A Living Magazine - Day 339-340 - Homecoming - Brattleboro: Respite and Excuses

Can't say much about these two days. They were notable only by their lack of notability. As has happened a few times before in this blog when resting at a motel, I didn't take any pictures. Mostly what I did was work. There was much to catch up on. Brattleboro is a nice place, conducive for resting, and working inside. Of course there was also a lot of culture there. I was short on funds, or rather, needed to keep a close eye on how I spent them.

I wanted to go see a band, but my energy level was rather low and I was concerned about how much money I might spend on beer. I know, I know, I could have bought Cokes, but I just associate live music with beer. Judge me if you must. I blame it on thirty years of playing in bands at bars. I simply do have more fun with three or four beers  in me. Anyhow, not spending the money was my excuse for not checking out the local music scene.

I'm sorry to say that I didn't even walk downtown. I have been to hundreds of neat towns, with thousands of things to do and see. I'm not complaining, but when you've kind of been there and done that so many times it can get old. I was already out in public 16 hours a day. I was essentially on stage. And, in my line of work (whatever the hell it is that I do), being in public involves a lot of getting stared at. Yes, I could have gone incognito by leaving my backpack in the room. It might have been nice to be just another tourist. I don't know.

I did have one major task on the first full day: laundry. Now, with my new clothes from Jeff, I didn't have to change in the bathroom of the laundromat, which was good as I discovered there was no bathroom. The place - Bucket O'suds - was only a half mile away (I left a review on Yelp). It is a card laundromat (buy a card for $1 and load money on as needed). Not the ideal for me, since I'll never be there again to use the card. I gave it with $0.50 left to a young couple doing about twelve loads.

When I was done I walked down to the China Buffet, a place Jeff noticed on his way back out of town and had suggested, another block away from the laundromat. The hostess was very friendly, which was nice.  The food was slightly above average. Sushi, a bit below average and rather boring. But, shit, $7.50 for lunch? At this place you do get more than you pay for. My fortune said: "Someone who waits for you at home will become a friend for life." Nice. Hope she's a she, interested in older men and very long distance walks on the beach. Kidding...kind of.

After returning and working, I watched most of the entire Godfather on HBO2 and fell asleep before it ended, at about 4:00 a.m.

The second full day and third night went just like the first, sans the laundry, and replacing the buffet with a Hannaford salad. I went to bed much earlier, sticking with the Travel Channel. As is my pattern before leaving for the road again, I didn't sleep very well and woke up in a cold sweat several times during the night. I couldn't remember my dreams. Were I to guess, I'd say they probably weren't superific.

Mostly, these three nights were valuable, private and restful. I needed all three. The next day would begin the adventure again right where I left off.

A Living Magazine - Day 338 - Homecoming - Bernardston to Brattleboro

It was a nice night. I had a sneaking suspicion that the morning was about to unleash a deluge from the sky. And, sure enough as I packed the tent poles in Saggy, I felt the first drop hit. I had no plastic bag to put the laptop in, so it was basically the only thing on my mind. I had to make it to Brattleboro before the pack became so drenched that water would leak into that pocket.

As soon as I began walking up Route 5 the rain really started pelting me. I had something like 12 miles to cover. I'd never walked that far and long (three hours and 40 minutes) in the rain, since leaving Boston all those months ago. I steeled myself.

There were a lot of picture worthy things to photograph, but I was fearful about the rain on my camera and resisted the urge. Basically, this walk really, really sucked. There simply is no more uncomfortable thing than hiking in the pouring rain. I've hated it everytime, and I believe I always will. I was changing the old song, "Singin' in the Rain," to the following sarcastic lyrics...

I'm wallkin' in the rain
Just wallkin' in the rain
What glorious pain!
I'm miserable again...

...singing as loudly as I could. Hey, I had to do something to keep my mind off the thought that my laptop might be permanently destroyed. In short order, my shirt was completely sopped. It didn't take long for my shorts to follow suit. My shoes, which were already worn through the treads, soaked up every puddle, and then squished the water out through their tops. My feet were swimming. I felt my socks - which were already in bad shape - wrinkling up as the insoles dissolved and disintegrated around them. It didn't take as long as I thought it would to get across the border. I had camped much closer than I'd planned. And, this was a good thing.

All the while, my laptop was what really concerned me. I could imagine having a little camera in the pack pocket, positioned up at the zipper and seeing a drop slowly get larger and larger, swinging back and forth, just ready to descend onto the computer.

Two and a half hours is a long time. You can drive from Portland to Boston, watch a movie, play a game of cards, do a big crossword puzzle...or, walk six miles in the rain. After that amount of time had gone by, I realizing that I still had another five miles to go--or so I thought. I saw the sign for Brattleboro, and then a little store came into view. I stopped in just to get a break and a snack.

Stepping up to the register with a cheese danish and a small coffee I felt like a scuba diver. The facial expression of the woman behind the counter seemed to confirm that I was indeed an odd sight, worthy of fins and a snorkle. I smiled. She did not--a common reaction for we common rain-walking vagrants. But, she was happy to take my money, did not say thank you, and simply turned around to keep fiddling with the cigarette lighters. My anger rose and then fell again. This was more than just choosing my battles. I instead chose not to ruin her morning. She can thank me some day when I'm rich and famous and come through there in my red convertible BMW coupe. Ha!

I waited a little longer under the overhang of the roof outside, eating my unkind breakfast, before pressing on. Then, I pressed on. I'd only gone another mile, when a black VW Jetta drove up and pulled over beside me. An older gentleman with a young voice asked if I wanted a ride. He was faced the other way, but said that he had passed me and turned around. Throwing my ideals of walking the whole way to the four winds, for the second time on this New England wallk, I accepted--gratefully, I might add.

I apologized after putting my pack on the back seat and in anticipation of getting his passenger's seat all wet. He was one hell of a nice guy and simply said, "No worries. It will dry." As we drove into town, I asked him how close I'd gotten. He told me there were about three miles to go. That would have been another hour. We got the Anna Hunt Marsh Bridge in only five minutes. We talked, and I told him about the project. He said he had a feeling I wasn't the typical hitchhiker. I explained why I don't wear a raincoat (because of sweating so much that I get wet anyway), but to him I still looked unprepared. And, in a sense he was completely right. Had I thought more about it, at least I would have wrapped the blue tarp around the backpack.

His name was Rob. He said he lived just up the road. He and his wife had bought a dairy farm years ago. But, after converting it over to meat farming (chickens, pigs, and lambs), this was the first year he wouldn't be raising the animals. He had a day job as a real estate agent, but was retiring just this year. He wanted to do some fun stuff and travel. His daughter just moved to Colorado a few months ago with her husband and children. He and his wife were planning on visiting them soon. He had (coincidentally) a 47 year old son, who'd attended Hebron Academy (in Hebron, Maine) and had made lifelong friends from Maine. He told me that every single year for the last 20 years these guys have gotten together for a big party at his farm. He said, "I always leave that weekend." Ha!

He asked where I wanted to be dropped off, and I told him my friend had reserved a room at the Motel 6. We pulled into the parking lot and I gave him a business card. I really hoped that he would read this blog or friend me. He is the kind of guy I could really hang out with; easy to talk to, smart, easy going and his son is my age. While writing this post I tried to find him on Facebook and tried searching Google for a good long time, with no definite results. I would say that easily 90% of the people I give cards to, and have passed through my life, never get around to contacting me again. Not their fault. I totally understand. I just hope that if this project is ever more widely recognized, they will remember meeting me and will try to get in touch.

I shook his hand, and grabbed the pack from the back seat. As he drove off, I thanked the Spark for sending him my way. Then, I went into the Motel 6 office and got the key. All went well until I mentioned my expired ID. I explained my project and she said, "Well, I'll accept it this one time, but we do require a valid ID for the future." This has been the major thorn in my side (besides rain) for these last two years. I hadn't reminded Jeff (the friend who offered to pay for the room--buying three days) of the situation, and usually I have my manager Joyce call ahead to introduce it all. Something to keep in mind as all of this wraps up. We need a tighter system for folks who are generous enough to buy rooms third party. Anyway, it all worked out.

Speaking of Jeff, I needed to contact him right away, because he wanted to meet up on this day. As soon as I got into the room I took off all my wet clothes, removed everything from the pack, and took a shower. Then I got online and noticed Jeff had left a Facebook message wondering if I was there yet. I pinged back. Unfortunately, I had no clothes left to wear; all of them being wet or dirty. But, once he arrived, I realized that wouldn't be a problem.

Jeff is the guy who gave me a ride from Charlestown, Rhode Island to Milford, Connecticut in 2014, where he also gave me much of what I still use to this day. Midway through this current Living Magazine Journey, while I was in Minnesota, he sent the precious tent that has made my time ever since much more settled. Until that point, I'd used only a tarp for all of my rough camping. There is simply no way in hell I could have done all that I've done since October of 2015 without that tent. It was more than just a blessing. It was a true requirement and probably the greatest material item I have ever received.

To see Jeff again now after all this time, was almost unreal. When I'd seen him last, he gave me advice about dealing with animals, camping, routes to take, and was mildly dubious as to whether I'd be able to last long enough to make it to California--offering to help extract me from the situation if things got too difficult. It isn't that he didn't believe in me, it was more like he knew just how hard it would be, and - like a good friend - gave me an out if I ever needed it. He was the one I called "The Human Protector" on the Manifest Destiny Journey.

Now that I had essentially made it out there, to the West Coast, and come all the way back to near his residence in New Hampshire, it was definitely a thing worth celebrating with him on this day. And, he arrived bearing even more gifts, including new shorts, shirts, toiletries, underwear, socks, and brand new shoes! In addition, he brought food. As someone who is naturally averse to receiving gifts, I've learned how to deal with it in all the donations, hosts and meals I've accepted over these last 19 months. Still, I felt a twinge of guilt at receiving so much from Jeff on this day. And, it wasn't over yet.

After I'd put on clean clothes and we talked for a little while, he asked, "Are you hungry?" Shit, yeah. We hopped in his car and drove back downtown to the Whetstone Station Restaurant, right next to the Anna Hunt Marsh Bridge (Route 119--between Brattleboro, Vermont and Hinsdale, New Hampshire). Nice place...

We had a friendly server who set us up with a flight of their house brews...

Jeff, getting ready to indulge his beer tooth.

We were so busy talking and catching up that our poor server had to ask us three times if we were ready to order. Eventually, we got around to looking at the menu. When she returned we were ready. Jeff ordered the "Crazy Happy Waitress Grilled" - cheese on country white bread with cheddar, cream cheese, tomato and maple glazed bacon. And, I got the "Platform B.L.T." - Maple glazed bacon with lettuce, tomato and black pepper aioli on toasted white bread.

When our food arrived, we were accidentally handed each other's meals. I immediately chomped down and then we realized that they were reversed. But, this give us the opportunity to switch sandwich halves, and eat a half of each. The food was really great. Tons of bacon, with a fresh side salad. Jeff's sandwich was very interesting, being a mixture of melted cheddar and cream cheese. And, mine had a terrific maple taste to the bacon. Perfect lunch...  

When we were getting ready to go, Jeff saw a very unusual bird down on the rocks, way below us. It had a crest on the back of its head. I took the following picture...

I'd never seen a duck like this in the North. Apparently (and I'm not positive), it is a Wood Duck.

Though they are mostly on the West Coast and Deep South they come up to New England  to breed.

I wasn't quite sure yet which route I would take into New Hampshire after my respite in Brattleboro. There was the Route 119 way south and the Route 9 way north. Jeff offered to show me a bit of what 119 would look like, should I choose to go that way. He knew of a covered bridge in Ashuelot--an unincorporated town between Hinsdale and Winchester. So, off we went...

Love this sign. Seems like a little man in a booth with a radar detector,

a ticket pad and a sharp pencil should be sitting at one end.

Knowing my mom loves covered bridges (she once wanted to see every covered bridge in New England), I delighted in sending her some of the above images. Hopefully she'll read this soon and see the rest of them. According to Jeff there were a lot of covered bridges along the way to Northern Massachusetts to see, if I choose this route.

Eventually, Jeff had to be getting back home and had an hour and a half to drive still. He dropped me off at the motel and took off. We planned to meet up again in Lowell, Massachusetts  at the memorial and grave site of Jack Kerouac. In doing my research for this post today, I discovered that the annual anniversary of his death was October 21 (he died 1969). It was the day after, in 2014, that I left Portland, Maine. I don't know much about Kerouac. I watched On the Road about a week before leaving Maine. And, I had been mesmerized by the way he wrote on the few times I had read his poetry/philosophy. He had an outlook much like I do.

Until today, I was not aware that he was Roman Catholic and a Buddhist. With my longtime interest in Buddhism, and a Christian background (though I would not consider myself officially a "Christian" now), I find him even more interesting. Jeff had made the comparison between Kerouac and myself a few times, and separately, others had mentioned it as well. It seems only appropriate that I should pay homage to the man while I am in this region. It also makes sense to do this while with Jeff, who raised my attention about all of this to begin with. It is from Lowell that I will make the final leg: the march to Boston.

Once back in my room I worked to publish a couple of posts. Then later on I walked down to Hannaford (a grocery store chain located throughout New England), and bought a few more food items for the next two days. When I returned I settled back in my chair and just hung out online while watching the Travel Channel and Food Network (my pastime habit in motel rooms after my writing chores are done). Within 24 hours I had left Melinda's, slept along the highway, walked in the rain, got a ride from a great guy, got to see Jeff and have a great lunch, published two posts, and had a couple hours to relax. What a day! I went to bed at a reasonable hour and slept very, very well.

A Living Magazine - Day 337 - Homecoming - Greenfield to Bernardston

In the morning we had delicious almond flour pancakes that Melinda made. I think she cooked up and egg for me too. After breakfast she showed me early 1900's pictures of her family and their campsite in Boothbay Harbor. 

I kept hemming and hawing about when I should leave. With each person I've visited in the last few months I've been more and more reluctant to leave. And, with Melinda, I'd felt so comfortable. Staying just felt natural. But, I couldn't. There was still quite a bit of walking yet to do.

When late afternoon came, I ate an enormous lunch. We still had some Chinese food left, and I had some hot dogs that I knew Melinda would never eat. I ate as many as I could and then tossed the extras (something I never do--I hate wasting food).

It was also a bit later than I'd planned to leave; almost sunset. But, I was finally packed up and ready to go. We had a nice long hug, and she took this shot, before I walked down the street toward Vermont...

Fattened up for the Journey.

The plan was to walk north up Route 5 as far as I could, and look for a sleep spot somewhere around Bernardston. I figured I could do about five miles until the traffic got too dangerous along the slim shoulder...

Neat little stone house.

The Farm Table. We'd driven around the parking lot on our way

back from Brattleboro a few nights earlier.

It was quite a walk. For some reason I can go farther at night, or it doesn't seem like it takes as long.
I didn't discover until the next morning that I'd actually gone eight miles. I was looking for a spot that I'd seen on Google Earth. Of course I couldn't really see a damn thing at night, but guestimated that I'd come near it when I saw a place on the left with a field on the right, spaced just enough between two houses as to not be visible. I went into the woods, deciding it was as good as any other place.

And, it wasn't bad. There was a mixture of pine needles and leaves. I found a level spot and cleared it of sticks. The spot itself was very close to the road, but obscured by a large boulder and a stand of small pine trees. It was due to rain the next day, but I decided not to deck out the tent for it, betting it wouldn't come earlier.

The forest was cool and dark enough that were no mosquitoes. I climbed into the tent. It was so nice to have clean clothes and a clean sleeping bag. The zipper on the bag had come apart several camp spots earlier. And, now I was just sleeping with it open on the side. There was no problem since the risk of temperatures going below about 40 degrees was long over. I also remembered that I had a new light from Melinda, and it worked wonderfully...

Survival Frog Air Lantern. It inflates, with mirrored surfaces on top and bottom, a series

of LED's on top and a little solar panel to charge it. The plastic around it helps spread the light.

Traffic lightened up significantly on Route 5. Mostly what I heard was the hum of I-91 in the distance. The peepers were really cranking out the tunes. Interesting to note that my spring has lasted from early March (well before the first calendar day of spring). I'd been hearing peepers for a solid three months. I learned way back in Durham, North Carolina, at my sleep spot there, all about the behavior of peepers. A lot can be gleaned when you spend so much time listening and observing one thing.

First, if there are an enormous amount of these little (less than an inch long) "chorus" frogs (Pseudacris crucifer), there will often be two tones heard, in waves that rise and fall in volume. And they don't sound like peeps. They sound like a high pitched wind, like a distant jet engine firing up. In Durham this was over-the-top extraordinary. The first tone - let's say the higher one - will sound for a good 10-15 seconds. Then it will die out, and the second (lower) tone will climb and fall for the same amount of time, beginning the cycle over again. 

I was fortunate enough to be about three acres away from this insane din, when in Durham. Had I been down the hill and closer to the marsh where these horny creatures were singing, I think I would have been driven mad. Something to think about before building or buying a house near a swamp.

Secondly, peepers will temporarily stop singing whenever something large enters the scene. In Durham, it was a small family of deer. They were foraging at the bottom of the hill and then ambled straight out into the marsh land. Immediately the peepers ceased for a good five minutes. They started up again, presumably after the deer had moved on--or maybe they got used to their presence. This is an excellent early warning system, by the way. If you're camping and the peepers suddenly stop, you will know for SURE that something larger than a rabbit is around. There is no other reason why they would stop.

Also, pause to consider that the mating commotion you hear are only the males of this species, singing to attract a mate. So, if you hear a million of these tiny amphibians, there are another million silently being sought after. The singer's at my Bernardston sleep spot were calming, rather than irritating. 

It was interesting to think that these were the first days New England was being graced by the peepers. I had the distinct feeling that I'd towed the spring up from the South with me like a long flowing, green cape--melting the frost, pulling the leaves out of their buds, lengthening the days, and waking up the peepers. I smiled. It was nice to have this kind of profound power, even if only in my imagination.  

A Living Magazine - Day 335-336 - Homecoming - Greenfield: Dream Big or Don't Dream at All

Melinda was gone when I woke up. She had done much better than I had by getting up at a reasonable hour. I actually turned over at 9:00 a.m. and slept for another hour and a half! My stoic resolve of past months was bleeding away from me whenever I stayed with people. I was feeling more like a lazy pile of bones, although a happy one. 

I really think that my limit for constant adventure is being reached. I'm not saying that a few months of rest and deprogramming couldn't prepare me for another significant Journey, but nearly a year of what I've been doing has left me struggling to finish. Physically, I am doing just as well if not better than when I started. But psychologically, it is becoming something like a psychic windburn. The streets, the people, the images of hundreds of towns, and the sounds of millions of automobiles churn and swell in my mind. 

I'm not sure I'd even expect a man with a stronger physical and mental fortitude to be able to process all that has blown by me like a wind. And, for a guy like me--once, a homebody with social anxiety and a terrible sense of self-loathing, looking back through the hundreds of entries on the blog I am both baffled and mystified at the seemingly supernatural amount of things that I have done. 

Couple this astonishment with the persistent and almost unbelievable (at least to me) notion that no national media has even the slightest clue about it all, and I almost feel like I'm part of a joke. I mean what the hell does a guy have to do to get attention in this world? Ha! And, it has been made even more frustrating by knowing that this is the age of social media viral explosions. Cats and dogs get a million views, but 24/7/366 exhaustive, novel and unique work has led to little or no coverage. Very frankly, it is almost unbelievable to me; like a conspiracy is actually keeping my efforts from being known to the greater world. Of course this isn't the case, but what's the difference?

Well, all of this may be significant only to me, but shit, it IS significant to me. And, for you small and wonderful band of loyal readers and generous investors, I often feel as though - as a group - we all deserve more than we've received. I guess maybe I'm blowing all of this out of proportion. If it were just about me doing something for myself, and raising enough funds to accomplish it, then I've succeeded in spades. But that is not good enough for me. Nothing that I have written about, nor the substance of my philosophies are satisfied by a just-for-me explanation or conclusion.

I thought about all these things on this morning, feeling guilty for not wanting to get out bed. Other than that I only had my posts on my mind, and catching them up. Eventually, I kind of dropped myself out of bed, slithered into the bathroom and took a shower. I felt much better at that point.

Working downstairs for most of the afternoon, I got two posts published. I am seeing the value of having a delay in posting as long as it doesn't get too far behind. I am better able to reflect from a few days in the future (as I'm doing right now).

I wanted to walk to the store and get some extra food. I decided not to take Saggy the wonder pack, and left for Cumberland Farms...

A patch of daisies along Melinda's street.

Along the way I thought about the different kinds of books I could write about these Journeys. There is so much that happens that I have not discussed. When talking to Melinda the night before, I had told her about my rather unusual childhood. I also revealed something about myself that I have only told a few other people. It fills in the gaps for why I am the way I am and what has brought me to this point. It is a tragedy, and yet so fascinating as to verge on science fiction and supernatural wonder. When I'd discussed this with her, she finally understood so much more about my story. Because we share the same fundamental spiritual and philosophical beliefs, I think it was much easier for her to grasp it all.

Now she knows what I know: For me there are only two possible endings to that story, tragedy or triumph. Will the tragedy of three decades ago lead to a terrible fate or one of Light-manifesting ascension? We all have yet to know. It is this major event from so long ago that informs all that I do now. It has to be written about at some point. But will it be an autobiography? Will it be a kind of historical novel? Will it be based around these journeys or will some coming circumstance provide an even more appropriate venue? I just don't know. And, it is something I will be meditating on for the rest of this Homecoming.

Alternately, there are so many other variations about the logistic aspects of all of this Modern Nomadic travel just begging to be told. In a strictly financial sense, my ideas for a line of urban camping gear are probably the most practical ways that I might be able to make some money. But they require the production of prototypes, patent filing, looking for a company willing to pick them up and sell them in a retail environment. Although I can do a business plan, and find someone to make the prototypes, the patents and the marketing are not my fortes. Even for my own use, a new kind of backpack, sleeping bag, tent, eyeglasses, and clothing might be worth developing.

The idea for a kind of "Manual of Modern Nomadics" seems another obvious choice for a book. I'd like to produce a guide for finding sleep spots, list all the ones I found, the procedures for effective camping, long distance walking, dealing with all kinds of weather, staying clean and comfortable, financing the travel life, etc...

I would really love to see kids become inspired to explore this country. As I've written many times, I can see a period between high school and college when instead of backpacking across Europe or some exotic foreign destination, young men and women chart off across America, learning about this fantastic land, meeting their brother and sister citizens, and learning to appreciate just how simple life can be. I think it would leave a lifelong impression on young minds to see every sunrise, every sunset, cross the sparkling rivers, see the shining seas, sleep in the clear and stark deserts, walk the streets and highways, paths and parks that the heroes of the past walked during war and held hands on in times of peace. If they could but live under the sky, they would quickly discover why it is so important to keep it cool and blue.

Returning back to domesticity with this unmatched experience could enrich their college or work careers in a profound way. In a few short years we could have a generation of young leaders who have made themselves wise beyond the traditional notion of their years. I see, further, the kids of all nations going out and learning about their own countries. Then in this ever-more cosmopolitan world, during their international travels as adults doing business, making music and art, they would meet others who had taken on the Nomadic experience. We are already becoming a planetary civilization, but these would be the first true Planetary Citizens.

Who would want to make war, blow things up, build barriers, destroy lives, if they had so many widespread former sleep spots that they called home? Who would want to selfishly hoard food or resources after breaking bread with so many others? Who would want to acquire limitless amounts of money after seeing just how generous their hosts were to them when they needed respite from the road? Before someone laughs at these grandiose and seemingly unrealistic ideas, indulge in your own version of this dream. Something like what I have described is going to happen eventually. We are passing out of the age of materialism, and stand on the edge of the New Age of Heroes.

I also would like to clean up the Living Magazine posts--all of them, and produce a limited number of full color printed volumes to be used as a reference work, and donate them to the sociology departments of interested universities and private individuals. I truly believe that sociologists and anthropologists in a more settled future will find this Journey very fascinating. I myself would like a set of thirteen volumes (June 2015 to June 2016) in large format with an accompanying thumb drive containing all the audio and videos; something I can hand down through my family or Deb's, if for some reason I never have kids.

There are so many possibilities. I have shown how to live the simplest life possible. How ridiculous it seems to me now to want a big house with large appliances, or a big waste of space lawn of grass, or to be connected to the power, water, gas, cable grids! Even something small - as I have proposed on the selfsustainingproperty.blogspot.com blog - would be a comparative castle. I want so badly reach this next step. I'm not sure why I constantly am so tempered in this dream by an ever-present foreboding, but it is all part of the triumph or tragedy that I spoke of above. I just can't escape the feeling that I will not reach it. The former would be my heaven on earth, the latter would be my premature departure from this earth. At least I have people to share all of this dreaming with. I used to do it alone. Because I have you all as my companions, I live in hope and not dread...

With all of this swirling around in my head, I had to laugh at myself. What grandeur! What a thoughts for a short, awkward little man to be thinking! I'm just one individual, standing on the borderland of his own personal future. I reached out to the Spark and said, "At the very least please let me complete this one project." And, then my mind returned to the simplicity of the next moment. And, in this fashion I shall continue walking forward, dealing with each situation as it approaches. The future will take care of itself...

Yes!

I bought some cheese and hot dogs to cook up later and a Sprite, then walked back to the house. Working for a while longer, I was able to process some pictures from my trek to Greenfield. When dinner time came, I remembered that Melinda had suggested eating the steak she had in the fridge--sounded better than hot dogs. Seemed like a marvelous idea! I cooked it up in an eight inch skillet, and chomped it down with delight.

I didn't stay up very late that night. I'd wanted to explore Netflix, but never got around to it, going to bed around 10:00 p.m.

The next day went very much like last. I slept in, but not quite as late. Then I worked downstairs and waited for Melinda to return. She came home around 5:30 p.m. and suggested we go get some Chinese food. The woman knows just how to twist my arm. We picked up some yummy food and ate it at the house, talking all the while about her conference and the people there, some of whom I also knew. She'd had a great time and I could tell by her mood that it had been just what it needed to be.

We talked at length again late into the night, discussing her cabin in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. I asked her if I might be able to meet her up there this summer. She agreed that would be fun, and even offered to let me stay for a few days after she left, maybe sometime in July. Well, that was something to look forward to! When we headed off to bed, the plan was for me to leave that next afternoon.

A Living Magazine - Day 334 - Homecoming - Greenfield: Exploring Places, Body, and Mind

I keep thinking that I have a good memory. And, it is good, but I forget little details. The breakfast Melinda made was as good as the morning before, but I can't remember all the little ways it was different. All I can tell you is that it woke me up and gave me sustenance to face what would be an amazing day of discovery.

We talked of course for most of the morning and worked on our individual projects online for a while. Around mid-afternoon Melinda said, "We're going to Brattleboro, Vermont for dinner!" She told me there is a great BBQ place there, called Top of the Hill Grill. And, since I was going to be headed to Brattleboro anyway, I thought it would be a great way to get a preview.

So we headed out. There are two direct ways to get there, either I-91 or Route 5. Melinda said she likes to take 91 there because the view is more open and you can see the mountains, and then 5 back to see the more winding landscape, houses, and barns. I would be walking 5 in a few days (though in the other direction) and this would allow me to see the landmarks along that route.

She was right about the view along 91, certainly was filled with majestic mountains. The land is lush, not just because it is spring and everything is so green, but because this Connecticut River valley funnels clouds down upon the land, and then wipes them across the mountains which extract their moisture. It reminds me of a rain forest cycle. The sun can be out in a clear blue sky and then the clouds roll in the moisture meets the land, and then they roll back out again. We would get a truly grand and powerful example of this later that evening. 

When we got the Brattleboro, I believe we took the Canal Street exit and drove along Canal (which is also Route 5) until we bared to the left where 5 becomes Main Street and then Putney Road. Along the way, I saw what was a neat little town, not unlike Greenfield in some ways. It's buildings in the downtown area were densely packed with businesses and little shops. It is the true sign of a good city economy to see no business vacancies. I recall while walking through some of the small cities in the Carolinas that it was the exact opposite. I mean that except for the odd diner or second hand store, every storefront, every building was empty with "For Lease" or more often "For Sale" signs ungracefully propped up in the windows. I would learn that Brattleboro was not quite as prosperous as my first impression seemed to indicate, but it was a far cry from the desolation of some of those Southern cities. 

At the point where Canal bares left onto Main, the most obvious feature visible from just about every angle is the Anna Hunt Marsh Bridge which is accessed by turning right onto Bridge Street. There, the road becomes Route 119 and crosses the Connecticut River passing over Hinsdale Island which is part of New Hampshire, leading into that state with a sharp turn south through Hinsdale. I would get to know the area around the bridge and Hinsdale itself when my friend Jeff visited me in Brattleboro several days later. But for now all of this was brand new.

It didn't take long to travel the less than half mile to the Top of the Hill Grill, passing by the picturesque Anna Hunt Marsh region of West River on our left. We parked and then joined the line of people waiting to order. It was slow going, as orders were taken at the window. We had plenty of time to study the menu. Again, I can't remember what Melinda chose (maybe she will remind me and I'll add it here), but I decided on the Hickory Smoked Beef Brisket, which came with coleslaw, cornbread, baked beans and dipping sauce. We were pretty hungry by the time the kind young lady called us up to the window. The smokey aroma didn't help. We ordered and went to sit down at a table to wait. This place gives you a playing card in lieu of a reservation number--ours was the King of Diamonds.

While we waited, I was awestruck by the gorgeous view. It looked like something out of a story book. I forgot to bring my camera, so Melinda let me use hers to take a shot of the marsh land below... 

The Anna Hunt Marsh set under a golden evening sun.

Finally, they called our card and I went up to gather the the two plates. Sitting down to enjoy the meal, I noticed that the brisket was not as I remembered it being at Johnson Family BBQ in North Carolina, but it was still delicious, cut into thin slices with that hickory flavor permeating every bite. The coleslaw was good, with a creamy dressing that wasn't overly sweet. The baked beans were Boston style, with a brown sugar sauce and bits of fatty pork on top. And, the corn bread was moist and in the shape of a little loaf. Everything together was a real comfort food, and we enjoyed it in this beautiful place, at just the right time of day... 

Side view of the kitchen. Amazing that they crank out so many items

from such a small workspace. We would end up meeting the couple in the foreground.

After dinner we tried a selfie...

Well, at least Melinda looks good! And, no, I'm am not actually an egg.

The couple next us saw our struggle and the gentleman, named Jeff, offered to take a proper shot...

Two great friends.

And so, we returned the favor...

Pam and Jeff, our new friends!

We talked with them for a while, as they waited for their food (coincidentally, also being holders of the King of Diamonds). I spoke with Jeff. He is from Connecticut currently working to landscape their 13 acres in Middleton. He told me about his passion for not wasting things--recycling and reusing. For example, he said that he recovers metal from old wood, burning the wood for fuel and selling the nails as scrap. He and I share an interest in simplifying life. Once upon a time he worked traveling with band as part of the road crew. They often drive up here to enjoy the scenery and good food. He was one hell of a nice guy, a gentle giant of a man. He was very interested in what I was doing and we became friends on Facebook. 

There was still plenty of daylight left and Melinda was not finished with our tour. We hopped in the car and headed back toward Greenfield this time taking Route 5 the whole way. I did my best to keep track of certain landmarks as we enjoyed our drive. And several days later, I would remember them as I walked back to Brattleboro, passing by them in reverse order.

Once we were back in town Melinda took me sightseeing, and was especially keen on showing me the woodsy area where she occasionally walks a friend's two dogs, that I believe was called Temple Woods. It was a lovely area for hiking, with many trails and even a now unused road they called the Old Boston Road, that - as the name implies - used to go all the way to Boston.

Rain had moved in and I was happy to be seeing all these things from a nice dry car. There was one other place that Melinda wanted to show me, and I think it was the best view of the day. We drove up Mountain Road just as the rain ended to the very top of  a mountain, where we parked and ventured over to Poet's Seat Tower, a sandstone observation tower. According to Wikipedia...

Poet's Seat Tower is a 1912 sandstone observation tower, located in Greenfield, Massachusetts. It was so named to honor a long tradition of poets being drawn to the spot, in particular, the local poet Frederick Goddard Tuckerman. By 1850, the location was referred to as "Poet's Seat" by Tuckerman in a surviving herbarium entry for November 10th of that year. 

An earlier wooden tower was erected at the site on June 3, 1879. This first structure was built, along with a public drinking fountain and a road accessing the site, under the auspices of the The Greenfield Rural Club.

 The breathtaking view from the base of the tower allows one to see all of the valley around Greenfield. We could even see the location of Melinda's house, though the leaves of the trees obscured the actual house itself. It was simply amazing. I thought it was so cool that the people had a place where they could see the whole layout of their town! Well below us and in front of the shear cliff was a nice high hill where town folk and their kids could go sledding in the winter time. Truly a pleasant place to live at any time of the year. Melinda let me take this incredible panoramic picture with her iPhone...

Here we see the sunset in the west while the rain which had just soaked our location moved

southward as seen at the left. Directly in front and below is the Graves Brook section of town,

and it's park, complete with tennis court and a good sized baseball field. The railing seen on

the left and right is actually straight, the strange angle is an artifact of the panoramic process.

With the waning of daylight, we still had one more place that Melinda thought I should see, and I was game for anything at this point. Now we were off to Shelburne Falls, racing to beat the dark (under the speed limit of course...ha!). This is the town in which one of Bill Cosby's houses stands.

The town was another wonder of Western Massachusetts, with its rocky riverbed (seen in this overhead Google Earth view), and the extraordinary Bridge of Flowers, which spans diagonally across the Deerfield River. 

It had been quite a day of delicious eye candy. Now that it was dark out, we headed back to Melinda's house and rested for a little while. That night she asked me if I wanted to see how her practice of Quantum Biofeedback worked.

This was something completely new to me. I'd seen biofeedback used before as a graphic representation of bodily functions recorded by small electronic sensors. The idea is that a person can learn to control the processes of the body that are normally involuntary in order to improve health and treat certain conditions. 

But what Melinda did was step beyond that. Quantum Biofeedback uses a system that integrates personal information, physiological history, and certain physical quantum signatures to analyze and then adjust these signatures to bring them into a certain range. It is the imbalance of these signatures (my word for it) that negatively affects us in our daily lives. It is not a physical process, but rather an equalization of energy.

She uses a machine designed to do this by either connecting the subject with electromagnetic wires or do what is called "subspace" treatment, remotely over any distance. Now, I don't understand much about the process and am using my own terminology, so I hope Melinda will forgive my clumsiness and inaccuracies as I discuss this. I want the reader to know that my descriptions are from the lay (uninformed) subject's perspective--as I was to be the subject on this night. I will certainly update this post if/when I learn more or stand in need of correction.

During this last Journey, you may recall that I have had periods of pain and discomfort due to the effects of long distance walking. Specifically, my heels, ankles, knees, and shoulders were what hurt most frequently. She had taken my information and done subspace work on me a few times. And, I can honestly say that I did feel better each time she did this work.

On this night I sat in a comfortable chair and she hooked me up with a head band, and a band on each wrist and each ankle. All of these bands were wired to a machine. First we took a reading of where my numbers for everything from each organ system of my body all the way to my psychological state of mind. With a highly complex computer program, she analyzed all of this. She was able to click on one thing, say, my blood, and sections and subsections of information would come up on the screen to show her what might be of concern and what was functioning normally with me. Then we went from system to system and the machine sent out the balancing function for each. After each of these, Melinda would check the numbers. Most of the time things would come back down closer to normal. A few of my systems stayed beyond the normal parameters.

I found the psychological aspects especially fascinating. I should also mention that what we were doing was unusual. Typically, the subject does not get involved in the analysis, but Melinda was trying to show me how it all worked, more than trying to treat me.

I personally believe that it is up to the subject to keep an open mind. And, whether this system actually does what it claims to do or it is only some kind of placebo effect, the point is having positive results. On this night, in addition to learning about the process, I do genuinely think that I had more than a baseline experience. More than anything, I was extremely relaxed afterward. 

For me, seeing Melinda use this method with such dexterity, really knowing her stuff, and the obvious caring and desire she has to help people heal themselves, is what gave me confidence in what she was doing. I can see why she has so many clients and why they derive such positive results from her work.

We finished up and then talked again until very late. She had a retreat to go to early the next morning and invited me to stay the next day and night to watch over the house while she was gone and until she returned the following afternoon. I was more than happy to do that. I felt so comfortable there, that it was a real privilege to be able to have the place to myself. I didn't mind postponing my departure for another two days either. In fact, I didn't really want to leave as it was, and this was the excuse I needed to stay.

A Living Magazine - Day 333 - Homecoming - Greenfield: Settling In

In the morning we met up downstairs. Melinda was already cooking breakfast. She made up eggs to order, with mine being over easy. The difference is that she (with her Latina spirit) added salsa and cheese. And with turkey bacon, what a lovely meal. Here is what Melinda said about it...

This breakfast was titled, "Huevos Rancheros", with organic corn tortillas from Mi Tierra Restaurant, Hadley. A favorite breakfast in my home......basically, eggs poached in Salsa...

After breakfast, my major agenda was doing a laundry. Melinda drove me to the local laundromat, which was just down the street.

There wasn't a lot more to say about this day. It was rich and full for me, in that we had incredible conversations. I was also able to work on processing pictures and videos.

In the evening I finally got a taste of Melinda's Latin creations, enjoying a great Mexican meal, complete with those avocados that had finally ripened by this time. It was delicious and fulfilling.

Again, we talked until the wee hours of the morning, letting the time slip by us like so many reeds along the edges of a river. We went to sleep with the expectation of getting up whenever we wanted.

A Living Magazine - Day 332 - Homecoming - Greenfield: Melinda's Town

There was the sound of breaking sticks and rustling leaves. As I opened my eyes, I saw cars and a large truck pass by on the road above through the screen on the roof of the tent. Beside me were little footsteps, scurrying around through the leaves of the woods. Then whatever it was got very near the wall of the tent. I have a screen right at eye level next to me, so I turned and saw a rather large rabbit walk-hop into view. It was darker in the tent than it was in the woods, so he didn't see my big eyes looking at him.

He was not in the least bit concerned about the presence of this nylon structure occupying what seemed to be his normal little bunny path. Hopping right up to the side of the tent, he twitched his nose a few times, and then continued on past me and over to a ditch of running water near the foot of the tent. I turned up onto my side and watched him disappear over the bank of the ditch, presumably in quest of a refreshing morning drink.

As I've indicated many times in the last six weeks or so, my temptation in the mornings -  especially when in a good hidden spot - is to sleep-in for a while. The thought crossed my mind, but I decided instead to get going. I'd had the same jeans on night and day for over a week. My socks were worn through, and the two shirts I had been wearing were crusted with salt. In a word, I was an uncomfortable, smelly mess. This was my motivator to get up and continue to the center of Greenville where I could contact Melinda and have some idea when we'd be meeting. I assumed a shower and some kind of laundry plan would shortly follow.

So, I packed up and climbed the hill, emerging onto the road, just as traffic was really picking up. Then I walked the short distance down Cheapside Street (yes that's a real street name, and it is literally on the "other side of the tracks") back to Route 5, and thence toward Greenfield proper...

The Green River.

The center of Greenfield is a neat example of small city Americana, possessing all of the traits that a local, but cosmopolitan population would want access to. There were small cafes, specialty shops, clothes stores, pawn shops, a surprisingly numerous number of music related businesses, restaurants, larger brick and stone businesses, and the characteristic statues and monuments one might expect to find in a historic New England town. This Fender bass amp converted into a bedstand caught my eye...

I love the details, like using patch cords for handles.

This was a town that had its own brand of unpretentious pride, with its community programs, renovation projects, and murals like the one above.

I ended up marching up Federal Street to the McDonald's there in search of Wi-Fi and breakfast. When I reached the golden arches, I noticed that the restaurant was still pretty much in 1980's mode. There were no outlets and the internet was spotty. Shortly after I turned on the laptop it turned itself off for lack of battery power. But I was smart enough to have located the library, back downtown at the intersection with Main Street.

There wasn't much to do but eat my Big Breakfast, sip my coffee, and listen to the locals. It was with a mixture of nostalgia and interest that I tuned into these conversations. New England people are tough, but real. I mentioned to a friend of mine recently that in both the Northwest and New England, people were generally peace loving and kind, but both regions had folks who would figuratively stab you if they could. The difference is that in the West the knife is more likely to be in your back, where in New England the attacker was more apt to at least let you see it coming from the front.

Nevertheless, none of these conversations were approaching deception or betrayal. They were just the daily pleasantries of people who probably made McDonald's a regular morning routine. Ever since passing over from Connecticut into Massachusetts, I'd notice a certain kind of "towny" ignorance that I recognized well from my former life in Maine (primarily around the Buxton area and York County). At the risk of pigeonholing, there are the white collar folks, the merchant class, the artsy fartsy, and the ignorant. While the first three stereotypes are but transient visitors to the street level life, the ignorant live there. Now, this is not a criticism of the character of this street level, nor is it a criticism in general, but merely an observation using education as a meter stick. These McDonald's folk do not speak correctly. Yes, accents are part of speech in all regions of the county. But "I weren't theyah last night" (for example) is quite singular to New England. It shows the accent (separate from educational level); the well-educated local would say, "I wasn't theyah last night." But more importantly, it shows the lack of education replacing "wasn't" with "weren't."

This interest in the way people speak is not new for me. I've studied much about it, and carefully observed it all over this nation. I've come to believe that the use of improper English (as demonstrated above) is largely a voluntary and conscious decision. Even when shown the correct way to speak, uneducated people will revert to their errors on purpose because of peer pressure. In the Buxton, Maine area where I lived for several years, I hung out with, worked with, and played music with this uneducated stratum of folks. And, even I would frequently dumb down (if you will) my pronunciations to fit in and not be bothered by my curious peers. I once used the pronunciation of either as "eye-ther" instead of "ee-ther" and was mildly teased about sounding like "a professor."

Anyway, all of this crossed my mind as the town folk came and went. I finished up and headed back downtown to the library on Main Street...  

As you can see, this is very beautiful old building with strong historic roots in the town.

I worked until afternoon, knowing that Melinda had a client (she does a very interesting quantum biofeedback service, which I will go into detail about in upcoming posts), until 3:00 p.m. I contacted her and we made plans to meet in front of the library at 4:30 p.m., when she would pick me up.

I got a bit of work done, and then the time arrived to wait outside. I packed up and left the building to wait for her. When she swung by I noticed her shining smile right away. We had met at  conference for a philosophical group that we both participate in, back in 2014, in Amherst, Massachusetts and had hit it off right away. The conference hadn't been far from her home here in Greenfield--near enough to Maine to be a practical visit. So we conspired to meet again someday. Now that day had come. In the meantime, she had followed my progress all the way from Maine to California, having then given generous amounts of moral and financial support for the Living Magazine Journey after leaving California all along the way, and until this very day.

It was not only appropriate that now, as I was wrapping up my long journey, I should meet up with her, but seemed auspicious and beneficial for our friendship to be doing so. We greeted each other with the enthusiasm of two people who felt the weight and importance of this day, but also as kindred spirits who seemed to have known each other for eons of universal time.

We arrived at her house, not far from the McDonald's where I'd had breakfast, and went inside. It was a wonderful place; a space of comfortable and classy warmth, filled with the busy and satisfying things that a great mind needs in order to stay inspired. I felt immediately at home. There was something about Melinda that I noticed even when we'd first met two years ago. She was simply so easy to talk to, so friendly and engaging, that I felt like I'd already been there for weeks, though it had only been minutes.

She showed me up to my room. It was her daughter's room, but her daughter was at school in the Northwest, leaving me a real feather bed, and a private space to unwind. I quickly got out of my uncomfortable clothes and took a shower. That felt great!

Evening was upon us and we discussed whether we should eat there or go out. Either way, we were in the mood for Mexican food. Somehow I knew that she was an excellent cook, but perhaps symbolically, she showed me the avocados she'd just purchased and that they were not quite ready for use--you know avocados are very picky about being used at just the right time. They needed to be soft but not squishy, and they just were not there yet.

So, she invited me to go out to Mesa Verde, which was just down the street and off of Main. Sounded good to me! When we were ready to eat, we hopped in the car and drove down to this place. It was really neat; colorful on the inside with a very friendly staff. We decided to eat in and ordered our meals. I honestly can't remember what Melinda ordered, but I chose the blackened catfish burrito. I got a beer and she got a seltzer water. We sat and caught up while our food was being prepared.

Now, here is the thing about my time with Melinda. Sometimes being with a host I don't know very well can have its awkward silent moments. But I simply felt none with her. We had so much in common, so many subjects that we were both interested in, that there was no time for awkwardness. Slowly I learned about her family roots, her career up to her retirement, her quantum biofeedback work, and her cabin in Boothbay Harbor Maine. And, she was enthusiastic to hear about some of the adventures I'd had, but not written about yet--things that will come up in future books.

When our food arrived we ate slowly while peeling open all of these subjects. When we had stayed so long that it looked like the place was getting ready to close, we headed out and back to her house. There, we talked in the living room until well after midnight. We realized that we have a habit of burning hours without realizing how much time has passed. Eventually, we both admitted it was time to hit the hay, and retired to our rooms, ready for another full day--even if that meant sleeping in for a while in the morning.