A Living Magazine - Grounded in Maine - Day 8 - Birthday with Mom

The morning was quite beautiful in my sleep spot on this last day in Yarmouth...

Taken through the tent screen.

I like how it spreads and softens the light.

My commute downtown to Dunkin Donuts led me past all the regular places. I wanted to get a shot of the place that used to be my dad's print shop. How I would have laughed back in the day when I worked there to learn that it would become a yoga studio. I'm not sure I even knew what yoga was back in 1983-1984... 

It was my birthday, and though in past years I hadn't really felt anything special on this day, for some reason this year seemed more meaningful. Maybe it was that I'd survived long enough to see another birthday? Maybe it was that I was actually back in my hometown? Maybe I just appreciated being alive more than I ever had in the past. Besides the shit I'd gone through the day before with my betrayers, I had the feeling that perhaps most other people described on their birthdays: This was my day, and there seemed to be a kind of invisible shield around me that little daggers couldn't push through it, slings and arrows couldn't penetrate it, the whine of other people's sour grapes couldn't saturate.

Each day I'd stayed here in Yarmouth I walked by this little guy. He looked so lonely and abandoned on the picnic table in front of Romeo's Pizza. I suspect he is still there...

I think I'd seen him once before in an acid trip 30 years before, like a colored word in the air.

Now the word had been made fluff and he existed only to be loved by a tiny person in a crib...

Or, something like that?

When I got to Dunkin Donuts, I reread the note from my sister that my mother had returned to the US from Germany earlier than I'd thought and would be in Maine for the month of August before returning to Florida for the winter.

I had been frustrated by the timing of all of this. If I'd been more aware of the schedule I would have stuck around the Portland area a little longer to see her. I hadn't seen her in two years. I came close when I was in New Orleans around Christmas of 2015, but as close readers of this blog saw, that didn't work out. Now she was only about 15 miles away, at a hotel in Scarborough. I could walk it, but it would take all day just to get there. I'm also phobic about going the opposite direction once I've begun a Journey.

Still, this was a unique situation. My mom was, well...my mom!  She was well-worth altering my plans, especially so early in this new project. I knew the Metro Breez bus ran between Portland and Freeport, with Yarmouth as a stop in between. Perhaps I could use it to get to Portland and then take a bus from there to Scarborough. The hotel was near the Maine Mall. I hadn't taken a Portland bus in years, but how hard could it be? I'd used bus systems in every state I visited. I should be able to navigate Portland's. And, I would find out it was even easier and cheaper than I'd assumed.

As if the forces of the unseen Universe were instantly activated, The moment I walked out the door and looked down to Main Street, right in front of the Town Hall lawn, a man with a backpack went running by toward a park bench there. And I saw the small shuttle bus come into view and park right next to that bench. A gentleman in a wheelchair waited patiently on the sidewalk to be rolled up onto the bus. This gave me the time I needed to get there.

Two young high school aged girls also lined up. It would have been so cool when I had been that age to take this bus to Portland, but such a service was not available back then. These suburb towns are much more organized now. I liked that.

I made sure I was going in the right direction by asking the bus driver if he was headed to Portland. He was a very friendly and personable chap, answering in the affirmative while helping strap down the wheelchaired traveler up in front. I slipped my $3 into the fare box--a reasonable price for this, despite the fact I only had $10 left in the whole world. And in no time we were off...

This was a perfect solution. The bus had Wi-Fi and I sent my mom a message that I'd decided to go to see her. This was a work day for her (a cybercommuter) and I wanted to impose as little as possible upon her time. She seemed enthusiastic for a visit. It was a very pleasant ride back through Falmouth and East Deering, past my sleep spots from the days before. The air conditioning was wonderful.

Bus travel is a great way for Nomads to get between towns in Maine. I may walk a lot, but on this Journey it isn't about the purity of walking, but the necessity of getting to where I need to be. There will be other buses, car rides and maybe a train or two. No unrealistic asceticism will be followed if possible.

I got off the bus right in front of the Portland Public Library, and stood around Monument Square deciding on the next step. I was amused to see this word jump out at me...

I remembered the one and only commandment of this name sake...

"Keep walking forward and you will fly."

Before deboarding I'd asked the Breez driver where I should catch this same bus to continue back to Freeport, my next destination. He pointed to the "Jewel Case" a bus stop fixture just south of Monument Square. I'd seen it a million times, now I realized how essential it was as a mainstay of Portland Metro travel. 

You know, for those folks out there who get intimidated about confusing city bus systems (as I once did), the best single way to obtain specific information is to just ask a driver; whether the person driving the bus you're on or simply sticking your head into the open door of any bus that pulls up. They are almost always happy to let you know and are good folks who just want to help you get where you want to go.

I went into the library and found a spot to plug in and touch base with Mom. I let her know where I was and that I was only one more bus ride away from getting down to the Maine Mall area. She acknowledged the message. 

Checking out the Metro routes I discovered that 24A or B would work just fine. It turned out that B is shorter than A, something I didn't realize until I needed my return bus. But it was all cool... The only thing I needed to know now was which bus number to take.

I slipped the tablet back into the pack and made my way to the Jewel Case just across the street. When the first bus arrived I did exactly what I just counseled above and stuck my head in to ask the driver which number I should use to get to the mall, Walmart specifically. He kindly told me to look for Bus 5 and let me take a brochure from behind his seat to see times. 

So, let's summarize the best way to get from one point to the next using the Portland Metro bus system: 1. Look for the route color or number online. 2. Ask any driver what number bus uses that route. 3. Get a schedule for that route and number to see the times it runs. Simple as 1, 2, 3! Oh, also another thing that always confused me was what each time was listed in the brochure for each stop. Was it the time I need to get the bus in order to reach that stop, or what time the bus arrives at that stop? It is in fact what time the bus arrives at the stop. The city center is always what counts for direction. Inbound means you go to the city center and Outbound always means you are heading away from that center. 

I know this all seems elementary, but in the heat and rush of city travel some of these things can slip one's mind or not be registered at all. I hope this helps would be bus riders. I wish someone had given me a little course in this before I'd left Maine two years ago. I had to learn it all myself.  

Buses are an extremely convenient and efficient way to get around a city when you have a few extra bucks. The Portland Metro is one of the most inexpensive of all bus systems I have used, at only $1.50 per adult fare. The buses run on clean natural gas, are well air conditioned and comfortable. They are usually not crowded and run close to being on time. I'm not positive, but I don't believe they offer transfers at the adult fare price. However, passes are available for purchase from the drivers or at the central hub or major stations. I waited for the next Number 5 to arrive, clicking away at things that caught my eye...

I'd seen the presence of this sign a dozen times in the last few weeks, but had not read it until now.

Love Us!

Yes! Portland police are good guys. They've helped me many times. Even on the few times I had to

submit to their authority, I did so respectfully. They are hardworking folks who love their city.

Bus numbers with routes below them.

As I mentioned above, it turned out that 24A was the long way to the mall. It essentially toured the entire southwestern part of the city, even heading through South Portland and right past my sister's house! While riding I struck up a conversation with a fascinating 53 year old guy named Lance. 

He was from Southy (the sections south of Boston proper). He'd lived all over the country, but mostly stayed in Reno, Nevada, where he worked roofing and painting, until venturing to Portland, Maine. He worked for a guy painting for $20/hr around the area, until the day before this one when "...that little asshole boss said he was gonna pick me up fah work and nevah showed!" 

He'd had his issues with this guy on several previous occasions, having to chase him around to get paid. He was, "...fuckin sick of it! So, I'm headed back to Reno..." He planned to take a Greyhound, stopping at his mother's place in Massachusetts first, go on to New York City after that, where he would then take a flight he'd secured for only $100, direct from the Big Apple to Reno.

It is always interesting to go deeper and deeper into a conversation with strangers. Most people are simply itching to express their views and opinions. Lance was a follower of conspiracy theories. The more the merrier. It was Alex Jones and Jesse Ventura with whom he spoke of the most. While he couldn't harmonize some things between the philosophies of these two, he'd found ways to build a general, picture of the government, history and world events for himself.

He railed against Jewish influence in the world, though he had a Jewish mother. She'd converted to Catholicism and married his father, A German. According to his still-growing worldview, the Holocaust was pure fiction and "has been proven" as such. Naturally, I knew this was bunk, but refrained from telling him. Also, the Masons were the most evil organization on earth. They worshiped the devil, kidnapped and sacrificed children and had ruined the country by calling for federalism and centralized government during the American Revolution and the Civil War. Lance believed in the purity of individual states' rights. And there was a lot more to his viewpoint, as one might imagine. 

He was a guy I would find hard to pigeon hole or place a label on. He had mistrust for everyone. He hated both party's candidates for president. He believed that voting was a useless practice, kept in motion in order to make the masses think there was something democratic about the process, when in fact elections were simply a friendly tug of war among the guests of the 1%er's garden parties (a concept that probably has a bit more truth to it than some of his other beliefs). 

While not being a white supremacist, per se, he was against "the Mexicans," (a common point of view among laborers who have spent a great deal of time in the West), against the Jews for reasons I spoke of above, against the blacks, against Muslims, against most Christians--yet, he believed that Jesus was sent by God to fix what Moses had done with the Jews...and he wasn't all that crazy about white people either. Ha! 

All of this, I was able to glean from my 50 minute bus ride from Monument Square to Walmart in Scarborough, amidst black folks, Muslims, Jews and Christians.

I gave him a business card and wished him well. The thing I liked about him personally, while not taking much of what he said all that seriously, was that he didn't just yap away. He listened very carefully to the things I was saying too. He was thoughtful, despite being biased. And, I do wish him well.

After stopping at every possible place along the way, we finally pulled up in front of Walmart. I departed, thanking the driver (they tend to remember you better that way)...

Absolutely LOVED this car!

I looked up elk.com and found a very interesting site for designers

who help non-profit folks with their projects.

I let my mom know that I'd arrived--so to speak. Then walked to near her hotel, where I found her on the lawn of Shaw's supermarket looking for me. She looked great! She was trim and about 30 years younger looking than her current age. We had a good long hug and then walked back toward the Walmart area where the food chains had plopped down their franchises on every available pad.

We chose to go to a Red Robin, a hamburger place I'd seen a zillion times all across the nation, but had never gone to before. It was a good place. They seated us and we ordered our meals. She got a an onion soup and salad (she ended up offering me the soup). I got a bacon and guacamole burger with "endless french fries." And, we began to talk.

She'd had a good time in Germany. She'd been there a bunch of times before and was impressed by the European culture. Deb, my sister, and her daughter had only recently returned from visiting with Mom there across the pond. They'd done a lot together and I think my niece will remember the trip well. She was a fortunate child to be able to visit Europe at such a young age. Being in contact with the culture there will likely leave a lasting impression that will inspire her to return, perhaps many times in the future. 

Deb had described the people and culture as "perfect." And, although she knew she was exaggerating, I think she was not overstating things by much. She said the people are all beautiful, fit, friendly and intelligent. The society is extremely clean, eco-friendly, and well-advanced, compared with the United States. Except for the recent but rare terrorist activity, they are peaceful, even without the 300 million guns that Americans consider their God-given right to own in order to "protect" themselves from each other and the government. Go figure!?

The clean and crisp alpine air is free of pollution. The cars are not allowed to sit with their engines idling anywhere, for example. There are even systems in place that kill the engine at stop lights. Perhaps surprisingly for most Americans, Deb described a freer society, where people are  not infantilized and patronized by the laws. Individual liberty is simply assumed. It didn't need to be written into the constitutions. The strict environmental regulations were put in place voluntarily by the citizens of countries like Germany. As with the Northwestern States of the US, the thought of throwing a piece of trash on the beautiful ground is unthinkable, even to the most jaded and antisocial person. 

I think our country's isolation on the other side of the planet, coupled with an over-inflated and unrealistic sense of international leadership, combined with a misinterpretation of individual liberty as being some kind of entitlement to do anything we want to each other and our natural environment, has caused America to slip further and further down the list of so-called "first world" countries. This will continue to be the state of the state until greater communication between the continents is achieved, along with an opening of the American mind to the fact that other nations might actually have mastered better ways of living and loving. But, folks, let us not hold our collective breaths. 

We still have the choice of voting for a demagogic, fascist, corporate exploiter, or a bought and paid for Washington insider to endure in November. Then we have to somehow survive that person's t presidency for another four years before we can try to change things up again. With either of these candidates - neither of whom are popular to a majority of American citizens, making one wonder what a government of the people might actually be like - we are on the slowest possible path for catching up to relatively advanced and socially progressive places like Germany. They will only continue to perfect themselves, until we can learn a way out of imperfecting ourselves. But, I digress ...

I went through my standard list of exciting moments from the last two years and brought her up to date on the Conrad side of our family (from when I stayed with Jeff and Natalie Conrad in North Carolina). She listened intently and we laughed and nearly cried a few times.

My mom is a sweet and extremely empathic person. I inherited my sense of how others must feel from her. I also have her tendency to tear up when I'm overwhelmed by a truthful event. This happens during sad times, but even more so when I am overly happy about things that people do to help each other. Even though this characteristic we both share can be embarrassing when in a social situation, I, as a man have simply learned to deal with how others interpret my sudden turning-away to wipe my eyes. It is from both my mother and my sister that I have developed a coping mechanism to deal with my very deep thinking mind and easily-moved heart. 

I simply express myself when I feel a certain way. When I'm angry I swear. When I'm happy I laugh out loud. When I'm sad I weep. And when I'm moved by the righteous acts of others, even animals, I tear up. These are my pressure valves. I use them liberally. They prevent me from going crazy or burying my emotions destructively. Others may call it being "emotional" or "sensitive," but after the intensity of the road I followed in the last two years, facing fear and destroying it, learning how incredibly tough I can be physically, seeing just how much pain, discomfort and hunger I can withstand, I now know that I'm fully justified when I feel what I feel, and express it in the way I do. 

It is my mom whom I credit for my being able to write so effectively. Our "driveway moments" in the previous decades, where we would return home from doing something together and simply talk for hours in the car, were the best education I've ever received. They trained me how to put the power of my mind into my fingertips, where this power could be liberated through writing. And, someday, I believe it will translate into speaking and oratory. I just need to keep fighting in the trenches for a bit longer.

We spent some time talking about my partnership with the Spark and other related things that I have only partially revealed publicly. It was nice to be able to actually discuss these things with another human being. Until then, they were only handled within my communion with the Spark. 

I'm very pleased and proud of the fact that my mom has followed what I've done, reading every single post and offering her views and appreciation for the details she picks up therefrom. While you all are so wonderful to me and inspire me to keep going each day, the thought that my own mother desires to be out here with me each day, even if only virtually, brings an equal amount of ambition to my minute to minute work. 

There is never enough time to be with my mom. The couple hours we spent together on this birthday afternoon were probably all that I will get for perhaps years to come. 

I believe that heaven may be many things. But, surely, one of its greatest delights will be spending as much "time" as is needed in a more evolved form of driveway moments; lying in the glorious flowering fields of the Mansion Worlds watching the sky or sitting beside the Sea of Glass with my mom finally getting our chance to fulfill the dream of mother-son communication. She calls me her "Sonshine" and on this day 48 years after I first met her, I know that if I ever really do shine, it will be because of her...

Mom and her big bouncing baby.

After walking her back to the lawn of the hotel, I returned to my Journey, recharged and satisfied that I had completed another circle--maybe one of the most important ones.

I caught the bus to South Portland. It looked like it might rain and I'd missed the Breez bus to Freeport. Thankfully I wear my house on my back. I went straight to the sleep spot I'd prepared weeks before, down by the beach on the Fore River, the same place, off the road shoulder, where I'd said the official goodbye to my cat Buddy on the day he passed into the Light. 

For some reason I didn't take a photo of the tent like I usually do. But, it was okay. I climbed in and slipped into the soft brown behind the eyelids of sleep, convinced that this day was meant to have turned out exactly as it had.

South Portland Sleep Spot.