Thursday, August 31, 2023

Labor Day Travel


Written Sep 1, 2022

In 2008 my good friend Alan Vaughan called from Gary, Indiana. He was driving to Florida. I told him I was leaving Palm Beach for New England. We hadn’t seen each other in a good 6 or 7 years.

“How you getting north?”

“I’m hitchhiking on I-95. I figure it will take 3-4 days.” I had a airline ticket from West Palm Beach to Boston, but preferred to mythize a northbound voyage. “I’m broke so that’s the only way I can get there.”
“You’re kidding?” He was incredulous. “I haven’t seen a hitchhiker the entire trip from the Upper Peninsula.”

“Not one?"

“Not one.”

“Well, I’ll be a blast from the past.”

I hung up and then called Alan the next day from the airport saying I was in Jacksonville.

The next day I told him I was in Dillon South Carolina. On Labor Day I said Roanoke Virginia.

"I’m making real good time."

By the way I was already drinking coffee on Watchic Pond in Standish, Maine.

The trip from West Palm Beach to Boston wasn't fun, but it was fast.

And there's nothing like Maine at the end of summer.

August 1, 1995 Watchic Pond Standish Maine - Journal Entry

My sister and the rest of the clan had deserted the camp to visit a nearby Aquapark, so I arrived on Watchic Pond and sat outside under the pines. My grandfather and his friends had dammed a stream to create the pond back in the 1920s. It always seemed part of my life. Two years ago my brother and I had drifted down the Saco River rapids. It had been a happy day. We all loved Maine.

The next-door neighbor, Cary Kimball, shouted out his greetings. His wife waved for me to join them on the dock for a glass of wine. As much as I wanted to be alone, I needed company too.

They had lost his brother only two weeks ago. My brother, Michael, died less than five days ago. We spoke of the dearly departed wishing they were with us. None of us spoke of heaven or hell or said God moves in strange ways. Life had been shucked from our brothers. This shared existence without them was an unwanted communion and we raised our glasses to their lives.

Cary's a pyschiatrist at Maine Medical in Portland. I told how my parents had brought to the Catholic Dioscian shrink to fathom my avowed atheism and that was the only other time I submited to having a mental examination was in kindergarten to divine whether my speech defects were from a diminished brain.

"I bet they used the word 'retarded'."

"They might have."

"You seem fine now and I know crazy."

"Postal workers."

"Lots of them."

"They go crazy having to deliver flyers people throw away. No love letters, no postcards. A meaningless job."

"I wish that was the case, but people have mental issues, because they have life and they aren't unaware of their psychosises until it's too late. I deal with a lot of veterans from the Viet-Nam and now an increasing number from the Iraq War. Going postal is an exxageration."

"Especially since we're all mad."

"More or less. I have this vet working at the SD Warren Paper Mill."

"I know it well." My grandmother had lived down the street. Its sulphur stench smelled of home to me an anyone living within ten miles of the mill on the Presumpscot River. "He was dealing with his horrors with drink. One night coming home from THE TOP OF THE HILL." The local bar on 25. "He rearended a moose. Their fur is stiff as a brush and wiped off his skin."

"Let me guess. He didn't stop drinking." I had no intention of getting sober. I was still in mourning for Micheal.

"He's trying."

"Good for him." I held out my glass.

He filled it to the brim.

Rasta Mayans

Everyday thousands of migrants from foreign lands cross the southern borders of the United States. They seek salvation from the terror of war, drug dealers, their governments and climate change. They come alone or with families. Few suspect how America will change their children.

The young are changed biologically by the chemicals in the food and the plastics in the water. The parents worked hard jobs and the kids gain weight, but they also grown in height and other day I spotted a Guatemalan teen who was at least 5-10 and he had a dreadlocks. The first tall Rasta Mayan I ever saw, but a few ancient codices survived the the Spanish Conquest to reveal the Dreadlocks of the nobility.

The dreadlocked kings ruled Copan, Tikal, and the hundreds of pre-Columbian cities throughout the Yucatan as well as the Aztec and Incan Empires. Mummies of the nobility have long threads of hair. They were Rastas before Bob Marley. Spanish conquistador Bernal Diaz del Castillo record the following in his history, "Here were priests with long robes of black cloth... The hair of these priests was very long and so matted that it could not be separated or disentangled, and most of them had ttheir ears scarified, and their hair was clotted with blood."

Jah ruled the world.

Tuesday, August 29, 2023

Sleaze a la Old Bangkok

Written Apr 1, 2019 Most tourists to Thailand have wandered through Patpong, but the old sex entrepot has been tamed by time, but even twenty years ago other than the sex shows on the second floors there was never too much sleaze of the soi. Mostly straight-forward go-go bars and beer halls with the usual barfine and 'love you long time' lines.

Ho-hum.

Massage parlors. Girls with numbers washing you with their bodies. Very sensual, but how wicked could a place be when you're being washed clean for an hour.

But back in the 90s Bangkok had dives. Bars your mother prayed you would never enter. Booze halls your father never visited. Den of iniquity you don't write home and brag, "Gee, you should have seen where I spent Christmas."

My first dive in Bangkok was Kenny's Bar off Soi Duplei.

Kenny’s purported to be a bar/restaurant. Walking by you wouldn’t think it was anything evil judging from the daytime bunch of losers searching for the chance of sex or drugs or whatever comes there way. There was even a little gambling going on and Kenny was always trying to get you to go with his girlsor him or the three of them, but in the end he was a family man and sadly went off to the UK with a lover. Now his cousin Fat Pat maintains the same level of depravity.

The next three were godless haunts with no socially redeemable values.

If you even know of these places you have already sold your soul to the Devil.

Congratulations.

Eden Club off Sukhumvit.

You walked into the bar.

The manager, a weedy frog, said, "The Eden is not for drinking. It is for fucking."

The Frenchman clapped his hands like the Marquis de Sade. The girls separated into two groups. Michel, that’s his name, explained, “The girls on the right are 2 hole. The girls on the left 3. Do you need me to explain?"

If you hit the Eden right then you can choose two princesses, but if you show up with a friend, then you fight over the pickings.

And let's face it going to a place like the Eden is no fun unless you can brag about your exploits to your friend afterwards.

3-holers were understandably not as pretty as 2-holers.

But they were good to mix and match.

The girls will do anything to each other for an hour; dildo, 69, XXX movies, but bring your party hat because the Eden costs about 3500 for an hour and the clock started ticking from the time you leave the bar. So no lingering on the stairs.

If you were stuck for ideas, the girls will provide inspiration.

The owner, Michel, the garlic eater, promised 'satisfaction guaranteed or your money back'.

Which was almost impossible after you've been satisfied better than an Ismaeli Asāsiyyeen who are promised raisins and not seventy-virgins in heaven or Jannah.

The Eden was a fine place to walk out feeling like you need to confess your soul, but it was far from damnation. That honor was accorded two legendary Bangkok establishments.

It's 2am. everything is shut. You're still up for hell.

Damn Satan. I'll take his best shot.

For real sleaze you need some place when you mention its name, friends scrunched their eyes and say, "You're not seriously thinking about going there."

The Thermae Coffee House commotes die-hard devotion to a life of sin.

Entering the bar required courage. Farangs descended into a firetrap populated by the possibly wildest girls in Bangkok. Their fun began way after where yours ended.

Thermae was not for the casual tourist as the male clientele was better suited for a police line-up in any country in the world; dealers, thieves, scammers, drunks, losers, perverts as nauseum.

If pets resembled their owners, then these guys own rats, snakes, and weasels.

In short the Thermae was a Disneyworld funhouse for deviants.

The girls could be scary. Ugly enough to make a train take a dirt road or else scary in the sense that you never knew what you were getting into; fight with an ex-, STD, psycho burn-out at your hotel, possible jumpers.

But that was the price of admission to the most depraved place in town.

The Thermae was sin and you know you’re a bad person sitting there.

Plus it was almost impossible to get its smell off you.

At the reception of your hotel the staff would take a sniff.

'Eau de thermae'.

Their esteem dropped to the level of a street dog, especially when your date from the bar entered after you. Cheap slutty and drunk. Miss Dok Thong 2006. The next morning the staff checked your room for possible theft of towels. A post Thermae ritual.

GRACE BAR was a dark star of depravity, which even scared the infamous Stickman.

Despite numerous edicts on early closure of bars in Bangkok, the Grace strove to uphold its myth. The girls were beasts and the men were lovers of beasts. No one seemed to bathe or change their clothing. Some smelled like they might have died in the past 2-3 days.

Everyone at the bar had inhaled enough second-hand smoke to get cancer and their life expectancy was under constant threat from alcoholism and drugs. The males were drop-outs from the Osman Bin Laden suicide camp, Nigerian scam artists, Sikh tailors who haven't washed in a year, and American expats too fucked up to realize they were not in a go-go bar.

The women were beautiful, if you had lost four of your senses. Most of them were old, which was good because the people frequenting the Grace should be banned from procreation. Customers and girls ODed in their chairs. No one tried to revive them, because one deserved a second chance in the Grace. They had wasted those long ago.

The Grace was a hellhole.

Still you had to love these places, because without them Bangkok became one big shopping mall. And we don’t buy anything in those emporiums.

Well, maybe Ginger Crisps at Marks and Spencers.

Monday, August 28, 2023

YELLOW TEETH by Peter Nolan Smith

I have been arrested several times in my life.

Age 12 for vandalizing an abandoned missile base overlooking Boston Harbor

Age 21 for driving over a bed of flowers at a girl's college in Newton.

Age 25 for running an after-hour club in Manhattan.

Age 31 in Paris for grafitting the British Embassy wall. The gendarmes thought my poem was an IRA tirade, instead of drunken verses to my girlfriend working across the street at the Azzedine Alaia salon opposite the embassy on Rue St. Honore.

None of these crimes deserved jail time. My violent streak never came to the attention of the police. My drug deals were strictly small-time. I avoided contact with the Mafia. They were as dangerous as the Hell's Angels, Hamburg pimps, Colombian cocaine dealers, and conniving transvestites.

My mother had warned me about these people.

"If you see trouble coming, walk the other way."

I was near-sighted, so trouble found me long before I noticed its approach.

Luckily my Uncle Carmine told his wayward nephews the Golden Rule.

"Only break one law at a time."

His advice stood us well and I avoided any serious complications with the law for twenty-two years, however no one's lucky streak can challenged the odds forever and in January 2008 I returned to Central Pattaya after a pleasant seafood lunch with my steady girlfriend in Jomtien.

It was a good life.

I was living alone in the most wicked town on the planet. My website selling counterfeit Ferrari and assorted F1 merchandise was # 1 in the Google search engines. The weather was cool and I had shipped a big order of McLaren driver suits to Germany.

Another week of good sales and I would be out of debt, then I could get my yellow teeth whitened to a brilliant white.

I entered my estate off Soi Bongkot and parked my motorscooter before my rented house. Another month and the mango tree would bear fruit. Everyone in the neighborhood waited the harvest with lip-smacking anticipation.

A mini-van stopped behind me. At first I thought it was my brother-in-law coming for a beer and I wondered why he brought so many friends.

Except it wasn't Pi-Wot but the Bangkok police to arrest me for copyright infringement. The oldest officer in a black suit presented a search warrant. The other cops were undercover in jeans, tee-shirts, and sneakers. I wore sandals. Running was not an option. I opened the gate, then the doors to my office.

They politely took off their shoes and entered my office. Twenty F1 shirts lay in plastic bags on the floor. They seized the merchandise and the ranking officer asked, "Where’s the rest of it?"

"That's it." Business had been traditionally slow after the holidays.

A computer geek sat at my computer. He wanted the codes to my site. Refusal was out of the question. Cooperation was rewarded with leniency, but tonight looked like i would be spending the evening in a monkey house. They were never comfortable.

"Can I go outside?" I wasn't needed for the dismantling of f1 shopping.net. The long-haired geek knew his business and his fingers swept over my keyboard like a tsunami.

The commander nodded and two cops accompanied into the garden and I hyperventilated, as a series of prospective scenarios played in my head. Most of them finished in jail.

One of the younger cops told me to calm down, "Jai yen. Jai yen."

"That's easy for you to say." I had seen MIDNIGHT EXPRESS more than once.

He wasn't being arrested in a foreign country.

"No big problem. Maybe 2000 baht." He explained the fine would be about $60. "We take you Bangkok. You pay bail and then go home. Mai pen lai." 

American detective from Quantico Ltd. was supervising the operation. His company had been looking for me a long time. Rusty was a Yale graduate. His online persona had emailed that his mother wouldn't allow his use of her credit card and I had accepted a Western Union wire to my real name. I had mailed him merchandise, but had written phony addresses on the envelopes, thinking that might protected me.

At least it was a comfort that my ex-wife hadn't sold me out to the tam-luau.

How they had tracked me back to Soi Sawan was unimportant, but Rusty also said it wasn't such a big deal, "Not the first time. Next time you go to jail."

"Message well taken." I had been trying to quit for ages. "I don't want to go to jail."

Jail in Thailand is a bare floor with thirty-plus other misfortunates.

"You won't." Rusty had arrested scores of counterfeiters.

"You seem like a smart person. Why are you doing this?" I hated snitches.

"Why did you do this?" Rusty was in his thirties. His Thai was impeccable.

"So I could stay in Thailand." The other employment opportunities were either a low-paying teaching job or running a bar.

"We all do what we have to do."

The old lady on the street came up to me. I paid her to clean my house. She had received perfume for Christmas. The police had questioned her about me several times and she had never said a word. I also hated people who didn't snitch.

"I tell police you good man." Thai police studied the ways of the Gestapo. Thailand had a long fascist tradition. The only up for informers were the police.

"Thanks." Her testimony was the best a woman in her position could do for a farang.

"These police not same Pattaya. Honest. Not worry."

"Sure." I always worried when people tell me not to worry, but the police never cuffed me or confiscated my telephone. The older officer asked if i had any drugs in the house. I told him the truth.

"Ganga no problem. Get rid of it."

He sent me into the house and I flushed the two joints down the toilet.

When I came out, he asked, "You want beer?"

"Yeah." It couldn't hurt and I reached into my pocket.

"Mai, mai." He waved his hand in the air and leaned forward. "I talk with everyone and they say you good man. I will take care of you. I not like other farang."

He was speaking about Rusty and his employers. The old lady had said that they were honest, but this arrest was unlike any that I had seen on Sophon Cable or read in the Bangkok Post.

After two hours of checking my computer and packing the merchandise, they transported me to Bangkok in an air-conditioned mini-van.

Halfway to the Sathon Police Station they stopped for food and bought a bag filled with a McDonald’s Happy Meal. This was not my last meal and I realized how fortunate I was to have been arrested by Federal police.

A Thai friend in Bangkok met me at the police station. His face said COP same as mine. Khim worked as a chauffeur. He explained the process and said, "Small problem. You get bail. Go home."

Strangely everyone was very polite to me. My holding cell was an office with AC and a TV with my choice of DVDs. I didn’t feel like watching anything as I was reading Peter Hopkirk's THE GREAT GAME.

Later TV crews showed up for a show. The commanding officer for copyright infringement pointed to a pile of two-thousand shirt. "This farang was caught with 4 million baht and 2000 shirts."

"No, khun tam pit." I whispered under my breath. He had made a mistake and I pointed to a single bag down the corridor. "Those are these."

"These?" Someone had properly not briefed him.

"Yes, 20 shirts. Nothing more."

He waved to the TV crew to shut off the camera. End of interview.

The arresting officers laughed at their boss.

I sat in an AC office watching TV. Movie of my choice. INSIDE MAN. I was fingerprinted and filled out an arrest form. When the cops announced bail of 50k. I said I didn't have it. That was the truth.

"40k?"

"Mai mee kap." Speaking polite Thai helps in situations like this.

"30?" There was no way they were dropping to 20 or 25.

30 it was. A little less than $1000.

Khim and I said, "Yet mah." or motherfucker.

We were short the bail. I had 15 k in the bank and Khim had 500. Nu couldn't sell a motorcycle until tomorrow. The monkey house loomed as a probability instead of a possibility. No beds, no blankets, cheap rice twice a day, and lots of mosquitoes. The antithesis of the worst Bangkok in Bangkok.

I made one phone one call. The Old Roue lived in on Soi Nana. I knew him from New York. I asked for 20K. He had 15K. Khim drove over to Soi 4 and picked it up. Without the Old Roue I would have been in the monkey house for who knows how long. I called him to say thanks every few days and also let him know I'm still broke.

"No problem man, you get it when you get it."

The whole process from raid to release took seven hours with a two-hour trip to Bangkok thrown into the program. The Fed cops had me sign an affidavit confirming no one had asked for a sin bon or bribe.

After the money was paid they cut me loose. Khim spent 200 baht on 5 bottles of Khang. I drank 3 of them myself.

I fell to sleep happy that I didn't spend any time in the 'monkey house'. No chairs, no fans, and lots of mosquitoes as a prelude to the Bangkok Hilton, the Koong Toey jail.

I appeared on national TV that night. Channel 5. The Army station.  The police had said, “Not worry. Not many people watch Channel 5."

Everyone on my soi saw the newscast.

Several Thai friends said I looked handsome. They couldn't care less that I was arrested. It's something that happens.

Everyone was astounded by this revelation of how much money I had. "You have 4 million baht."

My old lady who cleaned my house knew the truth. I was broke and wished I had the 4 million baht. I could get a job at the local school teaching English and make about $300/month. 10,000 baht. 300/baht a day is a big comedown from 3000 baht a day.

This story is far from over, since the cops said it would be at least 6-10 weeks until I go to court.

Another day in paradise has gotten a little less paradisaical, but it's always better to be free.

Moby Dick Amnesia

Everyone of my generation was forced to read Heman Merville's MOBY DICK. THe first line of this epic novel "Call me Ishmael" was burned into our memories and teachers spent days trying to decipher the meaning of author, but none of us were aware of MOBY DICK's voyage in American Literature having only sold 3000 copies during Merville's life. After slipping out of popularity Merville was employed at the US Customms House in Lower Manhattan. I have visted that oval room many times and imagined Merville working day after day at a meaningless job dreaming of foreign places and a pen in his hand. I discovered a mist-masked bust of Merville near the Customs House, but in recent years I haven't been able to find the wall panel, as if he was once more banisheded into neglect. Thus flees fame and Merville died in 1891 with none of his books in print. but I still love TYPEE, his romantic novel about two sailors deserting thier whaling ship in the Marquesas Island. It shed light on a world beyond the land.

First lines from TYPEE

CHAPTER ONE

THE SEA--LONGINGS FOR SHORE--A LAND-SICK SHIP--DESTINATION OF THE VOYAGERS--THE MARQUESAS--ADVENTURE OF A MISSIONARY'S WIFE AMONG THE SAVAGES--CHARACTERISTIC ANECDOTE OF THE QUEEN OF NUKUHEVA Six months at sea! Yes, reader, as I live, six months out of sight of land; cruising after the sperm-whale beneath the scorching sun of the Line, and tossed on the billows of the wide-rolling Pacific--the sky above, the sea around, and nothing else! Weeks and weeks ago our fresh provisions were all exhausted. There is not a sweet potato left; not a single yam. Those glorious bunches of bananas, which once decorated our stern and quarter-deck, have, alas, disappeared! and the delicious oranges which hung suspended from our tops and stays--they, too, are gone! Yes, they are all departed, and there is nothing left us but salt-horse and sea-biscuit. Oh! ye state-room sailors, who make so much ado about a fourteen-days' passage across the Atlantic; who so pathetically relate the privations and hardships of the sea, where, after a day of breakfasting, lunching, dining off five courses, chatting, playing whist, and drinking champagne-punch, it was your hard lot to be shut up in little cabinets of mahogany and maple, and sleep for ten hours, with nothing to disturb you but 'those good-for-nothing tars, shouting and tramping overhead',--what would ye say to our six months out of sight of land?

My family whaled the oceans.

Atlantic and Pacific.

My great-grandfather died at sea twice.

I have killed nothing and never eaten man.

I'm not scared of nothing than the jaws of Mooka Dick.

HALFWAY AROUND THE WORLD by Peter Nolan Smith


Written Oct 12, 2021

Distances around the world have dramatically shrunk with the spread of jet transportation. Columbus' voyage to the New World lasted almost two months. That trip from the port of Palos in Spain to Plana Cays in the Bahamas would now take about twenty-hours with a train to Madrid, flights to Miami and Nassau followed by a small hop to Plana Cayes. A long day, but a fraction of the time Columbus' flotilla spent on the Great Atlantic.

My great-grandaunt Bert traveled to Asia on her father's clipper ship during the 1870s.

They traveled across the Atlantic around the Cape of Good Hope to traverse the Indian Ocean to Singapore and beyond.

"The voyage took eight months.

In 1960 my father drove us down to visit Aunt Bert. Her house in Falmouth Heights, Mass. was a memorial to her journeys. The stately nonagenarian greeted us at the door with her Polish nurse. I had never seen a man or woman that old, but her ancient eyes dashed with life. She invited us inside and waved for my older brother and me to explore the house. It was a young boy's delight.

Tobacco stained hookahs, scrimshawed whale teeth, blood-encrusted harpoons, bet swords, and African fetish masks adorned the hallways. My older brother and I put on wicked masks to duel with narwhal tusks. We were pirates on a rage.

"What do you think you're doing?" My mother was aghast at our liberties.

"Don't mind them." Aunt Bert waved a weathered hand in the air. "All boys go a little mad seeing these 'things'."

"But they might break something." My mother came from a good Irish family. Children were carved into adults with the smack of a belt. She eyed out a warning. I cringed to decipher its meaning.

"This harpoon was used by a Samoan to kill a whale for my eighth birthday. We were off the coast of India. If a whale couldn't break it, then your boys can't either." My great-grandaunt would have been my age in 1868. She had never had children. Her side of the family was old New England blood.

"And those masks come from headhunters in Papua New Guinea. Their tribe ate people. I don't think that cannibals care about your boys breaking them. Maybe they would have like to eat your heart more."

No one spoke like this in 1960 and Aunt Bert lifted the masks from our faces.

"Make your mother happy. Put down those things and come drink tea with me." Aunt Bert led us into the sitting room. Her nurse brought us tea and ginger snaps. She looked at us, as if she was calculating the measure of our worth.

"When I was your age, I sailed with my father on a whaling ship."

"You told us that they killed a whale for you."

"Off the coast of Madagascar. You know where that is?"

"East of Africa." Geography was my favorite subject.

"The boats chased the whale. The whale fought for his life. After he was killed, the boats towed the carcass to the ship. The crew cut off the blubber into Bible leaves and turned it into oil in pots. The entire ship smelled of whale fat, but the fire from the oil was beautiful. My brother and I could see our shadows on the deck. It was almost magic."

I had fallen under her spell and sipped at the tea.

The ornately carved table had been transported from Siam. The cups were Wedgewood. The silverware came from Mexico.

"Would you like one sugar or two?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Of course you want two spoonfuls. Young boys like things sweet."

"Thank you." My mother had raised us to be polite.

Aunt Bert noticed our staring at the table's carvings of naked women snaking up the legs to honor a dignified king. She smiled and caressed the wood. It was more alive than dead.

"My father bought this table in Thailand. It used to be called Siam. The women there were beautiful but had black teeth from chewing betel nut. The weather was hot, but they loved sweets too. Lovely cakes."

Her clawed hand pushed forward a plate of pastries.

My brother grabbed a cream puff and I chose an eclair.

My father came into the room with my mother and their conversation with Aunt Bert was lost thanks to the heavenly taste of the chocolate eclair.

The next time I saw Bert was at her 100th birthday. President Johnson sent a telegram. Her family surrounded her. She was sitting in a wheelchair. Her smile blessed the younger generations. She called over my older brother and me. We were almost hippies.

"The men in Borneo wore their hair long. They had tattoos too. Same as the whalers." Her head drifted on her neck, as if she might be dying and I asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm a hundred years old. When I was six, my father gave me a watch for a birthday present. I have it somewhere." She obviously couldn't remember where and I gazed at the sun to the west and said, "It's almost four."

"That how the whalers told the time. By looking at the sun." She closed her eyes and mumbled out a song in a low voice, "I want to be an angel and with the angels stand, a crown upon my forehead and a harp in my hand."

I kissed her on the forehead.

She fell asleep in her chair.

We spent the rest of the afternoon with our cousins.

The last time we met was at a nursing home. She was close to death. Bert spoke our names with a gasp.

"I had a good life. I have seen many things. Things no one will ever see again." Her smile said what those were without her telling what. "You boys have a good life."

She died several days later. Her will left everything to the nurse. It seemed wrong that someone outside of the family should have the harpoons, but not fighting the wishes of the dead was considered good manners in Maine.

I often think about the curios from her house, especially when I travel to the Orient.

My last trip from Fort Greene in Brooklyn to Sri Racha on the Gulf of Siam was on the new Airbus 380.

JFK to Dubai on Emirates in fourteen hours.

Dubai to Bangkok another 6 hours and after clearing customs an hour drive to the small house overlooking the harbor.

The total travel time from door to door twenty-seven hours beat Aunt Bert's record along with the short voyage of Christopher Columbus, however the return trip was a marathon, thanks to an eight-hour lay-over in Dubai and a long queue at JFK.

The TSA treated everyone as a terrorist candidate. The government flunkies searched my bag for contraband, while an Arab patriarch with fourteen kids waltzed out of the customs terminal. Their bags towered over mine. None of them looked like Al-Qaeda, but the TSA weren't taking any chance with an American with a passport thick with immigration stamps.

"What were you doing out of the country?"

"Visiting my family in Thailand and drinking beer." I missed my son and daughter more than I was willing to tell anyone in a uniform.

"Sir, this isn't a joke." The TSA agent was too serious for my taste.

"I know that." I kept my answers to the point and soon exited into the terminal.

Taxi drivers waited outside the doors. I wanted to be on the plane taking off. Fenway and Angie were halfway around the world. I walked past the cabs.

The SkyTrain connected me to A train, which was a straight shot to Fulton Street.

36 hours from door to hour.

I entered my apartment exhausted by the trip and fell asleep within minutes, but woke up at 3am.

I bet Christopher Columbus had never suffered from jetlag and neither had my Aunt Bert, but then they traveled at a different rate of speed, as I would come Christmas.

36 hours to Thailand was nothing to me or Aunt Bert.

We were world travelers and circumnavigating the globe ran in our family.

Sunday, August 27, 2023

Whales for Sale USA

Written Feb 20, 2013

Back in 2007 two humpback whales became befuddled by the backwash of mobile phones in San Francisco Bay and swam seventy miles up the Sacramento River. Oceanologists failed to seduce the errant sea mammals to the open sea with love sirens from other whales and Japanese researchers offered to lend California marine biologists a sonar signature of their whaling ships in hopes that the whales will flee the estuary in terror. The Bush administration responded with an entreaty from a Sapporo fish market, which would purchase the pair for scientific culinary purposes should the whales die.

"Maybe this gesture will ease the entrance of US beef into the Japanese market," one FDA official mused at a Georgetown sushi restaurant.

Whale meat?

Yes, whale meant.

In the 1960s a Haymarket fish market served whale sandwiches to Bostonians. My friend and I tried one. It tasted nothing like beef or chicken or salmon. It was much better, although my great-grandaunt Bert who sailed around the world in the 1870s said that that the cheaper slabs were very blubbery and full of fat.

Despite its deliciousity I never ate it again for moral reason.

I guess it was too much like eating a fat person, but it's a good thing whale meat has no aphrodisiacal properties or else the Chinese would have sucked the bone marrow out of the last whale decades ago.

Lip-smacking good.

ps thankfully those whales made it to the sea after feasting on the fish in the estuary.

Moby WTF


Written 4/12/16 6:25 PM

Several Palm Sundays ago I woke with an urge to see the ocean. It was a sunny day. The Hamptons were too far away for a day trip, however Rockaway Beach was close. When I told my roommate about the excursion, Vladmar laughed at me, "Rockaway Beach not ocean. It is song from Ramones."

"It's enough of the ocean for me." Sea gulls and waves and a greasy green sea. "You want to come?"

"For what? To see garbage float in water." Vladmar lit a cigarette and went out on the deck.

"See you later." I walked to the subway stop and caught the L train to Broadway Junction.

Less than an hour after leaving Graham Avenue the A train crossed the Broad Channel.

Several fishing boats trawled the current at the bridge.

I got off at the next stop and strolled down a desolate street to the beach. The wind blew from the west. A young man flew a kite. Seagulls flirted with the string. The sea was cordoroyed with gentle swells.

I could feel the chill in the water and turned my face to the sun.

Sun, sea, wind, and earth.

The four elements.

The horizon was slabbed with low-lying fuel tankers. A single surfer rode the waves. A black object bobbed in the water. At first I thought it was a large piece of flotsam ie floating debris versus jetsam, something which has been jettisoned by a ship's crew.

The object dipped under a wave and then reappeared fifty feet away. This flotsam moved fast and had a small fin. Too small to be a shark.

"A whale."

Thar she blows.

A whale in New York City.

I watched the cetacean for several minutes. No one else on the beach noticed its passage. They were busy on their cellphone or texting SMS. I called Vladmar.

"I saw a whale."

"No way you see a whale."

"Yes, I swear I did."

Vladmar hung up on me and phoned several other friends who said I must have been hallucinating about Moby Dick. I can't remember ever reading Melville tome, even though I can recall the first line.

"Call me Ishmail."

It is not my name.

A whale on a flashback. I wasn't sure of what I had seen, but on Wednesday the NY Times confirmed that a humpback whale had been wandering the waters off the Verrazano Narrows. Vladmar apologized and asked, "You have picture?"

"No." The whale had been too far off shore and my camera is a cheap Cannon. "I only have it in my head."

And that's where it will stay.

Moby What the Fuck.

Bertha Goes Whaling 1871

Aug 23, 2021

My great-grand-aunt Bertha Hamblin Boyce wrote this in her 96th Year.

"Maria, it is almost time for my ship to sail. Are you going with me this time?"

That was my father, Capt, John C. Hamblin, speaking to my mother. She had been with him on two voyages, and he hoped she was going with him this time. My sister Alice was born in Australia, and my brother Harry was born in Norfolk Island, in the South Seas.

My mother shook her head and said, "Oh, John, I don't see how I can go this time."

There were six children to leave at home. But I noticed that the trunk came down from the attic, and Aunt Abby and Uncle Josiah came up from Pocasset to take care of the family, as they always did when Mother went whaling. And Bertha, age five, and Benjamin, age two and a half, were outfitted for a whaling voyage; so there were only Etta, Alice, Harry, and John, the four older children, to leave at home.

The ship, the Islander, sailed out of New Bedford. That is where they sailed from in the 1870's. The only way to get to New Bedford was to take the stage coach, so we went bag and baggage by Stage. We never had been on the stage coach before, so that was exciting, of course. A horse and buggy had been the wav we traveled, as there was no railroad in chose days.

When we got to the wharf in New Bedford, there was the ship out in the harbor. We had to go out in a row boat. I remember I was very much afraid the sailors would spatter some water on my beautiful new hat. But I don't chink the hat got wet.

We reached the ship and went aboard. The cabin looked rather small to me after the living room in our great big house in West Falmouth, and I wondered what my mother was going to do with two lively children in that small space.

The Captain's bedroom, with its swinging bed, opened out to the tight of the cabin, and when bedtime came for Bertha and Ben, a trundle bed was pulled out from the swinging bed. And there is where we slept all the time we were on the ship.

On July 25rh, 1871, up went the sails and off we went for the Indian Ocean. And I could have told the whales that they should stay out of sight under water or my father would catch them!

I guess they didn't stay under water. They have to come up to breathe, you know. I am told my father sent home 895 barrels of sperm oil from the whales taken in those two years on the Indian Ocean. So I guess the folks had plenty of oil for their lamps and didn't have to go to bed in the dark.

Everyone wants to know what we did for amusement. What did we find to play with on board a ship bound for the Indian Ocean? We won't see land again for quite a while. Instead of the woods and green fields for our play ground we will have the ship's deck. It was July. The weather was warm, so we will go up on deck and see what we can find that is interesting. I guess there was no danger of our falling overboard, for Mother let us go up alone.

Of course, there were the sailors, but they were too busy on the first day out to pay any attention to us. There was a little house on deck called the cook's "galley," where he gets the food ready. We had to get acquainted with the cook, hoping to get a handout. Then there was a great big sea turtle crawling around on deck. He didn't look too friendly, but I can tell you that I spent many hours on that turtle's back while he was touring the deck. I was careful to keep away from his head so he couldn't bite me. I suppose that in the course of time he was made into turtle soup and other good things to eat, for we brought home a big box of turtle shell, which we shared with our friends.

Ben was a lively little lad. One day he was playing with a rope on deck. The wind was blowing, and the ship was rolling, and Ben found himself swinging out over the sea! Evidently he wasn't frightened for he held on and came back when the ship rolled again.

In the morning as soon as breakfast was over one of the sailors was hauled up to a seat at masthead called the crow's nest. The sailor had a spy glass, which he used to search the sea for sight of a whale. When the sailors on deck heard the words "There she blows!" they knew a whale had come up to breathe and had thus disclosed his whereabouts. The sailor would also tell his latitude and longitude from the ship.

Down go the whale boats into the water; the harpooners begin the chase. Very likely the whale goes down again, but they follow him until they get a chance to harpoon him. Then the fight begins! They are fortunate if the boat isn't smashed before they hit a vital spot. The whale has an enormous jaw with big teeth and can do great damage to the boat. I remember we brought home a whale's jaw that hung on a tree in our driveway for a long time.

Naturally the whale fought for his life. After he was finally killed, he was towed to the ship. The cutting stage was lowered, and the men peeled off the blubber (the fat) in large pieces. It was then hauled aboard, cut in smaller pieces called Bible leaves, and cooked in the try pots. Up in the bow of the ship there was the fire with two large, iron try pots. This is where they cooked the blubber and turned the oil into wooden barrels to be sent home. The fire was started with wood but later would be fed by scraps of boiled blubber.

Sometimes the try works were burning at night, and we enjoyed that. We could see our shadows on the deck.

In those days kerosene was not plentiful and there was no electricity, so people had to have the oil for lamps. I remember two Sandwich glass lamps on our piano which burned oil but later had kerosene burners. We had the first piano that was brought to West Falmouth.

I don't know the names of the islands in the Indian Ocean where the sailors went ashore. Unfortunately, I gave my father's log book away and have lost track of it. The captain or first mate wrote each day's happenings in the logbook. I used to read it once in a while. I remember it told which way the wind was blowing. And all up and down the edge of the page were little black pictures of whales if they had happened to sight one. I remember that one day he wrote: "Next week is Thanksgiving. I hope next Thanksgiving will be spent at home. If it weren't for hopes, what would we do."

I remember that the sailors did go ashore, for one day one of them brought back a pail of turtle eggs. The turtle lays its eggs in the sand and depends on the heat of the sun to hatch them.

We must have stopped at an island where there was a cow for they brought back some milk. My mother scalded the milk so it would keep. It was on the table in the cabin. I decided to take a drink. It burnt my mouth, and I screamed, "I am dead, I am dead!" My mother put me in the swinging bed with Arabian balsom in my mouth, and I was soon asleep. I didn't die!

Sometimes there was another whale ship sighted. That was a great day. The captains would visit each other and have a gam and have dinner together. They would talk of world affairs and share experiences.

Sometimes days went by without sighting a whale. This was rather dull for the sailors, so they spent their time making things out of whalebone. These bones and the things which were made from them are called scrimshaw. It is highly prized by museums. I have two beautiful boxes made of whalebone. My father, Capt. John, was a 33rd degree Mason, and one design was a Masonic emblem. They also made India ink pictures on the large whale's teeth and on ostrich eggs. I also have what is called a swift, for winding yarn. It is adjustable so you can wind a large or small skein. They made a fork of whale bone with a wheel on one end which they called a gadging wheel, used to crimp pies.

My mother used one of these. She must have crimped hundreds of pies for her big family and many guests. She didn't have time to make cookies, so she made what she called "hard gingerbread." The top was ornamented with the wheel. When it was cool and cut into squares, it was like soft molasses cookies. It was much enjoyed by her eight children and all the neighboring children, who were always welcome at our house'.

We sailed the Indian Ocean all of the year 1872 as far is I know. I do know that August 31st was my sixth birthday, and I spent it on the ship, which was anchored between Africa and Madagascar.

My youngest brother was born on the ship the day before I was six. His name was Ernest Seaborn Hamblin. When he grew up the children used to tease him by calling him an African and saying that he could never be president of the United States.

A whale was caught on my birthday, and my father promised to give me a watch for a birthday present.

I remember my father took Mother and me over to see the Chief of Madagascar. He had seven wives. I remember just how they looked. They were dark skinned of course, being Africans, and they were dressed in white. Their lips were blood red from chewing betel nuts. I tell the girls that is where they got the idea of using lipstick.

Early in 1873 my father must have decided he had caught whales enough, for we sailed for Australia. We left the ship in Tasmania, for I remember the ride across the island. There was a wonderful road made by convicts—prisoners from England.

I never will forget that ride across the island of Tasmania. Wild roses were growing all along the road. The blossoms had gone but the red seed pods were very beautiful to me, who had looked out on the Indian Ocean for so long.

When we reached Australia we stayed with a Mrs. Tassell. She was a misslonary, I think. Anyway, she had Sunday School for the natives. Evidently she had Bibles to give away, for she gave me one. I have that Bible now. My mother wrote my name in it and the date presented by Mrs. Tassell. It is such fine print I don't think I could read it now. She also gave me a song book which I lost on my way home. My favorite song was:

I want to be an angel And with the angels stand, A crown upon my forehead And a harp in my hand.

The ship was sold in March, 1873. Capt. Hamblin, my father, had decided to give up whaling and go home. The ship sent home 895 barrels of oil and never went back to New Bedford. The first mate, Mr. Hiram E. Swift of Whitman, Mass., now took over as Captain. His wife came to be with him and brought their little daughter, Amy Louise, but no little boy.

Capt. Swift once visited us in West Falmouth and told me that his little girl had my picture and made a real playmate of it. He also told me (hat one day I went into the cabin and got his pocket book to play with. I told him I didn't take the white money, I only took the yellow money. It was the gold I was after. Even at that early age I knew the difference.

Captain Hamblin and family were now ready to go home by way of London. We took a steamer for London, stopping at Lisbon, Portugal, and Le Havre, France. I know we visited those places for I have on our living room table a pretty little shell snuff box from France and a large shell that held a thimble, little scissors, and a case for needles that I bought in Lisbon.

Our next stop was London. The thing I remember about London was that my little brother decided he would explore the city by himself and was lost in the crowd. My mother was frantic until he was found. We also made a visit to the Zoological Gardens and almost got a ride on an elephant. The elephant was off on a trip with some other children, and we couldn't wait for him to come back.

Our next stop was at Fayal, one of the Azores. We were there long enough to visit one of the parks and to eat some nice little cakes brought around by a man with a little tin trunk. We also have a beautiful lace shawl from there. My mother always told me that the thread was neither cotton or silk but the fiber of a tree. It is a museum piece. We also have some flowers made of feathers, which are still perfect.

Now we are really on our wav home on another steamer. We left home on the stjage coach; but while we were away, the railroad was built to West Falmouth, so we had a ride on the train.

Of course, there was no one at the station to meet us because there were no telephones in those days, and no one knew just when we would arrive. Our house was not far from the station, so we walked home. I will never forget that walk home. The Boyce house wasn't built then. The only house I remember was painted white with blue blinds. It looked very pretty to me. The First stop was at the Hamblin house, to get reacquainted with Aunt Abby and Uncle Josiah and our brothers and sisters. That was exciting! In the course of time we also got acquainted with the house in the barn, also tile hens and chickens, also the two pigs in the pigpen. Life was going to be quite different from our life on the ship in the Indian Ocean.

There were hay fields in front of the house and woods to explore at the back of the house as we got acquainted with West Falmouth. But that is an other story.

I last saw my great grand aunt in 1960 on her 100th birthday. Bertha was in a nursing home, but I recall a vist to her house. it was filled with objects from those travels; shark jaws, Maori spears, scrimshaw. She left everything to her nurse.

The Catoosa Blue Whale


Entered May 15, 2011

Whales are everywhere.

Saturday, August 26, 2023

ATLANTIC SLAPDOWN by Peter Nolan Smith

Written 9/8/16

Last Saturday afternoon the streets of Brooklyn sweltered in the sultry August heat and my landlord invited me to join a family excursion to the beach. I had only swam in the ocean twice all summer, so my answer was quick and to the point.

"Gimme five minutes."

I ran upstairs and changed into my beach gear, then grabbed a towel. We weren't going far and I hurried down to the street in time to help AP load his kids' bikes into AP's Audi A6 station wagon.

"Nice day for it." The temperature was in the mid-90s.

"Any day is." I sat in the back with the door open. The afternoon air was breathless and I toweled the sweat off my face. His daughter and son bounded down the stairs and joined me in the back. Lizzie and my daughter Angie were born only a few days apart, while James was two years older than Wey Wey. I considered both AP's children family. Mine was on the other side of the world in Thailand.

"Everyone set?" their platinum-haired mother, Kay, asked from the front.

"Ready," we chorused and AP drove through downtown Brooklyn to the Dumbo exit of the south-bound BQE. Traffic was nearly non-existent along the shore of New York harbor and we round the Narrows past Coney Island. AP got off the BQE at 11S to cross over Jamaica Bay Inlet on the Gil Hodges Bridge after which AP entered Fort Tilden, to which he had a parking permit from the Rockaway Artists Collective.

After pulling out the bikes, the two kids rode ahead on the crumbling roads of the decommissioned military outpost, while we tramped toward the beach.

Fort Tilden had served the nation since the War of 1812 and existed as Naval Air Station Rockaway throughout the 20th Century. Coastal guns had at one time dotted the dunes to protect New York City from invasion. During the Cold War Nike Hercules and Nike Ajax missiles had been installed in bunkers and launch sites to shoot down Soviet nuclear missile.

AP's eight-year old son was desperate to find a silo in the flowering beach heather.

"Why don't they not have missiles now?"

"The fort was abandoned in the 70s."

"Why?" It was only the second of many whys and AP was a good father. He answered each and every one through the dunes.

We reached the beach, as the crowds were heading for home. The wind off the water was cold. The beach was strewn with plastic bags and beer cans. AP's son asked why.

"Because people are pigs," AP answered and stripped off his shirt. He had summered most of his life on the Hamptons. This was his ocean. His daughter and son waded in ankle-deep surf, as he plunged into the thick ocean rollers. I wasn't quite ready and policed the sandy stretch around us for trash. After five minutes it was almost pristine and I dropped the bag of garbage by Kay reading a book.

"A little better now."

"Wasn't any plastic on the beach when I was growing up."

AK's wife came from San Diego. I knew those beaches from the 70s.

"You think the Atlantic is different from the Pacific?"

Both are cold." She put down her book and surveyed the green waves. "The surf is bigger back home and the slope doesn't drop off so fast like it does here, but it's almost the same. What about Thailand?"

"The water there is calm and warm." I shut my eyes and saw Angie and Wey Wey on Mae Laim Phim. My kids loved Rayong. The sand was soft and the water was warm, plus palm trees lined the beach. Nothing was getting me there today and I opened them to see Lizzie and James before me.

"Are you going in?"

"No, I just sit here. I'll watch your garbage."

Kay resume reading her book.

"Thanks."

I tugged off my shirt and walked to the edge of the surf. AP stroked through the surf and shook the water off his body.

"You kids ready for a swim?" AP was a good swimmer and a better father.

"Yes."

Lizzie disappeared under a wave. Her younger brother was more cautious.

"I'll carry you." AK lifted James in his arms and wandered into the deeper water. I missed my sons. My daughters too.

"Don't mention it." I was also a father.

I ran into the ocean. I duckdove under a large wave and Aussie-crawled about a hundred feet from shore. The current swept east at a fast clip and I swam to keep AP and his daughter before me. James shouted and pointed behind me. A surging wave built a sloping face. I rode it for a good twenty feet before the wave collapsed onto the sandbar, slamming my body to the sand and I popped to the surface gasping for breath.

An unusual pain throbbed in the ribs.

Lord Neptune had tried to kill me, but I wasn't an easy victim and bodysurfed to shallower water. Standing up I inhaled deeply. The ache wasn't going away and I decided it was time to call an end to this swimming expedition.

"You okay?" AP asked emerging from the surf with his daughter and son clinging to his neck.

"I might have bruised a rib, but I'm okay."

His kids ran to their mother.

It was three months since my last visit home.

Sea water was good at hiding my tears and I said, "Nothing a few margaritas wouldn't cure."

"Your wish is my command." AP is a kindred soul. "Let's go get some in Rockaway. Tacos too."

His wife liked the idea.

"That was quite a tumble you took."

"It only hurts when I laugh."

"I bet it does, but it will go away." Kay understood the ache in my heart, but her children were happy and I was happy for them to be happy and ever happier that we had gone to Fort Tilden. I inhaled deeply and grimaced from the pain.

It wasn't bad and I follow my friends to the car.

They were a family and so was mine.

And one day soon I will go see my kids.

On the sands of a beach far away.

And that will happen one day.

Thai Words for Smile

Written Jul 24, 2008

Different languages have many words for the same thing.

Eskimos supposedly have 15 words for snow.
You can read them on this URL

http://www.ecst.csuchico.edu/~atman/Misc/eskimo-snow-words.html

The travel movie AMAZING THAILAND claims the Thais have 13 words for smile. This statement falls into the realm of urban legend, although the Thais have a smile for every occasion.

Happy? Smile. Sad? Smile. Crash car into buffalo? Smile.
I went to www.thai2english.com to see how close they came to 13.

6 was the answer.

Yim - Smile

Roi yim - Smile

Feun Yim - Forced Smile ie after you tell your wife you're not giving her any more money for the week.

Om Yim - Smile knowingly ie your wife knows you'll hit an ATM for her if you want to go out with your friends and not get an earful.

Bproi Yim - Distribute smiles to ie smile to others saying what a fool your husband is not thinking he can get away without hitting an ATM

Obviously there are some smiles even the Thais don't recognize.

Yim Mah - Doglike smile on your girlfriend's boyfriend who's you think is his brother.

Yim Kee - Shit-eating smile on your girlfriend after you discover her brother is really her husband.

Yim Beer - Your smile after figuring a bottle of beer is more faithful than your girlfriend.

Yim Kwai - Your smile as seen by Thais. Buffalo grin

Yim Talung - Your smile walking down Soi 6. Otherwise known as a leer.

Yim Im - Smile after eating too much.

Yim Isarah - Your smile upon biding your missus adios.

"Free at last, free at last. Good God Almighty. Free at last." Martin Luther King.

Friday, August 25, 2023

March On DC Plus 60

Written 8/26/2013

August 28, 1963 hundreds of thousands of Americans assembled in Washington DC to march for Jobs and Freedom. They gathering had a good number of whites, but the marchers were predominantly black and very brave considering how the police treated any congregation of coloreds with violence.

The DC police had mobilized the entire force and its chief had called in the National Guard to maintain order and had gone so far as to forbid liquor sales in the capitol.

The sound system at the Lincoln Memorial had been vandalized and organizers had demanded Attorney General Robert F Kennedy for a replacement.

The US Army made the necessary connections and the next day the area around the Reflecting Pool was occupied by the largest gathering of African-Americans ever held in the USA. The mainstream media expected mayhem. None expected peace from blacks. They were wrong.

A moment of silence was observed for the passing of W. E. B. DuBois and according to Wikipedia Roy Wilkins told the crowd, "Regardless of the fact that in his later years Dr. Du Bois chose another path, it is incontrovertible that at the dawn of the twentieth century his was the voice that was calling you to gather here today in this cause."

Speakers from the SNCC, CORE, and SCLC extolled immediate action against racism.

With good reason.

Martin Luther King Jr.'s took to the podium.

I was twelve years old and watched his speech on a Zenith TV.

I knew no black people.

I lived in a suburb south of Boston.

His words struck my soul.

The preacher had a dream and I have shared that dream throughout my life.

One day we will enter the Promised Land.

To hear his words please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smEqnnklfYs

JFK on the March to Washington

Written August 13, 2013

Two years ago the BBC News reported that JFK had attempted to block the 1963 March on Washington for fear of violence and painted a picture of a president apathetic to the plight of blacks in America, however the article ignored to mention the Justice Department descending on Birmingham after the police chief had sicced dogs on peaceful Civil Rights demonstrators and had focused on Martin Luther King's Statement that 'the events of the early summer had transformed the struggle for black equality from what he called a "Negro protest" into a "Negro revolution". America, he feared, had reached "explosion point".

For the most part the violence was one-sided with white supremacists bombing churches and firing at SNCC volunteers, however the specter of a slave uprising scared whites and JFK was concerned about losing the South to the GOP on the issue of equal rights.

Upon hearing on the March on Washington JFK called out the National Guard and the FBI spied on march organizers and radicals opposed to non-violence.

Snipers were placed along the parade route.

But on August 28 there was no violence.

JFK listened to King's I HAVE A DREAM SPEECH.

"He's good - he's damned good”

I thought the same thing in Boston.

I hoped for a better day.

And so did JFK.

After the speech the black leaders came to the White House.

It was hard to stop being a white man and see all men as men, but this country was founded on the tenet that all men are created equal.

JFK understood that and his brother even more.

We are all family.

Thursday, August 24, 2023

Cumberland County Kingdom


Written Nov 28, 2022

From the Kezar Pond to Saco Bay.
Old Orchard Beach to Bailey’s Island.
The land of my youth
The summer camp on Watchic Pond
Built by my grandfather.
An orphan became a frontline surgeon in WWI France.
A retreat from the horrors to Maine
With a nurse, my grandmother.
A noble woman from a 9th generation Maine family.
Gorham was their refuge
They had a family
And moved to a huge farmhouse
In Westbrook under the shadow of the SD Warren papermill.
Cumberland County was a land of tall pines.
My best friend was Chaney.
He found a basket of dead puppies.
We threw them into Portland Harbor.
The tide took them to sea.
My innocence was destroyed by death
In 1960 Chaney drowned in Sebago.
He was only eight.
I never saw his gravestone.
Four years later a big-breasted girl working at a drugstore counter asked,
“Will you walk me home?”
At 12 a walk was a walk.
I stuffed my comic in my jean’s back pocket.
And drained my glass of vanilla soda.
I accompanied the girl along the Presumpscot River past the paper mill.
No houses.
No voices.
Only the grinding of the wood saws across the river
And the murmur of cars along Route 25.
We stood in the woods.
She lifted her dress over her head.
Her breasts rose as puff pillows.
I ran.
Ran fast chased by her laughter.
Running to my grandmother’s house.
Upstairs to a bedroom with sea murals
I lay in bed.
My innocence gone.
In 1975 my grandmother passed away.
The camp was sold.
The house on Main Street too.
Chaney’s family moved north.
I went south.
To New York.
A city of too few pines to soothe old ghosts
Of an exile from Cumberland County.

Wednesday, August 23, 2023

Seagulls In The Air

Written Jan. 1, 1920

When I was six, my best friend Chaney and I walked to the end of the McKinley Road on Falmouth Foresides. Portland lay across the harbor. The color of the water was a Maine blue. Seagulls skated through the cloudless sky. Chaney pulled out darts from his father's den. He gave me one. I threw it and the dart hit a seagull in the neck. Its wings quivered and the bird fluttered to the mud flat. Blood spewed from the wound. Chaney and I watched the bird die. A wave lapped over the gull and washed the corpse into the harbor. Chaney put away the darts. I hadn't even aimed at the gull. We walked back home. Neither of us said anything to anyone. Not even to Cathy Burns. We both loved her. Chaney drowned in Sebago Lake in 1960. He was eight. Always will be eight. I will never forget him.

HEAVY METAL ACCORDION by Peter Nolan Smith

Written May 3, 2020

Every boy has a best friend in his youth.

In 1959 my family lived on Falmouth Foresides. Mckinley Road ended at the bluff overlooking the mudflats of Portland Harbor. I was lucky enough to have two; my older brother Frunk and a neighbor.

Chaney and I attended the same kindergarten class at Pinewood Elementary in Falmouth Maine and we did almost everything together boys were supposed to do that far north.

In the winter we played hockey in the small backyard rink my father built from 2 by 10s or else sledded down a gully to a tidal ice pool. During the summer we swam in the shallow waters beyond the marsh grass and bicycled to the forbidden bridge crossing the salt flats to Macklowe Island.

That August in 1959 the two of us crawled under the fence into a strawberry field and ate ripening fruit on our backs. The farmer caught us and my father paid him for four quarts. They were worth his angry words and ten whacks of the wooden spoon from my mother.

Partners in crime, but Chaney and I were in love with the same girl, although Kathy Burns only had eyes for Chaney. He played the accordion. I had no musical skills, even though my mother was famed for a voice capable of silencing the Portland Cathedral choir.

Chaney was a protege on the squeezebox. He mastered SINK THE BISMARCK and DAVY CROCKETT as well as standards from his music teacher; YELLOW BIRD and MACK THE KNIFE. I envied his virtuosity as well as Kathy's admiration of his talent.

That autumn our brunette schoolmate held a birthday party to which I was not invited. Chaney brought me a piece of chocolate cake. After hearing about how he had kissed Cathy in her basement. The cake tasted like chalk, but I congratulated Chaney's success.

What was a girl between best friends?

The next summer my family moved south from Maine to a suburb south of Boston. Chaney and I vowed never to go swimming, unless we were together. His parents had a place on Lake Sebago and my grandmother's cabin was on nearby Watchic Pond.

"Wait for me."

"You and me only swimming together."

"And take care of Kathy Burns."

"I will, because one day I'm going to marry her."

I bid him good-bye and my father drove us south in our Ford station wagon. It had wood paneling and he liked to go fast.

That summer was warm in New England and my parents took us to Nantasket Beach for Memorial Weekend. My mother considered the wide strand of sand to be the best beach in the world and she had been to Bermuda for her honeymoon. My brothers and sisters ran in the eddies of the surf. My father swam past the waves. i sat on the blanket and my mother asked, "Why aren't you in the water?"

"Because I told Chaney I wouldn't go swimming without him.

"We won't be in Maine for another two weeks."

"I can wait."

"Seems a waste." She reached out her hand. "Come with me."

I was a good boy and obeyed my mother.

The Atlantic was cold, but not to the young.

Upon our return to our suburban development my father hosed off the sand and salt off his boys outside, while my mother showered my two younger sisters inside. We dried off in the warm summer sun.

The phone rang in the living room. My mother answered it and came out a minute later with wet hair.

"Go sit in the car."

"What I do wrong?"

"Nothing. Just do as I say." She was on the verge of tears.

"Yes, ma'am." I went to the station wagon and sat in the front.

To the West the setting sun shadowed the silhouette of Great Blue Hill.

Several minutes passed before my mother came to the car. She leaned on the open window with a pained weariness and said, "Chaney drowned this afternoon."

"Drowned how?"I already knew how.

"In Sebago Lake. Everyone had gone waterskiing and left him with his grandmother. He swam out too deep and struggled in the water. The grandmother couldn't swim and he drowned. Say a prayer for him."

"What time?"

"I don't know. This afternoon."

My mother walked back into our house.

I sat in the car and looked at the sky seeing only the sky. C

haney had broken our vow, as had I at Nantasket Beach.

One of us paid the price.

Chaney.

Not me.

Two weeks later my family headed north for a vacation on Watchic Pond.

My father drove first at Falmouth Foresides. New people were living in our old house. We stopped at the Noyes. I hung out with his brothers. None of us spoke of Chaney. As we prepared to leave, I saw Cathy Burns across the street. i walked up to her and she said, "I know what you did and so did Chaney."

"I swam."

"You were wrong."

"I was. I miss him."

"Me too. Chaney could play accordion."

Yes, he could."

"And he kissed good too."

An hour later I was swimming in the tannin-tainted waters of Watchic Pond. It was wide enough, but short by a mile to make a lake.

That night my parents sat around the campfire and my mother sang 'YELLOW BIRD'

I wished Chaney was there to play accordion.and since that sad day every time I see an accordion I think of Chaney and any time I see a street accordionist I ask them to play SINK THE BISMARCK. None of them know the Johnny Horton tune and I request IN-A-GADDA-DA-VITA.

None of the accordion players can play that 60s hit either, however I'm sure that Chaney would have liked Iron Butterfly.

Cathy Burns too.

After all we were all best friends.

To hear Rene Sevieri's cover of IN A GADDA DA VIDA, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ugt9pZVkgtg

The South Shore to Maine - New England - Quinton Sprague and Peter Nolan Smith

Written Aug 24, 2021

THE SOUTH SHORE TO MAINE by Quinton Arundel

At the 169
Willem gives his blessing to our road trip

Peter visits a friend Franny
I drive a rented car to Nantasket
Hull
Fried clams at Tony's on Wollaston Beach
Talk Heroin. More honest than cocaine. Talk about dropping qualludes in the Duxbury cranberry bogs
The old Bay State Colony

The Quincy Quarries ain't no more. Emerald water is grass surrounded rock cliffs

No one in his family lives in Boston. Route 128 is their home.

Listen to Jonathan Richman's ROADRUNNER
Head north on 128 to Cape Ann, Gloucester, Rocky Neck
Swim at the Rockpport Quarry.

Peter jumps off the cliff into the water
The police come to investigate our trespass onto private property.
Peter explains he could read the signs because he's dyslexic and has been swimming here since 1970
"What's your excuse?" asks the officer.
"I'm with him."
We leave wet from the leap

Ipswich Beach.
Beautiful sand, but not the quarries.
We stop at the Babylon of the North Shore

Salisbury Beach.
"I did acid here in the winter of 1971."
"How was it?"
"Wicked."
Our only direction was north.
Portsmouth NH
Kittery Maine
York Maine.


My land and lobstahs too.
Tomorrow north to Falmouth and Sebago to hear the myths of weird old man.
Weird old men never get old.