Category Archives: New Bedford, Mass.

City singers

Readers of this blog may know Charles Hartshorne as that process theologian who wrote books such as Omnipotence and Other Theological Mistakes (1984), and used terms like “panentheism” (I first heard about him as one of the editors of the complete works of Charles Saunders Peirce, but then I was a philosophy major). But Hartshorne also was a serious amateur ornithologist who published a number of papers in the field, and wrote Born To Sing: An Interpretation and Survey of World Bird Song (1973).

In Born To Sing, Hartshorne begins by dismissing strict behaviorism as “inadequate, at least in the study of human beings; moreover, in view of the evolutionary continuity of life, and the ideal of a unitary explanation of nature as a whole, it seem unsatisfactory dualism to make man [sic] a mere exception.” Hartshorne does not believe that we can attribute human motives to non-human animals, but he does feel that animals can find aesthetic enjoyment in their own ways. This leads him to a serious consideration of the aesthetic elements of bird songs.

As part of his argument, he establishes criteria for determining highly developed or “superior” bird song, and based on these criteria he develops a list of 194 species of superior songsters. Less than twenty of these species are indigenous to North America, and only eight of those species breed in our immediate area.

On a walk today, from urban New Bedford over to densely suburban Fairhaven, we heard three of these eight species: Northern Mockingbird, Northern Cardinal, and Song Sparrow (links go to USGS site with recordings of their songs). And I heard at least one other of these species, the Carolina Wren, near our apartment earlier this spring. Suburbanites dismiss cities as bleak, forbidding places, but if you’re willing to look, it’s possible to find incredible natural beauty.

Keeping sockpuppets at bay

Linda, the secretary at the New Bedford church, read the recent article in the New Bedford Standard-Times that reported on how both the Fairhaven (Mass.) and New Bedford Unitarian Universalist churches recently each asked a certain Level 3 sex offender to not attend worship services at our churches. Linda has a child, so she is entirely sympathetic with churches who consider carefully before deciding whether a given sex offender should be part of their community.

We agreed that the article didn’t say much, but that it wasn’t terrible.

“But,” she said, “did you see what people are saying in the comments?” The Standard-Times allows anyone to comment on any article, with absolutely no moderation or editing in place, except that you can flag a comment if you feel it is “inappropriate.”

“Yeah, I did,” I said. “Do you know what sockpuppets are?” She did not, so I explained that unscrupulous Web surfers will create fake online identities for themselves, so-called sockpuppets, so they can promote a certain point of view without admitting their real identities. “Near as I can tell,” I went on, “most of those comments are made by sockpuppets of one or two people who just want to promote their point of view.”

Are they really sockpuppets? You can judge for yourself: here’s the article, and the comments.

The real point is that allowing unmoderated comments degrades a newspaper’s Web site. The Standard-Times would not allow unmoderated letters to appear on their editorial pages; it doesn’t make sense for them to allow unmoderated comments on their Web site. It looks to me as though the Standard-Times doesn’t understand the Web, and doesn’t really care about the quality of their Web site. They should try to remember that newspapers provide us with two things: decent writing, and good editing. When it comes to the Web, the editing should be most important, for while there is plenty of good writing out there on the Web, there isn’t much in the way of good editing.

Newspaper editors need to realize that their Web sites need to have the same careful editing they devote to their dead tree editions. They also have to realize that Web sites require different kinds of editing, such as comment moderation; and that comment moderators need to have a different skill set than traditional newspaper editors — comment moderators have to be able to promote online community, keep the conversation moving, not let people feed the trolls, identify and remove sockpuppets, etc. This is why I think most newspapers will fail to make the transition to the Web — they will not be willing or able to figure out how the Web works.

The local press

The local daily newspaper, the New Bedford Standard-Times, published an article today on convicted sex offenders wanting to attend churches. It’s always interesting to read an article in your local paper on a topic about which you happen to know quite a bit — it gives you a good sense of how good your local paper is. This happened to be a subject about which I know quite a bit — indeed, the reporter interviewed me, quotes me in the article, and went on to interview at least two other people I suggested she call.

Unfortunately, this story revealed to me that the Standard-Times is not a particularly good newspaper. The facts are mostly right, but the story doesn’t really go anywhere. It covers the obvious points:– convicted sex offenders can benefit from participating in a religious community; churches have to protect their children; the situation is difficult. But there’s very little in the way of a specific local story — it’s a collection of loosely-connected generic facts rather than a real story.

I wish I could provide a link to the story so you could read it yourself, but the Substandard-Times requires a paid subscription to view anything except the current news on their site. But the hell with it — you don’t want to bother reading their story anyway; it’s not worth your time. Instead, go and read this really top-notch story on the same topic from the New York Times.

Not that the New York Times is a very good newspaper any more — they’re not. The quality of their writing and editing, like that of most newspapers, has gone down year after year for the past decade or more. And that’s what’s happening at a big national newspaper; the local newspapers are even worse. The local newspapers claim that their readership is declining because everyone gets their news from the Web these days. But that’s not true — we still need local newspapers that report on local news; that’s something you can’t get from the Web. The real reason newspaper readership is dropping is because the quality of the writing and editing is going down.

It’s too bad that local newspapers are so bad, too, because there are plenty of real stories that need to be told. There certainly is plenty of corruption and political intrigue going on in this city that needs courageous reporting. But it has become clear we’re not going to get that kind of reporting from our local newspaper. Oh well. Maybe someone will start a well-written, hard-hitting political blog in this city….

Heard on the street

There are men sitting on the steps of the homeless shelter across the street from my office window, and every now and then I catch snippets of their conversation:

[Two newcomers walk down the street to join the group.]
“Now there’s a pair that beats a full house!”
[This is a phrase I used to hear when I worked at the lumber company.]

A: [Singing] “Take me down to the…”
B: “Put up the volume, put up the volume.”
A: [Singing] “Won’t you please take me home…”
B: “Now, remember now, people sing on the street.”

A: “I got my money, I got my money.”
B: “Oh, shut up.”

(I’m trying to write this week’s sermon, and it is not going well. I had to write these snippets down to get them out of my inner ear, in order to concentrate on hearing the sermon.)

The creeping crud

They’re calling it “the creeping crud” — the upper respiratory ailment that has afflicted so many people around here this winter. Yesterday I was talking with someone who has the creeping crud, and he said his doctor told him to expect it to last ten to twelve weeks; that is, if you take care of yourself, because if you don’t take care of yourself, the creeping crud creeps right back into your system.

Take me as an example of what the creeping crud can do to someone who doesn’t take care of himself. I came down with a vague upper respiratory ailment at the end of October, which lingered for twelve weeks or so. I finally got rid of it in mid-January — or so I thought — I felt great, got lots of outdoors exercise, cleaned the apartment, and — started overworking again. The creeping crud crept back into my lungs in early February, I developed bronchitis, and eleven weeks later I’m just starting to feel somewhat better.

At First Unitarian, we actually saw a significant dip in attendance in the worship service and in the Sunday school throughout February — that’s how prevalent the creeping crud has been in this part of the world. One of the television news shows claimed in February that half the population of Massachusetts had upper respiratory ailments. Supposedly health care providers are saying this is the worst they’ve ever seen it.

More eventful than usual

Carol and I went for a walk late this afternoon. It was a dreary gray day. We were on Pope’s Island heading across the bridge towards Fairhaven when we noticed a police car parked in the middle of the bridge. A police officer was standing in the sidewalk gesturing for us to cross to the sidewalk on the other side of the bridge; he was standing behind some of that yellow tape the police use to block off crime scenes.

As we stood there waiting for a break in the four lanes of traffic so we could cross to the other sidewalk, Carol told me that what she had read on the Web site of the New Bedford Standard-Times: that yesterday evening someone had seen someone walking along the bridge carrying a rope; that later police had found an empty noose tied to the railing of the bridge; that police divers were searching the water under the bridge.

As we passed the place where the police car was parked, another New Bedford police car pulled up. And a uniformed police officer sat on a dock over on our side of the bridge. “They must still have divers in the water,” said Carol.

When we got to Fairhaven, we turned down Middle Street. In the parking lot of the Fairhaven VFW, we saw four black-and-white Fairhaven police cars, one unmarked car with its blue lights flashing, a state police car, and several other cars. There were two tripods with video cameras standing on the sidewalk, and there was a man with a video camera on his shoulder further in the parking lot. There were perhaps thirty or forty bystanders spread out around the VFW parking lot: a couple standing on the porch of one of the apartments on the left, several people standing on the sidewalk in front, several more standing around the liquor store to the right of the VFW, and even more people standing on Bridge Street on the other side of the liquor store.

We had no idea what had happened, but it was pretty obvious that nothing was really going on any more. When we got back home, the Standard-Times Web site had a brief story: at 10:40 p.m. yesterday evening, police responded to a large fight somewhere around Bridge, Main, and Middle Streets (the Standard-Times reported that the fight took place at “the intersection of Middle and Main Streets,” but Middle and Main parallel each other). Three men received serious knife wounds; one of those died this morning after being flown to Beth Israel Hospital in Boston.

But we didn’t know all this until we returned home. We walked past the VFW and down to the harbor so I could look at some ducks. “They’re Buffleheads,” said Carol, while I was still trying to figure out what kind of ducks they were. “You’re right,” I said, “but I thought you didn’t like birding.” She smirked and said, “Yup, but I can see better than you.”

Then we walked home, past the people standing around the Fairhaven VFW, past the two police cars on the bridge to Pope’s Island, and then around the little park on the south side of Pope’s Island. “What’s that!” said Carol. A hawk flew clumsily away from us, keeping low to the ground. It reappeared on the other side of a big clump of rose bushes. Carol pointed to a big pile of feathers. “It caught a pigeon,” I said. “Let’s see if we can sneak up behind it and figure out what kind of hawk it is.”

We walked quietly around the clump of rose bushes, and there was the hawk sitting on the ground staring back at us: brown back, about the size of a crow, probably an immature Cooper’s Hawk. I thought it would immediately fly away when it saw us, but it didn’t. Then I saw the bright red in between its feet: it was clutching the carcass of the dead pigeon. No wonder the hawk had flown so clumsily away from us; no wonder it didn’t fly away while we were staring at it; it was holding on to its dinner. We watched the hawk for a minute or two, but it obviously wasn’t going to start eating again until we went away.

We walked on home. The sun came out as we walked across the swing span bridge onto Fish Island. We stopped to talk to someone we know; we waved to Russell at the Fish Island gas station. It was a more eventful walk than usual.

Spring watch

At 6:30, I finally made the last phone call of the day and headed out for a walk. I figured I had half an hour before it got dark. I walked briskly, not paying too much attention to anything except walking.

Looking down from the pedestrian bridge over Route 18, the man running past the Wharfinger Building on Fisherman’s Wharf looked like John. He wasn’t wearing John’s usual bright yellow Cheerios hat, though, so it couldn’t be John. Only a handful of people run regularly down along the waterfront, and briefly I wondered if another runner had moved into our neighborhood.

As i walked down the spiral ramp that leads from the pedestrian bridge to the wharf, I met John running up. “John!” I said. “You’re not wearing your Cheerios hat!”

“I know,” he said. “I thought it was much warmer than it really is.”

Yesterday was warm and sunny, but today the clouds moved in and it got chilly. I was wearing my big winter coat; John was wearing a long-sleeved jersey and shorts. He looked cold. “Yeah,” I said, “it’s cold today.”

He didn’t linger, but headed on home.

Looking south

On the walk back home, I started to feel that a cup of coffee and a doughnut might not be a bad idea, so I bought a newspaper and a magazine and stopped in at Dunkin Donuts. A middle-aged woman stood at the cash register talking with a young woman. The young woman was saying: I believed him when he told me that I was no good…; the sentence faded out as I walked up to the counter. A young woman behind the counter came up and said to me, Can I help you? The middle-aged woman said: You don’t have to believe that, honey. Don’t believe what he told you. The young woman who had first been talking glanced at me, but I studiously ignored her, and the middle-aged woman, and said: Could I have a medium decaf black no sugar please. The middle-aged woman said, You’re not still with him, are you. No, said the young woman. The middle-aged woman began moving away from the counter, saying: Keep talking honey, I just have to head to the bathroom. The young woman tried to keep talking for a minute, but that was really the end of their conversation.

I paid for my coffee and doughnut, and sat down to read the newspaper. The middle-aged woman sat down at the table nearest the front windows that look south, out across Route 6 towards the New Bedford Marina. I read an article in the magazine. The morning sun gave way to high thin clouds. I stood up to go. In the winter, when there are no boats at the marina, there is nothing to block the view: you can stand inside Dunkin Donuts and see the lighthouse on Palmer Island, and the hurricane barrier, and through the entrance in the hurricane barrier you can see out into Buzzard’s Bay, and maybe glimpse the Elizabeth Islands in the distance; and the sky looks huge, and the whole world looks amazing and bright; even the trash blowing across Route 6 is incredible.

In the waiting room

On Friday, it finally became clear that I wasn’t going to shake the chest cold I’ve had since November, so I made an appointment with a nurse practitioner at my doctor’s office. My appointment was this morning.

It’s always a long wait when you go to a doctor’s office. The TV yammered softly away on one corner of the big waiting room; voices coming from the TV are compressed to be more intelligible, so it was hard to overhear other people’s conversations. A woman got up and stood facing into a corner of the waiting room, talking softly on her cell phone: “I can’t heeear you,” she said in a gentle voice; of course she couldn’t leave the room, because you have to be there when they call your name. She lowered her voice even more, switched to Portuguese, and all I could hear were sibilants: “zh — ss — zzh.”

An older man and a middle-aged woman sat next to me. He had an oxygen bottle beside him. The woman said, “There’s a lot of people here today who were here yesterday.” The man said: “What?” She repeated herself. “Busy,” he said.

A medical assistant poked her head out of one of the doors leading into the offices. “John So-and-so,” she said. Behind me, I heard a man say, “I can’t be-lieve it! You’re calling me? I can’t be-lieve it.” — in a deep booming sarcastic voice with working class New England accent.

The older man and the woman next to me talk in low voices, keeping up a continuous, and often hilarious, commentary on people in the waiting room, and on mutual acquaintances. “—- said he’s cut back on eating meat,” said the woman. “Huh,” snorted the man, “when he came over to my place, he ate plenty of meat.” “He’s putting on weight,” she said. “Look at her,” he said, “what, do you have to be 200 pounds to get a job here?” “What do you weigh,” she said innocently, “240?” “Nah, 220,” he said, sounding disgusted with himself, “I used to be 240 but being sick I’ve been losing weight like anything.” He started describing the spaghetti he was going to make for a friend of his, with shrimp and a sauce with lemon and white wine. “Why’re you going to make that for him,” she said, “he won’t appreciate it.” “You’re right, I’ll make spaghetti and meatballs,” he said, “two or three meatballs.” “Two meatballs,” she asked incredulously, “that’s all?” “Yeah, I’ll eat one, and I’ll give him one,” said the man. They both laughed quietly.

Another medical assistant poked her head out of one of the doors. “George So-and-so,” she said. “About time,” said a cigarette-ravaged voice from across the room, “fer chrise sakes.” A woman sitting right behind me said softly to her friend, “Boy, the place mobbed today.”

The older man said to the woman next to me, “What’d he say?” She replied, “About time for Christ sake.” They both laughed. “Nobody likes to wait,” he said. The woman opened her cell phone to check the time. “10:30. That’s pretty bad,” she said. “What’s pretty bad?” he said. “We’ve been waiting an hour for a 9:30 appointment. He said something about spending his life in a doctor’s waiting room.

Then they called my name, so I got up and walked into the doctor’s office. I got examined, they took chest X-rays, it’s official: I have bronchitis.