 acres will be teeming with birds in a month or two. A footbridge bisecting it provides a perfect spot from which to enjoy the birdlife. I’ll retrieve my spotting scope and good binoculars from the island this summer.

It’s time for lunch and a walk in the brilliant sunshine.

[Above photo:  A weather front approaching from the west over the Fore River and the Casco Bay Bridge.]

3 April 2022

I was visiting a friend in Boston last weekend and returned to a busy week, so I neglected to write my blog post.  Polly has a lovely condo in the North End, smack in the midst of the Italian district. The location is great for walking and eating. Among other things, we walked much of the Greenway, which is an amazing civic project of walkways, parks, fountains, etc. in the midst of a bustling major city. It reminded me of the same in Seoul, which has a [man-made] river running through it. In the summer after work, people pause on their way home, sitting on the side, and dipping their feet in the water to cool them.

She and I went to the annual Academy Awards’ “Nominees for Best Animated Feature”. Poki and I went to that a couple of times 25 years ago and it was cute, imaginative, funny, and entertaining. This time, after one lengthy children’s video of mouse/bird/cat anthropomorphism—“Robin”—there was an ominous notification that there would be a 10 minute intermission to remove all children from the theatre. The warning stated that there would be acts of violence, sex, sexual assault, assault, decapitation, etc. The remainder of the films were incredibly dark and their meaning equally obscure, if well done. We came away unsettled and curious that these were what the Academy chose. They do reflect the times, I fear.

After seeing several houses, I bid on a very sweet one. I offered $100,000 over the asking price. It sold for $140,000 over, 25% extra! Chastened, I’ll revisit another I liked this afternoon and shall likely proffer a hefty bid on Monday. I can afford it.  I feel for young families with children who are trying to escape the rental market or move into something large enough to accommodate them. Apparently wealthy New Yorkers and Bostonians are coming in with satchels of cash, snapping up the few available properties.  I’m aware of the undercurrent of my own discomfort—uncertainty—with the process of buying, moving, etc.

To add to it, I bought an electric car yesterday. I drove to the Maine Mall to buy new, lighter weight guitar strings. My good friend in the Bay Area, Jon, upon hearing me complain that my grip no longer was sufficient to easily fret my medium weight strings, suggested ultra-light. “It’s just like playing an electric guitar.” They don’t have to project, since I play only for myself. I was also going to buy a rack on which to roast a chicken; my brother and his wife are coming for supper Wednesday. As I passed the Nissan dealership, my car pulled in and parked. I’d wondered about their all-electric car. 2 hours later I drove across the street to Guitar Center and bought the strings, the proud owner of a new Leaf. $9500 in state and federal rebates contributed to my temptation.

It adds to my anxiety, however, as I wondered about running out of electricity on a trip. It’s about 240mi to Harold and Connie’s in Old Chatham, NY; my maximum range is 150mi. I downloaded several apps and realized that with a 40 minute stop for a quick recharge halfway there (and halfway returning) I’ll be fine. When I go to the Island, there is a charging station at the General Store in Brooklin where my daughter lives. I also can charge it slowly overnight at her house using a standard electrical outlet with an extension cord. I took it for a spin and it is impressive. No more antifreeze or oil changes. I never got the roasting rack.

Stopping to recharge will turn a jaunt into a journey, a pause for refreshing and reflecting. “It’s the journey, not the arrival, that matters.” I thought Ram Dass (Richard Alpert) said that. Google says it was T. S. Eliot, but their quote is “The journey, not the destination, matters.” “Destination” is different than “Arrival”. It is also suspect because the quote is dated 2019; Eliot died 57years ago. Perhaps Google has a greater reach than is apparent.  When driving more than the car’s range, I will feel a bit like the early pioneers, heading west in their wagons, hoping to find a stream to let the oxen drink. In between I’ll be zipping along at 75mph, however.

When I think about the flux in my life, the small degrees of uncertainty thereby created, and my resultant mild anxiety—with excitement, of course—I feel silly. The Ukrainians are being bombed and killed—as well as shot, raped, and all the other pleasantries of war—, often have no food or water, and their homes and possessions have been looted or destroyed. I feel ashamed to whine to myself, let alone for an audience. And I don’t want geographic distance or lack of media coverage to normalize or minimize for me the ongoing horrific human tragedies in Myanmar, as well. Then there’s Yemen, Eritrea, Venezuela…….

My sister, at 92yo, had a virginal cave experience recently and was enthralled with it. I totally understand, since I am taken with caves, as well.  The many caves outside of Hpa An in Myanmar are filled with Buddhist iconography.  Hiking through a massive one, around curves and up and down a hill, one exits at the brim of a sparkling, small lake. Stepping into a boat, you are paddled into and through another [but flooded] cave, returning to the sunlight where your taxi driver agreed to meet you.  Hiking in Khao Sok National Park, a 50 million year old rain forest, in Thailand last May, my guide and I waded the stream flowing through a cave which burrowed beneath a small mountain. Another remarkable cave was in Halong Bay in northeastern Vietnam. Cruising overnight on a motorized junk through the 1800+ schist islands, we put ashore on one which contained an immense cave.  The Vietnamese hid an entire army there centuries ago. When the Chinese invaders passed, the Vietnamese soldiers slipped behind them and dispatched them (I don’t recall where the boats were hidden to allow for this stalking.).  For me, going into a cave is a little bit like scuba diving, enjoying a world concealed from our normal view.  Fortunately, you can breathe without assistance, a significant advantage.

The Republican’s interrogation of an accomplished and distinguished Judge for our Supreme Court was disrespectful and disgraceful. Mr. Chin continues to try mightily to mass opposition to her confirmation.   Is it just because she is appointed by Joe Biden that they treat her so? Or because she is Black? Or a woman? Or what? She seems, judging by her history, her record and her recommendations (national police organizations, other [Republican] judges) to be exceptionally thoughtful and even-handed. She carried herself with poise and grace, not deigning to throw their mudballs back at the boys. I wish they’d stop talking about “the first Black woman on the Court”. She stands on her own merit as an extraordinary legal mind, man/woman/black/white, whatever. I wrote Senator Collins a compliment; generally my notes to her are cautioning. Even in the minority, Judge Jackson will have a salutary effect on this very partisan court. And Clarence and Ginni—-good grief! It is pretty funny to watch DT and Madison Cawthorn self-immolate repeatedly; it’s not laughable that it took the latter spinning tales of GOP Senatorial orgies and coke-binges to evoke any verbal censure from Senators of his party.

Hearing that the UK plans to address their energy needs with windmills and 11 new nuclear power plants, I suspect other countries, including the US, will use the nuclear option as well, as we try to wean off of petroleum. UK is cursed with a lack of sunlight, so solar is not likely a useful option. The potential for a nuclear disaster grows exponentially. We are too damned many on our little orb.

Using my retrospectoscope and having noted the savagery visited on civilians, I now wonder if we shouldn’t have intervened more directly with our planes and missiles in Ukraine. Bullies best understand force. It is playing with nuclear fire, I know. It’s a tough call. Vlad can always arm his ICBM’s if he feels the impulse. He is facile in fabricating his own pretexts for cruelty.

[Above photo: One of many stunning turn-of-the-century brick homes in the West End. Enlarged and viewed on a computer screen, the details are fascinating, if labor intensive to create.]

My daughter returned to Maine from 3 months of kayaking and camping in the Everglades with her friend. She drove from Florida in a rented car, seeing other friends en route. I picked her up yesterday at the Portland Jetport (I love the name, coined when jets were a thrilling novelty.) We sampled great Portland food—Sichuan Restaurant, Tandem Coffee—last night and this morning, watched the amazing “Spencer”, walked dog Pearl several times, and drove 3 hours up the coast to her home today. The undressed trees on our drive made for a bleak landscape. I planned initially to stay the night but I have a lot to do this week, including preparing for a class tomorrow, so we got her groceries at the local Co-op, ascertained that no pipes had frozen and burst, and I made the return trip to Portland.

She is terrific. We get into heated arguments at times. She cannot tolerate my certainty, what she thinks is my liberal naivete, and I have difficulty with her lack of conviction re. political topics, including the covid vaccination. Oh, she’s vaccinated but still reserves skepticism re. its efficacy, its financial beneficiaries, and its long-term effects. Perhaps even the underpinnings of the pandemic are in question. We continue to learn about and alter our understanding of the first and the possible long-term effects simply aren’t known. I cannot believe that Bill Gates or Tony Fauci are making money, or even care to, from the vaccine. Anyway, we seem able, once the smoke has cleared, to talk about our differences. My regular information sources are the NY Times, Washington Post, New Yorker, Popular Information (Judd Legum), Heather Cox Richardson, Robert Hubbell, National Public Radio, and Inside Climate News. All are, admittedly, espousing views and sharing information which seem sensible to me. She reads the Times, but, in addition, listens to podcasts that she thinks more accurately fill out the picture. We all have our biases. Am I simply seeking sources that will confirm them, as I think those following Fox, Hannity, and Tucker Carlsen do? 

But wait! There are objective facts and truths, as well as demonstrable untruths.  Disinformation is so pervasive, malignant, and difficult to spot at times, especially if it resonates with our pre-existing beliefs.  And if we are not schooled in critical thinking. Many universities now have faculty, if not divisions or departments, dedicated to the study of disinformation and its remedies. Generating it is certainly a central tactic for tyrants, as is accusing the other side in advance of what you plan to do. DT did both constantly and Putin is certainly doing the same. I hadn’t realized that one crime of which dictators regularly accuse their opposition is pedophilia, as we saw with Hillary and Pizzagate.  It certainly arouses our most powerful and savage defensive and protective instincts, which can then be directed since we are at that moment in time blind to reason.

Also, hats off to George Soros who seems to be accused by the Right of supporting all things evil in the world; he must be busy, stirring up so much mischief!  I’m only familiar with his untiring support of democratic institutions worldwide. Inciting caravans of immigrants from Central America— “hordes”—preparing to storm our southern border, I tend to think not.  I can also entertain that he may have done bad things. Many people with loads of money seem to feel they are bound only by their own rules.

I am quite anxious about buying a place these days. After seeing two condos and feeling like I would be living in a hotel, I decided on a house with a yard, a garden, and a basement. Small houses are rarely available on the Portland peninsula, so I am looking in the surrounding areas, especially Rosemont, S. Portland, and Cape Elizabeth. Since the competition is great, I must restrain myself from feelings of desperation and leaping into a purchase that may leave me regretting it. After all, I am comfortable in my apartment and have all the time in the world. My daughter has agreed to help my critical thinking by viewing a place before I put in a bid, just as a second opinion. I think my realtor is terrific and will help, as well.

Spring is suddenly here! Crocus, jonquil, and tulip bulbs are shooting up. Kids are playing pick-up basketball and soccer at Reiche School across the street. I can walk comfortably without taking extreme measures against the cold.  As I drove up and down the coast today, I felt such relief that I hadn’t bought a place Downeast and wintered there. It would have been so lonely and with little hope of remedy.

Starting my OLLI (Osher Lifelong Learning Institute) classes at the U. of S. Maine, I am meeting all manner of fun, smart people and feel increasingly like I’ll be a part of life here within the year. The classes I’m taking are: reading and discussing short stories, creative writing, and a seminar on pedagogy, the last in preparation for teaching a course at OLLI.  These are all things that I am doing already but in which I am quite untutored, so it is fun to participate in class discussions and see what they stimulate in me.  

I don’t know if looking ahead with optimism and curiosity extends your life or not, but I feel very positively about my future, if not the Earth’s. What a gift! Breathe in. Breathe out. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, 68 beats per minute, never stopping for the past 81 years. A modest estimate is, roughly, 2,895,004,800 beats in sequence. Plus, all the other miraculous and complex systems working in more or less homeostasis for the same period. And some high-level productive work to come out of their coordination. And joy. And relationships.

I do hope these “military exercises” don’t result in the extinction of us all, which is a possibility. Too clever, by far, these humans, creating the means of our own demise.

[Above photo: “Oh, no, Mr. Bill! There’s a workman ahead with a flag who has fallen over!”]

14 March 2022

The chaos, devastation, cruelty, and lies perpetrated by one criminal mind to feed his grandiose and vengeful—-oh, these are all knowns. Restraint and uncertainty are difficult to tolerate but often wise. I keep hoping some more strategic heads in the Kremlin will overdose him with coumadin and slam his head into a table, as was Stalin’s rumored exit. The FSB certainly must have enough crafty, criminal minds to be able to pull that off.

On a cheerful note, my Portland saga is coalescing. I have a couple of friends. I’ve been asked to supper by the head of the Child Psychiatry group here and he’s planning a larger gathering for the entire flock where I’ll get to meet them all and share some of my experiences teaching our discipline in Malawi and Myanmar. Those places seem far away from me right now, even if some of my students don’t.

I learned today from one student that the only Pediatric Neurologist in the country (pop. 54,000,000) has been imprisoned since August. Prof. Kyaw Lin and I regularly shared cases and even though we disagreed on treatment—he was rigidly, it seemed to me, limited to prescribing medication—he was an excellent and experienced diagnostician. He helped us diagnose our first sightings of Rett’s Syndrome and of anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis. Apparently, and my knowledge is fragmentary, he participated in the government work stoppage (Civil Disobedience Movement) after the coup and is being punished for that. His trainees and pediatric patients with neurological problems are being deprived by his absence.

It is strange to me how Myanmar has faded from the general consciousness, eclipsed by the tragedy in Ukraine. Since Russia has supplied Myanmar with military training and weapons, the Generals are supportive of Putin’s Revenge. I read Robert Hubbell’s newsletter daily (as well as Heather Cox Richardson’s) and wrote to him the other day, complaining when he said that the war in Ukraine was shaping up to be “the worst human catastrophe in 75 years”. He meant, I think, since WW2 and the Holocaust. I objected and questioned his blind spots. Vietnam—2 million civilians  & 1 million fighters dead. Cambodia—1.5-3 million dead. Ruanda—1.1 million dead. Sudan—390,000 dead. Iraq—150-400,000 civilians dead. Lebanon—144,000 dead. And Kurds and Rohingya and on and on. We are a species easily given to blood-lust. There may be several reasons for his bias, of course.  When I made the above list to send to him, I left out Vietnam in error. It is easy to feel justified in wanting to attack, torture, humiliate, and exterminate Putin. I doubt that the current bombardment and killing in Ukraine will match our destruction of life and property in either Iraq or Vietnam, however.

Terminally flawed at times, our leaders.

I’m sprucing up my wardrobe, feeling like seedy isn’t the presentation I want to make. I got a perfect Aran Islands sweater from Ireland and a newsboy’s cap of tweed. My brother, Charles, gave me one as a gift years ago. It was from Marshall Fields in Chicago and I loved it. I didn’t take it to the tropics and when I unpacked my storage space looking for winter clothing, there was a sweet little mouse who’d eaten a hole in the top of the hat and made a very cosey nest therein. I cannot really blame him; he had no idea how I loved that hat.

My 14yo Burlington Mills pea jacket has seen better days, its cuffs fraying. I happened on a great sale at Macy’s yesterday and bought a $300 Calvin Klein jacket for $70. It should last me the duration. I’ve been eyeing new cars, as my Subaru is 18 years old, has a hole in the muffler, and the paint is peeling off. A plug-in hybrid seems the best idea. My niece loves her Kia Niro and loads it with amazing amounts of gear, her mother, and her son for the trip from Bethesda to Brooksville (Maine) and back each summer.

Finally, I have a perfect realtor with whom I visited two condos on Sunday, establishing a baseline and learning what to consider before I purchase. My nervousness about committing to live here has morphed into excitement, as I increasingly feel conviction that I can make a rich life here.

DT fades into the woodwork as his lies and hatred become more manifest and as the stink of his crimes threatens to taint his acolytes. New serpents replace him. Of course let’s jail parents who are trying, with medical guidance, to help their children be more comfortable and less tortured in this world. And let’s fire teachers who read a popular story which uses the word “butt”. Since all humans, and most other animals, have butts I don’t think this is news to the kids and not sexually titillating, if humorously exciting. If the politicians supporting censorship really felt what they were prohibiting, it would be one thing. We know it is all calculated jockeying for power. Their cynicism and hypocrisy are their only substance, like the “stable instability” of those who suffer with Borderline Personality Disorder. Sigh.

[Above photo: Coyote ramblings at Pinelands Farm.]

7 March 2022

I am considering buying a condo here.  I maintain my cabin on the Island and don’t want to care for two houses. Plus, I can get my dose of Nature there.  Each day I walk across Portland to better know the town and its districts. I also walk for exercise. I looked into indoor squash or tennis but it is pretty expensive and not within walking distance, even though I know I’d enjoy it. On my walks I always include at least one hill, generally coming home via Commercial Street and the waterfront.  I am in much better shape than I was even a month ago.

Yesterday a woman, perhaps 40yo, and I passed each other. She was on the phone, saying anxiously, “I don’t even know what’s going to happen today or tomorrow.” I wondered to whom she was speaking—-I first imagined a daughter, perhaps because of my own. There was a plea in her sentence—Help! Then I began to think about what she’d said: Was her uncertainty because her interior was so scrambled she couldn’t make sense of Time’s passage? Had poor Judgement led her to erroneous acts? Had Fate whacked her yet another blow? Likely, it was some combination of the 3, although I really can’t tell. I just know that most of us are our own worst enemies. This is not true of anyone in Vladimir Putin’s orbit, of course, when the products of his cruelty and indifference overwhelm all other factors.

Yesterday I discovered at the extreme of my walk a small park, Fort Sumner Park, with several nice benches overlooking Back Cove and the 295 freeway. The park is at the highest elevation in Portland and yet is so flat that snowmelt has created puddles in which a large trout might live happily.

As I descended to the Eastern Promenade, the views of Casco Bay and the islands therein provided an engaging backdrop to the more proximate cannons and fortifications built during our two wars with Britain. Having bombarded and burnt Portland down once, after the development of the batteries the Royal Navy limited their hostilities to less well-defended towns further north along the coast. The Peaks Island ferry was cute from that distance, a toy transecting the Bay with a load of ants and legos.

Dropping down to near sea-level I noticed, for a second time, Micucci’s Italian Grocery. I entered and discovered a large range of Italian gourmet foods. I’d been reading a recipe for bucatini all’ amatriciana. If done well, and it was at Hosteria our go-to Italian in Blantyre, the slurpy, savory dish is addictive. Despite my attempts to order from elsewhere on the Hosteria menu, when push came to shove I always ordered the same thing. The point is, bucatini is not so easy to come by—a  long, substantial pasta with a hole in the center.  Equally scarce is guanciale, salt-cured pork jowl that vies with the pasta for the dish’s spotlight.  Without batting an eyelash—how to bat just one?—the man at the meat counter sliced 6oz for me.  This will be my next pasta dish after puttanesca, which I mastered in Yangon, creating it on one occasion for Poker Night.

Walking affords me the opportunity to reflect on life. I recalled, for unknown reason, a trip from Denver to Phoenix during Spring break of my last year in high school. With two friends and a friend of a friend, we planned to go for…. What? Not Spring Training. I have no idea why we were so inclined. It surely seemed foreign and appealing, although it doesn’t today.  My ’36 Ford, “The Flower (of the Automotive World)”, wasn’t up to it, with its bald tires, mechanical brakes, and consumption of oil.  That Chas and I later drove it to Cambridge from Denver without incident belies my lack of trust.  One of my friend’s parents demurred when we wanted to use their car. It wasn’t really up to such a long trip, they said. Translated, they weren’t up to worrying about their car and what 4 teenagers might do to it on such a road trip, understandably. My mother, bless her innocence and generosity, volunteered hers. This was a beast, a new 1957 Ford V-8 with a 4 barrel carburetor which boosted the horsepower to 245. Did I mention that it had a stick shift with overdrive?  We were drifting across dirt roads at 110mph on the way down, no guardrail between us and the Green River, 150 feet below. We somehow got there intact, rented a very questionable motel room on the outskirts of Phoenix, and developed our strategy.

The motel had two great advantages, other than price. First, no one asked any questions about our age and consumption of beer. In addition, there were grapefruit trees outside our room yielding the most intoxicating scent day and night. The entire city at that time of Spring smelled like citrus blossoms, which, like the lilacs I later encountered in Cambridge, I still associate with untamed yet unrequited lust. We were stunned that all the front yards were regularly flooded to maintain the grass.  It all was very exotic and outside our ken.

I don’t recall where or what we ate. We did manage to fool our way into the Biltmore and the Camelback Inn, fancy places with lovely pools where we could spend the day. We once were lectured in the locker room at the Biltmore by Paul Whiteman, who was famous in the 1920’s and ‘30’s as a bandleader and composer. I don’t recall precisely what he was trying to tell us but it was something about being all washed up.  Not letting it happen to us. His day had come and gone. It was 10AM and he was drunk as a lord.

A very attractive, albeit 2 inches taller than me, girl from my high school was in Phoenix with her mother. I asked her out, commandeered the car, and took her to a snazzy nightclub where we had supper and saw Sammy Davis, Jr.  I have no idea where I got the money, or nerve, to do that, never having been in a night club previously. There was a certain tension in the air, as there were hints that she had “gone all the way” with someone.

Her older brother abruptly disappeared from high school; he probably had a drug problem or got depressed and made a suicide attempt. But the story circulating was that he masturbated “too much” and was being hospitalized for “an operation”. Jesus, since we all thought we masturbated too much, it was a little terrifying.

After the show we returned to where she and her mother were staying and she slouched down in the seat. Our chemistry wasn’t right and I was likely too anxious so, after some desultory conversation, we said “Good night.”

The only other thing I recall about the trip was driving too fast, again, on a road that was being resurfaced. A manhole protruded 6’ above the dirt and I hit it hard with my left front tire, knocking the wheel so out of alignment that the car shuddered all the way back to Denver and required two new tires and a re-alignment.

The most remarkable part of the trip, other than our survival, was my mother’s behavior. First, in lending us her new car, trusting us to be safe and to take good care of it. Next, after we returned the Ford considerably the worse for wear, she was never critical or inquisitive about how I damaged it. Nor did she ask me to pay for the new tires and the realignment of the front end.  She had a kind of generosity of spirit about it, presumably assuming I would learn from the experience and wouldn’t require her to hammer the lessons home. I didn’t inherit that capacity with my children, to my regret. She was correct; I did learn.

It feels strange to purchase $82 worth of groceries at Trader Joe’s, eat 3 squares, sleep undisturbed through the night, and hear wonderful music in my neighborhood—I heard a Celtic father-son duo, a very interesting jazz performance, and a classical menage performed by the Portland Conservatory of Music faculty on each of three consecutive days in the past week.—while millions of Ukrainians are fleeing their country, hiding in cellars and subway tunnels, and fighting a much larger, if less-spirited, Russian army. Men, women and children are dying and the country is being destroyed.  In hindsight I wonder if we should have sent US and European troops (not specifically NATO) before the invasion to discourage it. Putin repeatedly said he wasn’t going to invade, so he might have grumbled loudly but wouldn’t have lost much face. It seems that it would have been very risky to the world. But this alternative is assured devastation of a country and a populace. At the very least, we know that our leadership is acting with deliberation and a plan, not arrogantly or impulsively.

[Above photo: A small ice pond at Pinelands, where I ski and snowshoe.]

27 February 2022

Without my noticing it, the days are suddenly much longer. The sun now sets at 5:30PM. The period of very short days didn’t last long. And I am still in love with snow. We had a good 6” on Friday; it snowed all day. It is so nice to be warm and inside, looking through the window at the cold, blowing snow as it accumulates on the cars in front of my apartment.

I went to Pinelands Farm to ski, thinking that conditions would be ideal. Surprise! The previous snow had melted with our 50 degree days and then froze. The new snow landed on sheets of ice, making it impossible to groom a track. It was closed to skiing. But open to snow shoeing so I asked to rent a pair, mine being at home. The attendant graciously lent them to me and I tramped 5 miles up hill and down—dale? On one downhill pitch, for I was on the unused ski trail, not following the herd on the snowshoe path, I slid on a patch of ice and fell, twisting my knee. It seems fine now. I’m glad they closed it to skiing as it would have been treacherous. I suppose Harold and I can snowshoe, if the snow is miserable for our trip in 10 days.

A giant has died. Paul Farmer, who started a clinic in Haiti as a medical student, co-founded Partners in Health at Harvard, built hospitals in Ruanda and in Haiti, and taught and inspired many, both in and outside of the health care field, died of unknown (or unrevealed) causes in his sleep in Ruanda, where he was teaching at the medical school he co-founded.  Unlike many driven and accomplished people, he was kind and gentle and much loved by all who knew him. Tracy Kidder’s Mountains Beyond Mountains is a wonderful introduction to him, describing vividly his grass-roots efforts to bring health care, and especially HIV-AIDS care, to the rural poor in Haiti, truly the wretched of the earth.

And valiant Ukraine, fighting off the Russian bear.  It is clear why DT initially called Putin’s attack on Ukraine “genius” and “peacekeeping”. Donald never saw a tyrant he didn’t like and Vlad is a brilliant one. I hope we are somehow smuggling lots of stinger missiles and other smart weaponry to the brave Ukrainians. Notably, President Zelensky didn’t complain of bone spurs and flee but remains with his family and those fighting in Kyiv, which speaks volumes to his character. I hate the Russian soldiers to be killed, as well, since they are simply being used as Putin’s cannon fodder, but since they are the invading aggressors in support of tyranny, I do hope they suffer enough that Putin will reconsider. It seems doubtful.  

Our response, which we keep ratchetting up, initially sounded like the unarmed London bobby—-“Stop. Or I’ll shout Stop again”.  Including SWIFT system sanctions will cause pain all around. Freezing the assets of all of the oligarchs may bring some pressure to bear. Joe Biden has skillfully drawn our NATO allies closer and, especially, engaged Germany, which stands to suffer the most from the Nordstrom pipeline sanctions. They should probably sanction the Nordstrom Outlets, as well. That will cause someone to squeal!

I think those who compare Russia’s humiliation after the fall of the Soviet Union to Germany’s after the Treaty of Versailles have a point. But I am glad we enrolled as many of the former Soviet republics into NATO as we did. Putin would go after them in a minute if they weren’t members, just as he is doing with Ukraine. I’m not sure how threatened he actually feels. Napoleon and Hitler both invaded Russia and both were whipped. 

Of course, our leaders are not as peace-loving as they like to portray themselves and we have bloody hands, from invading Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan to assassinating elected leaders throughout Latin America, the Middle East, and Africa. I cannot imagine that he thinks Ukraine, however close she is to the West, has designs on Mother Russia. In any case, bullies must be confronted and stopped. But then there is the nuclear question.  This is considerably more frightening to me than the Cuban missile crisis. I heard Fiona Hill being interviewed, as well as Alexander Vindman; it is reassuring to listen to the opinions, however pessimistic, of honest, mature people who know their subject. Hopefully, cool heads will prevail. Why anyone wants to be the President of the US, I have no idea!

I’ve been struggling with Mating by Norman Rush. The man is brilliant and can write. It won the National Book Award. I still found it pedantic, precious, with unreal characters and a pretty ridiculous utopian theme. He’s witty, but every other page has a word I must look up which speaks more to his exhibitionism than to my impoverished vocabulary, I think. He’s writing in the voice of a woman who is constantly analyzing herself and all around her at 7 different levels. Maybe I am just a peasant but I had no interest in meeting any of the characters, let alone reading all 400+ pages about them. The unfortunate thing for me is that I’ll miss the study group discussion since I’ll be skiing with Harold. It promises to be lively and polarizing, I think.

[Above photo: A Frosty track, one less travelled, through the woods at Pinelands.  ]

20 February 2022

Tuesday will be 2.22.22. Not quite 2.22.2222 but I won’t be around then. I’m surprised and happy to be around now. I recall as a kid marking 5.5.55, sure that I would recall forever exactly what I was doing and what my thoughts were on that day. I was about to finish my first year at East Denver High School. I think I also noted 6.6.66, when I would have just graduated from medical school. These are sort of like birthdays or Christmas, especial weight being given to an otherwise ordinary passage of 24 hours. It is a good thing to mark and ritualize our days, I think. Especially for those whose days are routine, even mundane. I realize that without the structure of a job, I can fritter away 24 hours and accomplish nada. It isn’t how I want to complete my transit here on Earth. It is so much more fun to have a mission, an event-filled life. Like seasons, variety does spice it up. I’m sure that has been given as an excuse/explanation for relationship infidelity. And there is some truth in it, even as the proposition doesn’t consider the feelings of the partner. Unless he/she is of the same persuasion, of which tribe I am not. Maybe it is parochial or unevolved of me, given all the buzz about polyamory these days, but I’m just not so constructed. An example of loose associations. Rather, flight of ideas.

I had hoped, in anticipation of spending the year in Portland, to find a friendly watering hole in which to socialize, either a coffee shop or a bar. But I don’t like to drink regularly, so a bar wouldn’t really work. Diet Coke and peanuts in a bar has little appeal. And of the three, count them, coffee shops within a few blocks, one is take-out only with tables outside (a gas station repurposed into a terrific bakery/coffee shop), one feels like a library, attracting a quiet and meditative clientele, and the last, which I like a lot, only serves nitro coffee and matcha lattes. The latter are too sweet and as to the former—-well, I want a cappuccino.

I shall forgo those potential encounters, as I have purchased an espresso machine. It is a small but very capable Swiss-made one—-Solis—with enough bells and whistles to allow me to tinker with the brew. I’m finishing up an older bunch of decaf beans from Trader Joe which leave much to be desired but with which I can still brew a good cappuccino. By controlling the grind, the water temperature, the water volume, and the pressure at the brew-head, I can alter the quality dramatically. I’ll move on to a better quality, and fresher, bean soon.

It gave me pause today when Harold sent me a link to an article about a Finnish Olympic cross country racer who, after finishing his 50km, became aware he had frozen his penis. We won’t be covering such  great distances in our Hut2Hut adventure in a few weeks.  Nor will we be demanding that all of our blood goes to our muscles, since we won’t be racing. Still…….

Who would have imagined we’d be cheering for Liz Cheney, who has voted with DT more than 90% of the time, who is among the very wealthy far right of the GOP in more ordinary times, and whose parentage includes the Darth Vader of the G W Bush Administration.  Rich, heartless conservative stock, but courageous in defying DT and her party.

We can all recall the times we wished we’d kept our mouths shut. Imagine how Rhona McDaniel must feel—-“legitimate political discourse.” Million$ in damage, 5 dead, dozens wounded, feces smeared, feet on desks, a gallows erected for the VP, fur and horns sitting in chairs not theirs, threats and intimidation, etc. It certainly was a communiction but not a discourse and surely something less than legitimate.

If Trump manages to slip through his latest sets of legal troubles unimprisoned, perhaps he should be the next Secretary of State. Not given to negotiation, arrogant and hostile toward our democratic allies,  and obsequious toward tyrants he admires, nevertheless he must be the wiliest of Wiley Coyotes. Surely, he could spin Putin’s threats to invade into some sort of personal gold, launching contiguous golf resorts in Belarus and Ukraine, nine holes in each. And when I read that Ivanka, that empty, deprived yet pampered child, is worth $300,000,000 I am convinced that there is wealth, tax, and salary inequity in our country. Yes, here, as unimaginable as that sounds! I do recall some years back that Eurozone CEOs made an average of 40x what the average worker in their company took home. In the US, it was 800x.  Sure, Mr. Reagan, great idea. Let’s do away with taxes for the wealthy and governmental regulation of corporations. I’m sure it will float all our boats and keep the climate pristine.

I would urge all of you to listen to the New Yorker’s editor, David Remnick, interview Rep Ocasio-Cortez. She is one smart, strategic, fearless, and excellent person to have on your team. Hardly a bra-burning, fiery-eyed, impulsive, bomb-throwing radical as touted by the Trumpers, she is thoughtful and caring about the working people of this country, as well as minorities and women.  Unlike most politicians, who are too terrified of losing their sinecures, she is brave and principled enough to actually represent her constituency’s interests, whatever the personal costs.

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-new-yorker-interview/is-alexandria-ocasio-cortez-an-insider-now?_gl=1*69h90q*_ga*MTI2MDc0MDE5LjE2MzY2NDYyMTc.*_ga_261YVXH13D*MTY0NTM5MDYzNC4zNC4xLjE2NDUzOTA5MDQuNDk.

Juxtapose her to Tucker Carlson with whom she just had a dust-up, a right-wing entertainer/provocateur who is worth $30 million and stands to inherit much more from his family (his step-mother owned Swanson’s Frozen Dinners). And why exactly, Tucker, should we cosey up to  Russia, a bullying dictatorship, rather than Ukraine, a fledgling but genuine democracy which is trying to be friends with the West?  Who listens to and believes your hate-filled lies?  Many, astoundingly.

Talking today with my nephew, Keith, about his plans to move to Portugal and open a coffee house/café, I began to think what do I want in my surround? I like to take long walks and be surprised by beauty or novelty. That could occur in the wild, as in a place further up the coast. That would be compulsorily solitary, however, as I don’t really want to co-habit at this point. Or, it could be in an interesting/exotic city. I could go to Paris or Florence. Or Porto. Or Bangkok. Or, where I’ve always wanted to stay for a bit, Kyoto. Or, in reality, any grouping of them. Short-stay apartments, Keith assures me, are common and not excessively expensive in Portugal, at least, which he knows. SE Asia is certainly cheap. Japan, I’d have to inquire. Horizons beckon. I can teach online in Myanmar from anywhere.

Speaking of Myanmar, the psychiatrist I consult with weekly in Dawei (Lower Burma) was referred a teen last week. I agree with her that his presentation is most compatible with an organic lesion of some sort. She attempted to order an MRI after she saw him the first time. The only facility for imaging in all of Lower Burma is at a private hospital in Dawei. But apparently there are so many rats at the hospital that they have eaten the insulation off the wires and the machine no longer works. That fact certainly puts my small inconveniences, like not having a good cappuccino near me (until now), into perspective.

[Above photo: A swish venue for a DT press conference, f/u on the “4 Seasons Landscaping”. ]

13 February 2022

My love affair with slush was brief. Two days ago it was 50F and raining, melting the plowed residue. It is 17F today and the slush is dangerously frozen. The streets are lined with 1-3ft high mounds of grayish ice, fantastically shaped. They are treacherous. Most sidewalks are clear, however, so we can walk safely.

Yes, slush is a scientific curiosity. So is pond scum and other unmentionable, slippery substances. Best enjoyed in a laboratory, I think, if then.

Harold, back from Egypt where he visited ruins with Connie, and I are preparing to brave the wilds of the Carrabassett Valley the second week of March. “We need to be ready to spend a night out in the snow.” “What?!” People do get lost or injured, it is several miles between huts, and the trails are not patrolled. At least there aren’t crevasses, hopefully no whiteouts. The winter Haute Route, which is skied from Mt. Blanc to the Matterhorn, requires being roped together with a skilled guide. A Swiss friend in my Berkeley hiking group did it with her husband some years ago. It was clearly an adventure. I liked the way Linda and I did it, in August-September, on foot, unguided. Only one small blizzard and one drenching rainstorm.

We’ll need to carry a space blanket, a compass, a whistle, a lighter or matches, a map, and plenty of warm clothing. I’ve camped in the snow but that included a tent, a mat, and a sleeping bag. Tales of cold weather survival fascinate me. Shackelton’s intrepid rescue of all of his men after the Endurance was trapped and crushed in the polar ice pack is perhaps the most astounding. Sailing over 700 miles in an open boat through the mountainous waves of the Southern Ocean to South Georgia Island, he and his crew then somehow landed and hiked over a snowy mountain range to the small whaling station where help was available.  No Vibram soles, ice axes, no nylon ropes, no puffy down jackets, no fleece, no crampons, just the primitive wool, canvas, and leather garments of the day. They were tough.

 I am going to attend my Harvard 60^th reunion. My uncle Fran said, “Don’t go to your 50^th. It’s awful to see how diminished everyone is.” I am now 5’6”, an inch shorter than I was as a freshman, although I weigh the same. Many more wrinkles, less hair except from my ears. I think it will be amusing and, perhaps, amazing to see classmates after a 60 year hiatus. I don’t expect to recognize anyone. My roommate will be visiting the Shetland Islands with his wife, unfortunately.

I followed the Alumni Association suggestion for renting a room in Cambridge. Scandalous! A room at the Hilton-Doubletree Inn— This is not the Fairmont!—for one with a king-size bed tonight costs $135. On June 2^nd, the night connecting the two days of my reunion celebration, the same room will cost $551! We didn’t all become investment bankers or stock brokers or sell an IT startup!! I’m tempted to pitch my REI tent in the Harvard Yard just to see if they’d manhandle or arrest an 81yo celebrant! Thoreau would share it.  When Emerson came to visit him in jail, he asked, “What are you doing in there, Henry David?” Thoreau reportedly replied, “What are you doing out there, Ralph Waldo?”  Two friends with two quite different perspectives on the world and the workings of government.

I’m reading Clear Light of Day by Anita Desai for my book group. It describes the life of an Indian family around the time of Partition (1947). One of the 4 children is either feeble-minded or severely traumatized and, consequently, non-functional. Which isn’t yet clear to me. All day he plays popular songs of the day on a phonograph: “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”, “White Christmas”, various Fox-trots, and “Lili Marlene”. Marlene Dietrich, who was a German citizen but came to Hollywood in 1930 to act, was staunchly anti-Nazi. “Hitler is an idiot.” she said on USO broadcasts. The Germans unsuccessfully tried to recruit her as a spy.

“Underneath the lantern, by the barrack gate…” triggers intense memories of love and longing in me; I must have heard it as a child as I associate it with my mother. The power of the mother-child bond is inestimable. Despite my criticisms of my mother, I loved her and admired her with my entire being as a child. I still admire her greatly, the more so because of what she overcame. When I think of Donald Trump attempting to discourage illegal immigration by separating children and families, it is more than infuriating. It also points to how damaged his relationship was with his own mother that he could even conceive of such a thing. Which points us, again, to his lack of true empathy.

Ari’s friend, Sadie, came for lunch today with her son, Wynn. They are heading home after a circuit visiting friends and family that included Burlington, VT, Franconia, and Portsmouth, NH.  Wynn is two weeks shy of 1 year and is such an easy, lively, and inquisitive guy. We had red pepper/tomato soup and toasted focaccia with my avocado spread. Mandarins and dark chocolate for dessert. Wynn was yawning by the end of the visit so hopefully he’ll sleep for the 2 ½ hour drive to Brooklin. It was lovely to see them.

I didn’t really have much to say this week, perhaps explaining why I didn’t write this yesterday. I did join a walking group and will start a short story reading class and an instant writing class at University of Southern Maine in March.  I am now teaching/supervising 2 mornings a week. Little by little my life self-assembles.

[Above photo: Could this be better?!! Pinelands Farm cross country tracks]

6 February 2022

Portland is well-adjusted to snow. Plows are everywhere. Big rumbling ones clearing the streets. Entrepreneurs with hydraulic blades on the front of their pickups, scraping driveways and parking lots. All manner of small and tiny self-propelled plows zipping up and down sidewalks, like the scoopers in Paris. And why is it that Parisians, looking down their long Gallic noses, are above bagging and disposing of their own pup’s poop?  Do they, in fact, not poop and, thus, are overwhelmingly surprised and repulsed by their dog’s business?

Somehow, I link it to their withering attitude towards those of us attempting to speak their language. Yes, we often butcher it. But isn’t it better to try? Isn’t that more respectful than simply being impatient with them for not grasping our tongue? I recall being at a cocktail gathering in Berkeley for a visiting French analyst.  Our son was at Ecole Bilingue and at that moment was in France for a several week exchange. He was in “Puteaux”. “Eh?” “Puteaux.” “Eh?”  This enlightening exchange continued for awhile, me trying to twist my tongue impossibly and use extreme glottal stops. Finally, on my last try, “Puteaux.” “Oh. Of course, Puteaux.”, drawn out dramatically.  Under her breath, no doubt, saying, “Why didn’t this dolt say so in the first place?” He and his sister, of course, were so fluent that they could pass, since they’d been immersed in it since kindergarten.

We had a big snowfall last weekend, which encouraged me to drive to Pinelands Farm, some 35 minutes distant. It is 5000 multiuse acres with 30km of groomed trails through meadows and woods. I seem to get lost in these places, as I had the day before at Riverside Golf Course.  This means, for me at least, 35km of groomed trails. Both days were glorious, bright sunshine and temperatures in the low 20’s, keeping the snow fast. In fact, I liked it so much that after my extended tour I returned to the Outdoor Center and applied the day’s pass fee to a membership for the entire season. It is unbelievably good upper and lower body exercise, given my inefficient movements. I have a rueful admiration for the young ‘uns who skate past at half again my speed. It is not easy to grow up and old.  “I used to race cross country in Colorado in high school.”, I mutter under my breath.

Friday we had about 3-4inches of snow (?sleet) as fine as sand. It was gritty and as light as talc as I swept if off the roof and windows of my car on Saturday.   A perfect day for skiing, I thought, as I squinted into the bright sun, driving through a wonderland of snowy woods and fields heading for Pinelands. Once there and on the trails, it was another story. 19F with a windchill factor lowering it to 4F. My nose immediately began to freeze so I put on a comfortable 3 layer tight-fitting face mask that my sister-in-law manufactures. (The middle layer is virus-trapping polyester fabric. GreenPeaPie.etsy.com) Since my nose runs in the cold, pretty soon the mask was saturated. And I was gasping, truly gasping, for breath. I wondered if I was having a coronary but had no chest pain. It being so cold and windy and I, feeling breathlessly vulnerable, turned back to the Outdoor Center, put my skis in the car, and ate lunch in the café, chastened. When I got home, I was beat, having exercised only 30-40 minutes. Later I realized that I was waterboarding myself, trying to breath rapidly and deeply thorough a soaked cloth. However, it made me feel old in a way I haven’t felt before. Accepting my ageing is taking some adjustment.

It is snowing lightly now, again, a gentle fall of large flakes, like a flock of shedding geese passing over.  [Maybe the MyPillowGuy is finally self-destructing!]  It’s 20F and dropping to 4F tonight. This afternoon I walked for a few miles, taking lunch at Sichuan and passing down to the waterfront so I’d have a hill to climb home. For reasons unclear to me, I am pretty breathless going uphill. I feel great on the level and perhaps just need to do more hills, gently and repetitively.

I’d forgotten about slush. I kind of like it, since my boots keep my feet dry. It is a funny admixture of two states of matter, liquid and solid. If we looked closely enough, probably some is evaporating in a gaseous state, as well. Since it hasn’t been above 25F for the past 3 days, it must be the pressure of tires and feet that heat the snow. Perhaps it is salt added to lower the freezing point. We used to dread it, which now puzzles me. Since we couldn’t use it for fun—snowballs, snow angels, snowmen, sledding, skiing —and it seemed determined to get our feet wet and cold, we scorned it. By April I may lose my admiration for slush. I say ‘admiration’ since holding an intermediate position—-neither solid nor liquid, passive nor aggressive, not forcing nor yielding—is not easy. Witness the state of American political polarization. The Middle Ground is elusive for most of us.

Jamelle Bouie wrote a very helpful article in the NYTimes today. It concerned Whoopi Goldberg’s innocent ignorance expressed on The View about the Holocaust: “It wasn’t racism. It was white people against white people.” Bouie’s point is that racism is not defined by skin color, rather by “the belief that human beings can be delineated into categories that share immutable biological traits distinguishing them from one another and determining their potential and behavior”.  As in Superior Race and Inferior Races. It has been used for centuries to group humans into classes: who deserve to be royalty, clerics, wealthy merchants, soldiers, professionals, the proletariat, slaves, etc. It is a way of justifying, solidifying, and excusing the practices of the ruling elite who determine the rules of the game. The essay was very helpful to me in trying to understand the genesis of the primal, and tribal, struggles with which our nation is aborning, yet again.  My only direct experience of birth and the pain has earned my respect..                                

[Above photo: Skiing at Riverside today.]

30 January 2022

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, Norm is 84yo and has been running the same 1 chair barbershop in the same tiny, two-story flatiron building on Congress Street for over 60 years. The last scalping he gave me in late October was sufficient for 3 months. Getting bushy over the ears and on the back of my neck, I returned this week, risking all. The basic haircut, I’ve discovered in Malawi, Myanmar, and Maine, is close-cropped sides and only slightly longer hair on top, giving me the look of a yokel or a Tatmadaw (Myanmar army) Private.

“How would you like it?” “Just trim it back over the ears and up my neck. Leave the top long.” “OK”. We chat. He tells me how accurate the Farmer’s Almanac is at predicting the severity of the coming winter weather, snipping away. “They look at the thickness of fur on the animals, how many nuts are the squirrels storing, something about the bees and about the birds.” Meanwhile, he is cutting the sides and top short. He puts the warm foam on my neck and scoops it off with a straight razor. We talk a little about covid and kayaks. Then he recaps the patter about the Farmer’s Almanac, word for word. And I realize he has re-lathered my neck and is shaving it a second time. I don’t have the heart to call his attention to it. I pay and tip him $2, he thanks me, and I look in the mirror at the identical haircut I got the last time. I suppose we all have our defaults and when our minds begin to slip, we rely on those. I’ll see him again in late April.

Upon awakening this week I thought about my first class of Child Psychiatrists in Myanmar and decided to write an email to one of them, Hnin Aye. She was a quick study and a very unassuming star in the class, first on both written and oral examinations and very thorough and intuitive with children and parents. She doesn’t have a child, which saddens her. She used to accompany me each day for a few blocks as I headed home from lecture in the late afternoon and we would talk. Her husband is in the merchant marine, at 35yo a First Mate about to take his Captain’s examinations. Hnin is always so happy to see him when he returns after 4-6 months travelling the world on a massive container ship. “We just love to chat with each other.” The two of them took me out to my favorite Wa (an ethnic group) restaurant in Yangon. Despite her talents, for Hnin is also a terrific teacher, I could not persuade her to enter an academic track.  She prefers to live in simple quarters in Maubin, a small delta town, and work in the district hospital and in her private clinic.

As I was having breakfast at 7:30AM, I scanned my emails to find one from her, sent at 4:20AM my time. My phone charges overnight in the kitchen, so I hadn’t seen it previously. We don’t communicate regularly and haven’t exchanged emails for perhaps 4 months. So how did that happen? I have had other, similar, experiences, anticipating something or deciding to contact someone and they turn up unexpectedly.  I think there must be channels of communication of which we are unaware. I know others have tried to explore this and it all sounds a bit woo-woo to me but how unlikely for it to be coincidence. I haven’t thought about her since our last exchange. Ah, sweet mystery of life! On the other hand, I get no response from sticking pins into a tiny replica of 45!

Prior to my lung cancer I gave blood regularly. The blood bank was a short walk from my house in Berkeley and it seemed like an easy way to be helpful. After my cancer and multiple chemotherapies I was not allowed to do so. I think there was an unsubstantiated fear that blood-borne tumor cells might contaminate my donation. I was told that 5 years after I was cured, I could resume giving. Now the delay has been reduced to 1 year. Listening to Morning Edition this week I learned of a blood shortage.  The Director of the blood bank at Vanderbilt Medical Center in Nashville said that instead of a 3-4 day reserve, they had only 1 day and that it reflected a national dearth. I made an appointment that day at our local blood bank and donated a unit. The nurse, Laura, noticed a mole with very irregular margins on my left bicep. “You’d better have that looked at.”

Now that attention was called to it, it suddenly seemed to me it had been growing and it was remarkably irregular at its edges.  However, it wasn’t the multicolored demon I associate with melanoma. But then there is amelanotic melanoma.  The following afternoon I had it biopsied. The 5 days until I received a phone call relaying that the biopsy was benign seemed a month. I recalled how difficult it had been to await the results of PET scans, MRIs, multiple biopsies, and even the surgical pathology report when I had lung cancer.  Knowing it was in me, growing and spreading, it seemed an eternity until I was able to schedule surgery and have the primary tumor removed. And my treatment went as rapidly and optimally as could be in a well-organized medical system. It alerts me to the fact that I am nowhere near to accepting my final breath on this tortured but miraculously lovely planet.

Prayers are sometimes, eventually answered. Portland received a good blanket of white yesterday.

As for today’s title, its members were the audience for a pamphlet written by Mr. Kurtz, as noted by Joseph Conrad in Heart of Darkness.  I certainly wasn’t prepared to absorb that tale in depth as an undergraduate. On a recent re-reading with a bit more life experience, I found it compelling, mixing as he does power, charisma, and intelligence with lust, corruption, and evil. “Droll thing life is—that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose.  The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself.” Of course, Mr. Kurtz wrote in the margin at the end of his pamphlet: “Exterminate all the brutes!”

Which brings me to the swelling stream of revelations by the January 6^th Committee of the extensive plans to interrupt the peaceful transfer of office and power from one president to the next at the conclusion of our last national election. The louder the cries of “Witch Hunt!”, the more assiduously should we shine a light on those howling and on their actions. False electors? Encouraging a riot? Looking for “just a few more votes”? A Power Point plan? Attempting to corrupt his vice-president? Refusing to interfere with mayhem in our Capital? Plans to seize the voting machines? Martial law? Continuing The Big Lie?

“He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath: ‘The horror! The horror!’”