Category Archives: Sense of place

Regulars

It was a quarter of nine when each of us got done with our days, so we decided to go out for dinner. We walked up to the next block and went into Freestone’s. It was as empty as we’ve ever seen it: three or four couples finishing their dinners at the tables, and one man sitting at the bar reading. We sat down and ordered dinner. It came, we ate, and I saw one couple finish their dinner and leave. The bartender quickly realized that Carol and I were going to talk with each other, not with her, so she put dirty glasses in the dishwasher.

About then the regulars started to trickle in to the bar. First four women — all in their mid-twenties, all pretty, all with black hair — sat down at the bar. They all knew the bartender, and greeted her by name. A very quiet man came in, sat down next to us and a few seats away from the women; the bartender said, “Wild Turkey?”, he nodded, and sat in silence watching the basketball game on TV, sipping his whiskey. A young man with a beard came in; he knew the four women, and spent a few minutes standing next to each of them and talking. The man who was reading put down his book — he knew the four women, and the young man with the beard, and the other young man who walked in just about then. They all chatted happily back and forth.

We paid our check, and at last the bartender could ignore us; she went down to the other end of the bar and exchanged pleasantries with all the regulars. The very quiet man looked up, and the bartender immediately came over. “What’s that?” she said, “Oh, you’re changing the order on me tonight.” She poured him a beer, and he turned his attention back to the basketball game, not moving except for a twitch once in his temple, and his thumb running over the fingers in his other hand. Another quiet man sat behind us, carefully studying the sports pages of the Boston Globe. At the other end of the bar, the man who had been reading exchanged a desultory high-five with one of the women. Another man walked in to join the talkative group, and if I had tried I suppose I could have heard all their conversations. But I wasn’t really paying attention to them, I was just listening to Carol.

When we left, the young man with the beard and two of the women were standing outside Freestone’s smoking cigarettes and chatting in the icy wind.

Hey, doesn’t that guy on TV look familiar…

Yeah, I was on TV tonight — for about two seconds, on channel 10 news in Providence, in a story about how First Unitarian is transferring ownership of a late 19th C. painting to a local museum. The painting, by Edward Emerson Simmons, son of a Unitarian minister, depicts the boy Jesus, so there I am on TV talking about Jesus. They also show me moving a refrigerator. I kid you not. Link.

More about the painting at the First Unitarian Web site: link.

Ice

The ice on the harbor probably reached its greatest extent sometime yesterday. By the time I went out for a walk, the ice reached from the Maritime Terminal on the New Bedford side of the harbor to Fish Island; of course there was no ice over the deep channel between Fish Island and Pope’s Island; but from Pope’s Island the ice extended straight north to the point that lies just below the highway, and south to Crow Island to the boatyards and docks on the Fairhaven side. Gulls by the hundreds perched on the ice between Pope’s and Crow Islands, all facing into the sun.

I walked down to the hurricane barrier. An ice shelf extended from the hurricane barrier up to Fairhaven Shipyard, and bits of rotten sea ice floated on the ocean side. But by then the temperatures had climbed into the mid-thirties, and when I got back up to Pope’s Island, the ice no longer extended to Crow Island; scaup and Bufflehead swam where just an hour earlier the gulls had been perching on ice.

Even though today was ten or fifteen degrees colder than yesterday, even though the clouds moved in and blocked the sun, even though a cold raw breeze backed around from the north to the east, the ice had receded even farther when I went out walking this afternoon. I stopped on the swing span bridge to look at the extent of the ice down the Fairhaven side of the harbor. What caught my eye, though, was not the ice but a pair of Long-tailed Ducks swimming just below the bridge. I was impressed at how long they could remain underwater. I timed them on one dive, and they were underwater for fifty-five seconds. My sense was they could remain underwater even longer than that, but it was too cold and raw to stand there and time them again — cold and raw, as if snow or cold rain was moving in — so I walked on.

An independent bookstore

I love Central Square in Cambridge: the co-op supermarket, the street life, the Cantab Lounge, and especially the independent bookstores: Seven Stars with its excellent selection of scriptures of the world’s religions (used and new), Rodney’s with its remainders and its used poetry books, and Pandemonium with the most comprehensive selection of science fiction and fantasy in the Boston area….

…and as it happens, Pandemonium is in financial trouble. They moved from Harvard Square to Central Square — 4 Pleasant Street, to be exact, around the corner from the Cantab — but the move took much longer than expected, and they have cash-flow problems. But you can help….

…Tyler, who owns the store, is selling t-shirts. You can pre-order a very cool t-shirt here: link. And so what if you don’t live in the Boston area! — here’s your chance to buy a cool t-shirt and save an independent bookstore. I already ordered mine. Buy a t-shirt, save an independent bookstore!

Tyler is posting updates on the store situation on his LiveJournal page: link. If you want to place your t-shirt order in person, visit the store or you can see Tyler at Boskone this weekend. Even though his predicament has been posted on BoingBoing, he’s still facing an uphill battle — help out if you can.

Adventures in local food

When we moved to New Bedford, we got introduced to a new variety of turnip by the farmers at our local farmers’ market — the Wesport Macomber Turnip, a very mild white-fleshed turnip that I’ve never seen for sale anywhere else. Last time I was at one of our local supermarkets, I saw they had some for sale, erroneously labeled “Cape White Turnips.” I bought two and tonight we ate one.

Carol had figured out that the Wesport Macomber tastes as good raw as it does cooked. I quartered one of the large turnips, and cut thin slices off for us to eat raw. Eaten raw, they’re sweet and succulent, with a faint peppery taste not unlike the peppery taste of turnip greens — it’s a nice combination of flavors. Better still, the flesh is crisp and firm and juicy, a little harder than a really crisp apple. It’s far enough into the winter I really craved that kind of crisp, juicy sweetness; and somehow it felt far more satisfying than the fruit that gets shipped to supermarkets from the southern hemisphere at this time of year.

We cooked the rest — boiled for about five minutes until it was firm but tender, and served drained and with a pat of butter on top. Cooked, the flavor is richer, more like rutabagas or purple-top turnips than radishes, but much lighter-tasting than any other turnip I’ve ever had.

According the Web site of Less Market in Westport, Adin and Elihu Macomber developed the Westport Macomber in the 1870’s by crossbreeding radishes and rutabagas, and it seems to have gotten the best of both parents (more history here). Whatever its history and antecedents, it’s a local delicacy that’s perfect for this time of year.

Adventures in local food

It’s hard to eat local food in the winter here in New England — only one or two growers are as adept as Four Seasons Farm at growing vegetables year-round in our climate. So unless you live near Four Seasons Farm (which we don’t), if you want to eat local food in the winter you have to figure out how to store it yourself.

That can be difficult for those of us who are apartment dwellers. Without a basement we can’t have a root cellar, of course. This year, Carol and I bought some extra local apples and carrots to store in the bottom of the refrigerator, but those were gone by Thanksgiving. We bought half a dozen extra Butternut squash and some pumpkins, but the ones that were left by Christmas time had begun to spoil and we had to throw them out. But this fall I also got a Hubbard squash at Verrill Farm in Concord. The blue-green rind of Hubbards is so thick they keep well for months, even at room temperature. We decided to cook ours yesterday.

A Hubbard squash is big, typically weighing five to twenty pounds. They can be tough to peel. The way I usually open up a Hubbard squash is to whack it with a hatchet. Then I chop it into manageable chunks, which we cook (rind and all) until the orange part is soft and you can scoop it off the rind with a spoon. But when you hit that Hubbard with a hatchet, little chunks of squash rind fly everywhere: in your face, off the walls, down the hallway. It’s a mess.

This year I had a better idea. I held an axe on the ground with the sharp edge pointing up, and Carol dropped the Hubbard onto the axe. The squash split open, but without little pieces flying everywhere. We did that a couple more times to break up the pieces. Then I attacked those smaller pieces with a chopping knife (think “Samurai chef!”) until they were small enough to cook: whack! whack! whack! whack! It was very satisfying.

Now we have several pounds of cooked Hubbard squash in the freezer. Sure, we could have gone to the supermarket and gotten little boxes of the same stuff. It wouldn’t have tasted nearly as good, it would have used gallons of Diesel fuel to truck it here, and I wouldn’t have gotten out all my aggressions (whack!).

Next year, I’m going to get three Hubbards.

Life in the city

The coldest day so far this year: it got down to three degrees Fahrenheit last night in New Bedford. It was thirteen degrees when I went out for a walk this afternoon, with a twenty mile an hour wind. A Harbor Seal surfaced in the channel just below the swing-span bridge. Lots of ducks huddling together in the water on the lee side of Pope’s Island. The Buffleheads are usually wary and fly away before I get within a hundred yards of them, but today they just paddled out a few more feet and stayed there, keeping an eye on me. A Lark Sparrow, its feathers all fluffed up, let me come within six feet before it flew up into the shelter of a pitch pine. Bitter cold winter days are the best days to see animals in the city: with so few humans walking around, and no dogs, the birds and some of the mammals become quite tame.

***

This past week I’ve stayed at home, studying and writing, and I haven’t moved my car in all that time. I was going to get some groceries for lunch, so I went over to the Elm Street parking garage to get the car. I noticed broken glass on the pavement and then realized that the front passenger’s side window was smashed in. Whoever had done it had rifled through the glove box and the junk I kept in the bin under the cheap car radio; they took a portable CD that was broken, and left twenty dollars in quarters. Go figure.

The police were polite but bored when I called: “We’ll send a cruiser out. Where will you be?” “How long will it take?” I said, thinking to myself, It’s cold out, I’m not going to stand around waiting for the cops to show up.” “Um, why don’t you leave us a phone number… Or you could come in and make a report…” I said I’d come in to the station, knowing I wouldn’t bother. Instead, I called my insurance agent and got immediate and friendly service: “Call this number, it won’t cost you anything, no paperwork.” I called the glass company, and the window was fixed within hours.

***

At lunch time, my car was getting a new window, and Carol was busy writing her next book. “I’ll buy you a sandwich,” she said. That sounded like a good idea. We walked two blocks up to Cafe Arpeggio, where Carol got some kind of Portuguese soup, and I got a sandwich. Lunch hour was in full swing, and the cafe was packed: people coming in and slowly shedding coats and hats and gloves; people standing up to leave, wrapping themselves with scarves and sweaters and coats. It was a great way to get out of the house on a frigid winter day.

Then this evening, Carol walked across the street to the monthly “After Hours” social event at the Whaling Museum, with music by a local blues band. I decided not to go — I can no longer tolerate loud music due to tinnitus. But I stood in the window for a while and entertained myself by watching the people coming and going.

Dreams

March

New Bedford’s “Martin Luther King, Jr., Day of Remembrance Celebration” began at 2:30 p.m. with a march. We were to march from Bethel AME church down County Street to Centre United Methodist Church, a total of about three short blocks. The program at United Methodist wasn’t going to begin until 4:00, so we stood in front of Bethel church for half an hour (in occasional light drizzle), while people waved at friends, schmoozed with each other (New Bedford is a great town for schmoozing), and children asked when we were going to start walking. Andy and some other people passed out blue buttons saying “Marriage Equality Coalition of the SouthCoast,” and more than half the people there had one pinned on their rain coats.

The ministers were all supposed to stand together near the front of the march, but I stayed in the middle of the crowd so I could schmooze and say hi to people: Everett, Louie, Kathy, Andy, John, half a dozen other people. At last we began to walk. I walked with Peter and his mom and dad. Peter was happy because the road went slightly downhill, so he could just coast along on his wheelie shoes, with an occasional light push from his dad. It was a mixed crowd, from the palest white skin (like mine) through every shade of white and brown to the darkest brown.

Preachers and politicians

Once inside, I lost Peter and his mom and dad. By a quarter past three, I was sitting in the very back of the huge church, near some other people from First Unitarian. The program was printed in tiny type, and went on for two pages. Seven clergypeople were scheduled to speak; seven politicians were scheduled to speak; the consensus of the people around me was that it was going to be a very long program indeed. “We’ll be here till seven,” I predicted. “Not me,” said the distinguished-looking African American man at the end of the pew, “why do you think I’m sitting in the back row?”

In spite of gentle admonitions from Rev. David Lima, the master of ceremonies, the preachers and politicians all exceeded their alloted time of one minute each (except for Rev. Bradbury, the rector of Grace Episcopal, who kept his bit to one minute). I didn’t mind that they all went over their allotted time, not much anyway. Rev. Mark Green invoked the presence of God to bless this assembly, and to help us remember the dream of Dr. Martin Luther King. City Councillor Brian Gomes told about how he managed to get a job as a soda jerk at an all-white soda fountain in New Bedford because of the intervention of an older white woman — and because of the dream set forth by Dr. King. Congressman Barney Frank spun out his vision of a truly fair and just society that does not discriminate on the basis of race, sexual orientation, or anything else — a vision like that of Dr. King. State Representative Tony Cabral told how his family had escaped the old Portuguese dictatorship, come to America when he was fourteen, following a dream — a dream like that of Dr. King.

What he said…

At some point, I noticed a small knot of people walking up the aisle just past us: Deval Patrick, the new governor of Massachusetts, had arrived. People started applauding; people were on their feet applauding. Next to me, Katey said, “He’s shorter than I thought he was.” Patrick got an extended standing ovation, just for walking in the door. We all sat down, and the program continued as before — but now there was a lot more excitement in the room.

At last Deval Patrick got up to speak. He started slowly: said he was glad to be there, made a joke about how preachers and politicians could never limit themselves to just one minute of speaking time, apologized that he would have to leave right after he finished speaking. And then he really began to speak, and held us all captivated with his vision, his dream of what Massachusetts could be, if we would all work together. I made some inadequate notes of what he said:

On why he wished he could be present for the whole program: “I didn’t just come to speak to you; I came to listen, to hear what you have to say….”

Speaking of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and equal access to voting in America: “We have done a great deal to make voting easier, but we haven’t done enough to make voting meaningful.”

On the anti-gay marriage amendment ballot initiative: “Letting a majority tell a minority just how much freedom they can have” is not the right thing to do.

“I think we’re all getting tired of debates about the differences between the right and the left, and what we want is debates about the difference between right and wrong.”

Those four short quotes don’t communicate the feeling we got sitting there, listening to the new governor speak. He presents a powerful vision, his words have the power to motivate people out of passivity and into action. And hearing someone like Patrick in person makes a difference — if you’re a Massachusetts resident, make a point of going to hear him speak in person some time and you’ll see what I mean. He has a dream, and it comes across best in person. I’ve been feeling pretty cynical about Massachusetts for some years now, but hearing Patrick speak today gave me hope, and made me want to get active again.

The power of dreams — the power of speech to communicate dreams.

I didn’t see it, but this is what happened

Carol was sitting in her home office, working on the book she’s writing and looking out the front window at the people coming and going at the Whaling Museum across the street. I was sitting in the kitchen-dining-living room, eating lunch and reading the Sunday New York Times.

“The tea’s ready,” I said. I had said this several times before, but when Carol is writing she sometimes doesn’t hear things.

“I wonder what’s going on at the Whaling Museum,” she said. “This guy with a white beard, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, walked into the museum a few minutes ago, and now he just ran out.”

“Hmm,” I said. When I’m reading, I sometimes don’t hear things.

“It just looked funny,” she said. “He was this little slight man, and he was running away from the museum.”

We heard a siren. A police car pulled up in front of the museum. The cop went inside. “Something’s happening,” said Carol.

Another police car pulled up, blue lights flashing. We could hear another siren getting closer.

“I wonder if I should go over and tell them what I saw,” said Carol. “He ran down towards the waterfront.”

Suddenly it sunk in to my thick head: Carol had just seen something that might be important. My head snapped up. “Yeah, you better go over there — and hurry, so you can tell them which way he ran off!”

While she ran across the street to the museum, I looked out the window: four police cars parked in front of the museum, and fifth car, one of their SUVs, drove off towards the waterfront while I watched.

Carol came back and said someone had just held up the front desk of the museum with a penknife. She had given her story to the police, but hadn’t stayed around long enough to be interviewed by the reporter. “I went up to the woman at the desk and said, ‘Did you just get held up?’ and she looked at me and snapped, ‘Who are you?’ At first I was going to be pissed because she was so short with me, but then I realized, she had just been held up.”

What a stupid place to rob: very public, guaranteed there will be lots of witnesses, guaranteed five police cars will show up within a minute. Probably someone stealing money for drugs, too strung out to care any more.

The New Bedford Standard-Times Web site already has used to have a short report on the incident, on their breaking news page [link], which reads in part:

The culprit was described as a white male wearing square sunglasses and a charcoal gray hooded sweatshirt and sporting a large bandage on his chin.

Employee Pamela Lowe said she was working the counter at the main entrance when the man entered the museum, jumped the counter and demanded money.
She said he was brandishing a small knife.

He then jumped back over the counter, she handed him the money and he fled on foot.