Old Gaol, Old Golds, & Old Gail

Ever since I was a young boy, I played language like pinball. From Lawrence down to Salem, I bet I played it all.

For me, a silver ball such as “Gaol” lights every bumper and racks up the score. Why, I might flip so furiously at its possibilities that I’ll tilt the machine.

The Old English spelling remained in use until 1960 when finally overtaken by the phonetically friendly, though visually anemic “jail.”

At age nine, I never noticed. A decade later, when I was thrown into one, all the signs said, “Charles Street Jail.”

Too bad. “Jail” made me think only of bail.

With “gaol,” I’d have tripped on the psychedelic hint of “ghoul” and haunted my captors, or I’d have prolonged the sound of “goal” and declared victory over them.

Then there’s one Gail way back in the black mining hills of Dakota, called herself Nancy, though everyone knew her as Lil. Cherished memories that may yet tilt whatever is left of my septuagenarian machine.

Newburyport’s “Old Gaol” even recalls the Old Golds we smoked when we were left recumbent, close to paralyzed, and staring at the ceiling after the bells and buzzers fell silent and the bumpers dimmed.

Washing ashore in 1982, I was heartened that the Port’s numerous historical treasures include the Old Gaol.

That’s why, on Tuesday, March 10, at 7:00 pm, I’ll attend yet another Zoning Board of Appeals meeting in the Senior Center to decide its fate.

Or will they?

Since 2019, the Old Gaol has been pinballed into a bureaucratic Limbo that began when owner Charles Griffin gained variances to divide the lot for the sake of separate sales.

For that rare form of zoning relief, he agreed to place a preservation restriction on the Old Gaol buildings. The ZBA reasoned that the public would benefit from the preservation of a rare architectural treasure.

Eager to get what he wanted, Griffin has not been so eager to give what he promised. Seven years later, there is still no restriction on the Old Gaol buildings and landscape.

In Massachusetts, such applications must go first to the city, then to the state Historical Commission, and finally to the City Council.

Alas, that document was never sent. Instead, Griffin submitted revised versions in 2021 and again last year, both of which MHC rejected.

But why waste words? If language is a pinball machine we can tilt, politics is a whirl that tilts us.

That’s good news for Griffin. His long-time ally on city commissions is Kim Turner, who is now Mayor Sean Reardon’s Special Projects Manager.

Rather than enforcing its own laws, City Hall awarded him a “Certificate of Appreciation” for his interior improvements of the exact same property that, nevertheless, remains the site of his non-compliance.

Perhaps if the beleaguered folks in the City Clerk’s office had ignored laws rather than enforcing them last year, the mayor might have treated them with a modicum of respect.

Anyway, as if by invitation, Griffin is back at the same ZBA asking for a whole new variance to use the Old Gaol as, if not an Airbnb, then maybe a Bed and Breakfast or hotel.

Six weeks after Reardon’s inauguration last year, Griffin filed a new application on February 18, and a public hearing was set for March 25.

Board members discussed the matter, only to continue it to April 8, then to May 27, then to June 10, July 8, August 12, October 28, and finally to January 13 of this year.

Did I say “finally”? My bad. On January 13, it was continued.

On that unfateful evening, some 20 members of the public attended in hopes of protecting the architectural treasure, some planning to comment during the time that all civic meetings include.

When the first began speaking, the chairman apologetically interrupted to remind her of the continuance.

She could comment only on the motion, but all else had to wait for when the Zoning Board would finally, if ever, vote on Griffin’s appeal.

“Alright. But just one question.”

“Yes?”

“How many continuances does he get?”

A burst of laughter from the audience lit my bumpers and sounded my bells: If the ZBA were a pinball machine, its name would be “Continue to Continue!”

Stall until it falls your way. It’s a bureaucratic flipper that always gets a replay. I’ve never seen it fail.

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Redesigned as living and office space: Photo by Newburyport *Daily News*.

From the street: https://ppreservationist.com/the-old-gaol-in-newburyport/

There are three structures on the site: https://ppreservationist.com/the-old-gaol-in-newburyport/

Battle of the Bads

With comparisons to the Gestapo and an MO that recalls America’s infamous Fugitive Slave Act of the 1850s, the US Enforcement Immigration and Customs (ICE) is the cruelest feature of an administration in which cruelty is a top requirement for every job.

Apart from the military, ICE is the deadliest federal agency–although this week’s termination of the ability to restrict carbon emissions by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) will in time prove more lethal than two dead in Minnesota.

Here in the northeast corner of Massachusetts, we’ve seen very little of ICE, despite no end of lower-case ice, but this month we have been rocked by two ICE-related news items.

First, word circulated that Todd Lyons, the Acting Director of ICE, lives in West Newbury, a sleepy, leafy little town with no more of a center than a small grocery store and a pizza joint, barely eight miles from the coast where I now write.

Second, just days ago we learned that New Hampshire Republican Gov. Kelly Ayotte signed an agreement with ICE to permit the conversion of a warehouse in Merrimack N.H. into an ICE detention center with the capacity for 500 beds.

Residents of Merrimack and neighboring towns and cities knew that something was cooking and have been gathering by the hundreds at the site to hold vigils. They were shocked to learn that Ayotte had signed the agreement weeks earlier but never announced it. That’s very much in character for her. She campaigns without using the word “Republican,” omitting it from her signs and pamphlets, pretending that it’s not there, and disassociating herself from Trump as much as possible–just as most all New England Republicans do.

If that’s not duplicity enough, Ayotte is already dissing the plan despite the fact that she just signed off on it. According to the Associated Press:

Tensions boiled to the surface after interim ICE Director Todd Lyons testified Thursday that the Department of Homeland Security ‘has worked with Gov. Ayotte’ and provided her with an economic impact summary.

Always playing it both ways, Ayotte seized the chance to create an impression of opposing the move, claiming that Lyon’s claim was “simply not true” and that there was no summary sent until he had already testified. She also claimed that the document boasted of revenues to be gained by state sales and income taxes. New Hampshire has neither tax. Said Ayotte, as quoted by the AP:

Director Lyons’ comments today are another example of the troubling pattern of issues with this process… Officials from the Department of Homeland Security continue to provide zero details of their plans for Merrimack, never mind providing any reports or surveys.

Merrimack is barely 25 miles north of Lowell, Mass., about a dozen south of Manchester NH, and maybe 45 straight west from the coast. Before long, I’m sure to attend a vigil there, perhaps in a rendezvous with my musician friends in Peterborough NH, another 45 miles to the west.

Meanwhile, I’ve also been invited to join vigils outside of Todd Lyons’ residence in West Newbury. This has become the subject of debate among locals who attend the weekend rallies along main drags in Newburyport, Ipswich, and other towns nearby. Some feel that a protest shouldn’t be brought to anyone’s door, no matter how culpable they may be. What of the family, of neighbors?

Others ask what of the families of innocent people murdered by an agency under his direction? What of neighborhoods that have been living in terror for weeks and counting due to his decisions? Why should an administrator of and apologist for murder and terror have a safe space? Should their families be spared from candles in the night lit to shed light on their crimes?

I’m honestly torn. On the one hand, I cannot bring myself to protest at anyone’s residence. What if I offend some group with a column in the local paper? Plenty of opportunity for them to confront me in the press or in a public meeting. Outside my window? What good does that do?

On the other hand, I do not fault those who do hold signs outside Lyons’ home. Not only do I appreciate their rationale for doing it, but I respect their effort to act. As misdirected as I think it is, to stand outside that home, or the home of any member of Trump’s Reign of Hate–with signs, with chants, with flags, with the willingness to see wrong and try to right it–is preferable to doing nothing.

There’s one place I would go, however. Why, I’d be the first to buy a ticket, paying full price to sit up front. If the flap between Lyons and Ayotte should flare out of control, they might arrange a cage fight. I’d bring a sign:

A pox on both you louses!

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Let’s Get Horny

Well after dark, I drive down High St., squinting at the line of on-coming headlights, and, quite suddenly, there she is.

A pedestrian casually strolling across, perhaps 20 feet in front of me, looking straight ahead, as if I’m not there, as if all those headlights coming the other way are there only to light up her way.

I pump my brakes rather than slamming them and taking the driver behind me by surprise. But she is already stepping across the center line, so I would likely miss her anyway.

No idea what, if anything, the next driver coming the other way does to avoid her, as I keep my eyes on my side of the road. But I do know this: Had my car or any car hit her, Newburyport would be in yet another uproar over “careless drivers” and the need for “lower speed limits.”

No matter that she crosses where there is no crosswalk. In Newburyport, pedestrians–and bicyclists–are always blameless, and the motorist is always guilty, evil, and immediately condemnable to hell.

Last month, in nearby Ipswich, a woman was hospitalized when her horse was spooked by a bicycle on a nature trail. The horse had to be put down, and police, last I heard, were seeking the cyclist.

If that happened in Newburyport, some people would demand that they find the owner of the nearest parked car to blame and hold liable.

Over the top? Maybe. But the basic story is something I’ve heard described by friends in other cities and states. Across the country, the reality we face in 2025 may be far closer to my exaggeration than it is to what all of us over the age of, say, 40 once took for granted.

Don’t know when it ended, but once upon an attention span, pedestrians followed two “Rules of the Road”:

Make eye-contact with the driver before crossing in front of a moving vehicle;
Wear light, bright clothing after dark.

Both are matters of common sense to a Truman baby–and I’ll venture to say to Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, and Carter babies such as my daughter. The points are so obvious that they should not need making.

The woman who appeared not far before my driver’s side headlight wore black slacks and a dark gray coat and hat. She may have looked my way before I saw her and decided she would reach the center of the road before I reached her.

All I can say for sure is that she never made eye-contact. Crossing the center line, which was as far as I saw, she never broke her unhurried stride.

We hear about reckless drivers all the time. Cars that go too fast, run red lights, tailgate, cut us off, never yield, blast their horns unnecessarily. As one who drove delivery vans for 25 years, I saw more of that than most.

This was as true in the Eisenhower years as it is now. I still laugh at the memory of my uncle in Akron telling my father, “Ohio drivers may kill you accidentally, but we’ll never be rude to you.”

That, of course, countered the notorious reputation that we hear to this day of Boston drivers who “consider directional signals a sign of weakness.”

Today’s epidemic of reckless pedestrians was unheard of. Was it the “You can have it all” 1980s that started to erode the idea that we must pay attention to the world around us?

Was it the advent of the cellphone that conditioned so many to think that they live in bubbles? Or just act as though they do without having to think at all?

I’ll leave that for others to answer, and I’ll leave the problem for others to solve. All I can think of is that it might help to start scaring the intestinal content out of these oblivious fools.

Horns, after all, are a safety device when used as intended.

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Baby, you can drive my album cover! This VW ad seems to suggest that cars may use crosswalks. Did VW hire a Newburyport ad agency?
https://mx.pinterest.com/pin/18858892159148238/

All for a Bird on My Roof

Sunday after Christmas: When I awake, I sense commotion out my window and across the street.

Two cars are parked, the second with two people opening doors and getting out as a third car stops behind them. With a camera the size of a bazooka, the third driver also steps out.

Counting the driver of the first car, I soon have four photographers aiming weapons of mass illustration at me. Because I live atop a slight hill, they aim upward.

Keeping away from the window, I rub my uncaffeinated eyes, and quickly throw a shirt on. It’s doubtful they can see this far through the window, especially with a glaring morning sun facing them. And if they did, it would be from just the neck up.

Without coffee, and necessarily concerned more about urination than illustration at that moment, I leave them to their own devices. In the bathroom, I resolve to stop being so specific in my Daily News columns about where I live, and my expansive view over the marsh next to this wildlife sanctuary that serves as a bi-annual pit-stop for migrating birds.

While walking in the sanctuary, I’ve seen how cars converge on a spot to photograph a red-tail hawk, a peregrine falcon, a snowy owl, an occasional bald eagle, a rare king eider. Happens on the one and only road across the marsh connecting us to the mainland, a causeway absurdly called a “turnpike.”

While walking the road in the sanctuary, I’ve chatted with them, learned something of their MO, and have been treated to their cameras’ views that can make a blue heron a half mile away look like it’s on the other side of a card table ready to take you on in a game of cribbage.

Birders–call them “bird watchers” at your own peril!–have an app on their phones which they can use to alert others of a sighting. Since most all of them frequent Plum Island with license plates from all over New England any given day, a quick gathering of three or more cars with perhaps five or seven birders is common.

Fans of Moby-Dick might be reminded of the “gam.” When two whaling ships sighted each other on the high seas, they would pause the hunt and join side-to-side to exchange information. The captain of one ship would board the other while the first mate of the other would board the first. Never occurred to me to ask birders if they have a specific word for their impromptu gatherings. And might it be possible that that word is “gam”?

Happens along the causeway. I have no idea how anyone in a passing car one day could have noticed the falcon at least fifty feet away, slightly down from the higher road, and in the tall marsh grass. But that’s why birders tend to travel at least two to a vehicle. By the time I was on my way home, five cars were in the breakdown lane, and the birders lined one side like a baseball team from home to first following introductions.

This morning, in the bathroom long enough to heat water for a full French press of a Tanzanian dark-roast, I throw on my gym shorts just in case my own personal paparazzi is still trying to capture my sorry posterior for posterity. A few sips is all it takes to see that their cameras are aimed not at my window, but up to my roof, and to the roof next door.

Do I throw on more clothes and a pair of shoes to get out and look up? Nah! It’s 16 degrees, and whatever it is or they are, I’ve seen them before and will see them again.

Better to settle here on my posterior and record the story for posterity even if it does reveal that I’m so vain, I positively thought that gam was about me.

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You can tell where the road is by the bottoms of the telephone poles. This pic was taken by a friend, or a friend of a friend, on a summertime sunset cruise. Sorry I cannot recall who that was.

The We Three No Kings Band

Newburyport is now having weekly No Kings rallies, and yesterday I-don’t-know-how-many people braved a windchill down near 20 to march from the usual spot on the city’s main drag (US Rt. 1-A) about a 1/4 mile to Market Square downtown.

I don’t know because I went to Ipswich to sit in with the drum circle. For a full hour, the We Three No Kings Band played behind a little over 100 people who lined the main drag, also 1-A about a dozen miles away.

Cold weather discourages musicians, and so our “circle” was barely a curve. Usually we have at least seven drummers compared to yesterday’s two. Of course, we would all like more drums, but I’d drive that 12 miles for just one as gladly as I would for ten. A percussionist is a wind-player’s best friend.

In Ipswich yesterday, those two fellows were as glad to see me as I them. I’d jammed with them for most Saturdays from the beginning of the weekly event back in early March right to Labor Day. During that time there was just one other piper on one day, and he arrived in my car. Come fall, the Renaissance faire claimed me for two months that required a third month of recuperation. Stayed in Newburyport for a few weeks, but I missed the music, and so yesterday, south I went.

The drummers have a variety of rhythms and moods, tempos and texture, that keep me exploring combinations of notes, mixtures of sharps and flats in the two-and-a-half high-pitched octaves I have. All I have to do is embellish and fill, but I like the challenge of finding my own structure layered atop theirs, and at times it’s as if my pipe is taking the drums’ suggestions for coherent melodies. On a few of them, I was able to layer recognizable songs, and I had the season in mind as I played “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” “Joy to the World'” and “Deck the Halls.” I also managed a piece each by Bach and Handel, but I was mostly in jazz mode.*

Oddly, I could not find “We Three Kings.” Not for lack of trying, as I thought it might get a laugh from anyone paying attention. A musical sight-gag. But songs become like the boxes and cans you store into kitchen cabinets when they go unplayed. Some are pushed so far back that you’ll only reach them with a step stool. Fine if you are just preparing a meal, but in Ipswich the drummers kept serving it. Had to knock over “Moscow Nights” to grab “Deck the Halls” as it was.

For a few minutes I compromised with the cold and became a third drummer by tapping my sopranino recorder against my water bottle. At times we were joined by one or two other fellows who stood nearby keeping the beat with percussive objects that seemed hidden in their gloves and scarves. Occasionally women would wander over to dance awhile, probably to keep warm, or just dance past us while making the rounds with friends lining the street.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere: Men banging things and women dancing. But developing it might violate some rule of political correctness, so I’ll keep piping. And anyway, there were at least two women drumming in Ipswich through the summer, and men also walk past us with a mincing attempt at dancing, and so I try to keep a straight face and play on.

If the weather had any effect on the drummers, they neither mentioned nor showed it. I, on the other hand, almost mastered the art of ripping a fingerless glove off my left hand with that other hand so quickly that I could get a handle on Handel after what seemed like a natural, improvisational break. Like a sleight of hand. On the other hand, the left hand had more room than the other hand, so the other glove stayed on the left hand, unlike the other hand. On yet another hand, there were a couple of of five minute breaks with both hands in my pockets without ever taking the glove off that other hand. But I did keep it handy on the ground at hand. We pipers gotta hand it to those flashing hands! Did I mention that it’s the repetitive nature of percussion that welcomes improvisation as a natural ally?

Yesterday was Ipswich’s 43rd consecutive Saturday rally. The honking and thumbs-up approval seemed non-stop, certainly beyond what I recall in the summer. Both drummers say they’ll be there for the 44th and hoped I’d be back. “You fellows are my launching pad,” I reassured them.

Where else would a piper go?

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*For an example of this, listen to the long, psychedelic nine-minute version of The Chambers Brothers’ “Time Has Come Today,” and in the middle of the heavily percussive instrumental section, you’ll hear the lead guitarist pick out “Little Drummer Boy.”

Don’t know their last names, so I’ll leave my own out, L2R: Jack, John, Ravi. Photo by John Shaw, posted by Democrats, Republicans and Independents for Democracy of Ipswich.

So Tired, Tired of Waiting

Hard to believe, but the most frequently asked question put to me before the election was not who I thought would win the mayor’s race, but how the city council’s once most progressive member devolved into a rubberstamp for Mayor Reardon:

What happened to Ed Cameron?

Pronouncing it with several exclamation points rather than as a question, readers assume that, since I write about City Hall, I am privy to secrets kept behind the closed doors of 60 Pleasant Street.

Over and again I heard it, no doubt because of my employment at the downtown cinema, as much a crossroads as any in Newburyport. With all the documentary, independent, and foreign films, it stands to reason that our demographic tends to be politically progressive, and many of them tell me they once voted for Cameron as soon as they ask the question.

Followed by an adamant “Never again!”

Perhaps they saw my favorable 2023 review of his rock-and-roll band, The Pathological Outliars, and assumed that I’m a fan boy. Here’s a taste of it, opening with a reference to one his bandmates:

Sunny Douglas and Ed Cameron alternate vocal leads, both pitch perfect for their individual selections. Cameron may not be able to find matching socks, but he harmonizes well with Douglas whether they are belting out Bowie’s defiant “Suffragette” or lifting the weight of the Kinks’ “Tired of Waiting.”

Ironically, as city council president, all Cameron knows how to do is wait, and he is not at all tired of it–even though he yawns in the face of all else. That’s why the library investigation took two full years, and why Mayor Reardon was able to retain a head-nodding city solicitor that the council had voted against. Rip Van Cameron slept through the deadline to certify the council vote.

Worth mentioning here that Cameron was one of just three votes in favor of Reardon’s choice. I’m old enough to recall an America where this was not just mere coincidence skirted by an apology, but a conflict of interest demanding a resignation.

Oh, to make America attentive again!

The activist enthusiasm of the old Ed Cameron may have made him council president, but for two years now, the new Ed Cameron is mostly concerned with having the council “stay in our lane” and treating matters only “within our purview.”

When he started doing this during a discussion of the library scandal in 2023, one councilor countered Cameron’s sleep-inducing directive with a breath-of-fresh-air blast that insisted there is no “lane.” This was Councilor Jim McCauley, insisting that what happened to the library volunteers was a city-wide issue that needed the attention of each councilor. Councilors Connie Preston and Heath Granas soon chimed in, as they would in meetings that followed.

Even Cameron opened his eyes slightly, but he still delayed the investigation, allowing half a year to pass from the council’s approval to the hiring of an investigator–and, oh by the way, allowing the mayor’s chief-of-staff, found most culpable in the investigator’s report, to find another job in western Mass.

Last November, a state agency ruled that Cameron’s lethargic neglect of timely public notices “violated” Massachusetts’ open meeting law and ordered him to attend a webinar training session. Two other councilors were also so ordered, but Cameron, in addition to being council president, chairs the General Government Committee for which those notices were not made, and bears most responsibility.

If Cameron’s band played the way he legislates, their entire setlist would be funeral dirges. Their encore would be “Taps.”

All he has going for him is all that Mayor Reardon has going: the appearance of rock-and-roll vitality which makes for great photo ops. One we keep seeing on social media has Cameron wearing all the pads of a catcher for his team in the city softball league.

As ironic as his rock-and-roll, catcher is the most demanding position in that sport–some jocks say in all of sports. If Cameron caught the way he legislates, every pitch would be a passed ball, and the opposing team would be running conga lines around the bases.

But it is a mistake to link him to Reardon in any ideological sense. This new Ed Cameron seeks nothing more than a path of least resistance.

Sorry to admit this, but why such a promising civic leader has devolved into a bureaucratic wallflower is as much a mystery to me as it is to those who voted for him only to be frustrated by all he does not do.

Only consolation here is that the council elects its president at the start of every new session. His fellow rubber stampers may want to keep him in place, but six new members should be free of obligation if they want, as they claim, to actually accomplish anything.

If they do replace him, I’d be amazed if Cameron even noticed the difference.

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Unlike his Hudson Valley ancestor (shown above), the president of the Newburyport city council is bald with a goatee he keeps well-trimmed.

Watch What They Don’t Say

Anyone with only the Daily News‘ opinion page to describe Newburyport may well deduce something quite unusual:

The term “background noise” is a local get-out-of-jail-free card that can be used by supporters to dismiss any and all criticism of a mayor.

Such is the case with Newburyport Mayor Sean Reardon, no matter how well-known or documented the criticism is.

Since Labor Day, there have been numerous letters, several columns, and an editorial or two that have been pro or con Reardon. About equal in number I’d say.

Those endorsing the mayor for re-election always ring the bells of “moving forward” and “growth.” They praise Reardon for projects that were in the works long before he became mayor as if he alone made them happen. And they praise him for things yet to be built, much less prove any success.

Endorsements also come from groups who emphasize his support for them.

With all due respect to the heads of local cultural enterprises of which I have been part, to the PEG Center which has a strong hand in the anti-Trump rallies in which I take part, and to the alliance called LGBTQ whose rights I fully endorse:

None of what you say has anything to do with the inner workings of government.

Yes, he appears at your rallies, raises your flags, and smiles with you for cameras while handing you framed certificates proclaiming your goodness and worth.

Problem is not what you say, but what you don’t say. Do you really not know or do you choose to overlook that he robbed about a dozen seniors of continuing their public service of local, historical research which they loved and at which they excelled?

Did you not read the investigator’s report? Or just the conclusion? As one letter-writer observed, it “should have been a career-ending document.”

Did you also miss reports of the entire City Clerk’s office beseeching the City Council to intervene in the “toxic work environment” created by Reardon?

All of this and more lurks below the superficial gloss of flag waving and photo posing for which my friends in the arts so easily fall.

What if a PEG activist had been among the library volunteers banished by Reardon and defamed for a month on a city website?

No matter? OK, then let’s change the slogan to “Think Globally, Ignore Locally.”

How about the woman from the City Clerk’s office who fought back tears while telling the City Council that after a dozen years of service marked by commendations, she now feels “I have a target on my back”? What if she was either L or G, or B or T?

Matter or no matter, that’s not gay pride. That’s gay privilege.

How do so many otherwise well-intentioned folks justify ignoring the maltreatment of others to sing praises of those who favor them, all while the maltreatment is well-documented, public knowledge?

Since Labor Day, the term “background noise” has been as much a fad here and in social media as has any juvenile slang in any junior high school.

Many endorsements of Reardon include it in the opening sentences. They boast that he “runs on his record,” but then they cling to a phrase that says half his record simply doesn’t count.

Two Reardon supporters have admitted to his “missteps,” as if, instead of demoralizing most of City Hall, he chose the wrong color drapes.

These are not missteps. They are Reardon’s MO. There was no mistake about taking advantage of technicalities to retain a solicitor and an HR director the council did not want–the first due to a missed deadline by the anemic Council President Ed Cameron, the second a finesse with the budget’s line items.

As an exasperated outgoing councilor Connie Preston put it to the full chamber in a debate regarding the HR director:

“This is not how democracy works… There have to be checks and balances.”

Those supporting Reardon will dismiss that as background noise. Otherwise, they’d have to admit that, in their privileged view of the city, “checks and balances” stop us from “moving forward.”

And that “democracy” itself is an obstacle to “growth.”

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From the collection of the Blochaus Art Gallery in Newburyport: https://www.theblochaus.com/

Meanwhile, in Newburyport…

When Ward 2 Councilor Jennie Donahue stormed out of a City Council meeting, she called a fellow councilor a two-word name I never heard in the Bible.

First word, “ableist” is of modern coinage for anyone who has no physical handicap.

Second word will never appear in a column of mine unless I tell you of the time I tried to assist a fickle can-opener with my finger and drew a few drops of blood.

I was there. Sitting in the second row of benches provided for the public, I watched Councilor Jim McCauley spring from his seat to clear Donahue’s path. He did fairly well, but his ankle may have taken a slight glance from a red-tipped cane that was not slowing down for anything or anyone.

Memo to McCauley: No good deed goes unpunished.

Memo to self: Never sit in that first row.

Also there was Stephanie Niketic (NIK-a-tish) who opposed Donahue for the Ward 2 seat in the last election only to lose by 12 votes.

Niketic attends many council meetings, committee meetings, sub-committee meetings, sub-sub meetings regarding all civic issues. She takes more notes each time than I’d bother with in a tedious decade of such things.

From them, she issues a free newsletter available to anyone with an email account, always a thorough, factual report of all she can glean of issues not just for Ward 2, but city-wide.

Also there were Jane Snow. who provides a similar service with frequent updates on social media, and Jean Costello, who offers a comprehensive blog called “Government at a Glance.”

Three valuable resources emphasizing facts and announcing all up-coming public meetings. For comic relief and satiric provocation, there’s also the Onion-esque Walt Thompson with “Newburyport Observer” on Facebook.

Thanks to all four, there’s no lack of internal info regarding Port politics for anyone willing to look. Democracy at its finest.

The trend may have begun just over a decade ago when former councilor Bob Cronin wrote extensive descriptions of City Hall business for a free weekly paper.

Should’ve asked about that when I ran into him at the Custom House Maritime Museum. Instead, I stupidly asked if he ever considers another run for office.

His “No” about took my head off. The five exclamation points that followed hammered my question mark into a dangling double-hyphen.

Trying to salvage some dignity for myself, I then made the idiotic mistake of asking if he saw my satirical announcement for mayor. He chuckled, and I dug my hole deeper:

“It was a joke! People took it literally!”

“Jack, there’s no joking in politics!”

Well, that explains why I’m unfit for public office. But I am in the information business, and while I might joke about an authoritarian president or an inept mayor, a ridiculous parade down Pennsylvania Ave. or pot-holes on State Street, I’m obliged to set records straight.

Soon after Donahue blasted her way out of City Hall, her apology appeared in the Daily News. Like many apologies from public officials—including Mayor Sean Reardon’s for his blundering maltreatment of library volunteers—it was a drop of “sorry” followed by a fire-hose of excuses verging on self-pity.

Weeks later, Niketic began the process for a rematch for the Ward 2 seat this November. Asked for comment, here’s what Donahue told the Daily News:

“I will say that unfortunately, her motivation seems to only be directed to unseat me and to point out my flaws. I really don’t know what she brings to the table other than just being not me.”

Is it even conceivable that Donahue is unaware of Niketic’s newsletter? Or was she just hoping that Ward 2 voters are unaware and wants to keep it that way?

A moot point now that Donahue has suddenly and surprisingly withdrawn her candidacy, but there’s a lesson to be learned regarding those quick to belittle and deny the civic contributions of others.

Or quick to calling others something left behind in Exodus and without season in Ecclesiastes.

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Not the meeting I’ve described, but most of the people named are here: Jennie Donahue is the woman at the table with the red bandana; Mayor Sean Reardon is in the white suit seated behind her; Stephanie Niketic is in the back row off to the left in a black shirt next to someone wearing shades on his or her head; I think it’s Jane Snow with the white hair and wearing white whose face is obscured by the young fellow in the front row; and off to the left, Jim McCauley is barely visible seated at the table just past the blonde woman wearing black. Photo: Newburyport *Daily News.*

Outdoor Chairs

On the first day following an extreme heat wave, I take my car for an annual inspection to a place where I know they have chairs outside and a decent view along 1A approaching Ipswich.

As I do for all doctor and dentist appointments, I bring a magazine and a bottle of water and honestly do not care how long I wait. At times I wish I could wait longer, and on a few occasions, I’ve considered asking around a waiting room if anyone wanted to go before me.

Not to advertise or brag or anything, but I drive a Nissan Versa, one of those cars in which nothing ever goes wrong, so these check-ups seem like mere formality compared to the adventures I’ve lately had with my dermatologist and urologist.

Business is brisk, as three people are separately seated in the waiting room, and two others stand at the doorway. One of the two mechanics lets me know I’ve established my place, but keeps walking back to the garage to keep the line moving.

I thought he’d take my registration and $35, but when he doesn’t, I take them back to the Nissan and tuck them into the steering wheel.

Ah, the outdoor chairs! Both empty, so I’m incredulous that those other folk would rather sit in a cramped, airless room dominated by an over-sized counter on such a pleasant day. But I’m grateful for a chance to read my magazine without interruption.

Been looking forward to this lengthy article on the environment since Harper’s arrived in my mailbox. Had to finish a novel first, and then there were things I had to write myself. Finally, I can sit down with “The Geological Sublime: Butterflies, deep time, and climate change.”

Opening is riveting, a quote suggesting that we must stop “making” history, followed by:

The earthquake shook us awake at 4:31 in the morning.

Makes me gasp and look up. And so I meet the eye of a woman hobbling in with the help of a cane. And so it begins: “Such a nice cool day after that inferno!”

“Yes, I’ll take this all year long,” I rejoin pleasantly enough while fixing my eyes back on the mag.

Before she reaches the door, the other mechanic walks out: “Hello Kathy! You’ll be right after this fellow here. Might as well take that seat if you like the day so much.”

This, of course, is the last thing I want, but I roll with it. We chat about why we both come to this place for inspections. “I come here for all my work. They take good care of me,” she smiles.

I mention the chairs, leaving out any desire to read. She tells me that rain is due tomorrow, and I tell her that I didn’t know, that I’m out of the habit of looking at forecasts.

“Habit? I’m a farmer. I have no choice.”

Oh, the memories! In my busking days, I paid so close attention to the meteorological maps in the Globe, day by day, that I could read the isobars and predict the next few days myself.

She’s amused: “Well, you could have been a consultant for us at Herrick Farm!”

Herrick! Best corn I’ve ever tasted. Many places up here in Essex County have good corn, but even theirs can be disappointing after you taste Herrick’s. Still, I had to be sure: “You have the farmstand on 133?”

“Yes!”

“Ha! I get all my corn there ever since I found it.”

“Found it?”

“Well, do you recall a place called Marshview on Route 1 up in Newbury?”

“Yes! Yes! That was our corn!”

My daughter and I became addicted to Marshview corn back in the early 90s. When it went out of business, I wondered who took its corn crop. I shopped around, and nothing came close until I drove to Herrick’s stand. But only now do I know.

“Mystery solved!” I concluded, stretching my hand out within two feet of my own approaching car. The mechanic got out laughing, able to tell that there was some happy coincidence in his arrival–and perhaps grateful that he avoided hitting me with my own car. I stood, introducing myself to the woman with “See you at the stand!”

As I got in the car and drove off, I, too, was laughing. I went there craving an essay on climate change and left after a conversation about meteorology and agriculture. The essay can wait, and you could even say that the conversation gave me a head start.

Once back home, I took a chair outside.

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The roadside stand on 133: https://herrickfarm.net/

Celebrations of Democracy

Friend Nancy quipped that if you wanted to run into anyone you knew in Wareham on Saturday, you would probably have found them outside of Town Hall.

So it was in Newburyport and, based on all reports, at most of the 2,000 or so No Kings rallies held from coast to coast. In our largest cities, it would have taken some effort sifting through crowds such as the one in San Francisco:

Courtesy of a Facebook page called “Some Amazing Facts.”

If any of those good folks needed a place to sit and stretch their legs, they should have gone to the one and only dud of a gathering which bombed badly in Washington DC:

https://themindshield.com/white-house-calls-no-kings-protests-an-utter-failure-with-minuscule-attendance-claims-250k-attended-trumps-military-parade/

Yes, the White House called the No Kings gatherings “an utter failure” while claiming that a quarter of a million people saw and heard the tanks squeak down Pennsylvania Ave. If Hans Christian Andersen were alive today, the title might be, The Emperor Needs New Glasses.

I needed no hearing aid when friend Kurt reported a sign saying “US Out of LA” in Belmont, Mass., for an echo of the Sixties’ anti-war demonstrations. Back then it was “US Out of Southeast Asia”–and when we learned of the Nixon Administration’s domestic surveillance, we added “US Out of North America.”

If I were Canadian, I might bring that one back, but our neighbors to the north might rather I not. While it would appeal to their robust sense of humor, I’m sure they’d prefer that–while we keep visiting them–we only keep our want to control on this side of the line.

When I last wrote of these rallies, following one in nearby Ipswich, Mass., I mentioned my Cousin Janice who always sends me her sign of the week a day or two ahead of rallies she attends in Newtown, Conn. My recent blog, “Good Day & Better Luck,” includes her parody of the Statue of Liberty reworded to suit the land of the gullible and the home of the intolerant. This past Saturday, for a change of scenery, she stayed in Bethel, Conn. and snapped this:

Bethel, Connecticut. Photo by Janice Garvey.

No idea who that young woman is, but in just eleven words she nails both problem and solution. Forget about the MAGA crowd who want authoritarian rule because it frees them from thought–and who enjoy any expression of cruelty and ridicule because it makes them feel superior. MAGA is way outnumbered–and though I hate to say it, so are we–by those who pay no attention. As I heard a rabbi say years ago, the opposite of love is not hate. It is indifference.

In a futile attempt to channel Hamlet, I thought of a sign saying simply, “Be Engaged or Be Estranged,” but the young Connecticut woman’s version is far more, well, engaging. Not just by being more user-friendly, but by implying the need to pay attention with the word “love” and equating that love–that attention–with patriotism.

And if you still complain about the lack of young people, you are not paying attention. In Newburyport, I was able to join a jam session with two young drummers and an as-young flag bearer who marched among the throngs on High Street. Went with them twice for about five minutes at a time. Any more than that, and I’d have been taken out of there in an ambulance:

Thanks to Walt Thompson for the photo, although the timing is odd. One drummer has his back to the camera, so you can’t see the drum, while the second drummer has paused drumming to take a pic on his mobile device. What would that painting, *The Spirit of ’76,* look like had those damned things been around?

When not piping, I was, as Nancy suggested regarding Wareham, exchanging greetings with most every Newburyporter I knew, including at least two I haven’t seen in twenty years. Of course, I also met many for the first time, including TITO the Giraffe who made his way along the line, delighting children and many elderly folk for whom he stopped to poke noses.

With my pocket-sized notebook out where he could see it, I interviewed him briefly:

Photo by Richard Lodge who quips, “It must have been a tough interview.” Um, do I look like I’m having a hard time?

Not wanting to take him away from his rounds, I had just two questions. Name? “TITO,” which is all caps because it stands for Theater in the Open, a long running summer troupe that performs in Maudsley Woods, an outdoor park along the Merrimack. Pretty sure my daughter was in a production of theirs, Ondine, some 30+ years ago.

Second question was also out of Journalism 101: Why are you here today? For a good 10-seconds, TITO paused as he chomped on the stick holding his American flag. Made me wonder if he was trying to pick one of the many reasons that filled town squares, flooded city streets, lined main thoroughfares, and shut down the Golden Gate Bridge. Finally:

I’m here to celebrate American democracy.

Yes, TITO, there are enough of us here and everywhere else to list the details of wrongs, and there are signs such as that in Bethel to show how to right them. So, thank you for reminding us, in times like these, just what patriotism is.

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