A Day in My Life

I’m in a dentist’s chair. Been coming here near 30 years. Today, I skipped breakfast to arrive on time. Technician preps me, then leaves telling me the dentist will be right in. On the sound system, I realize I’m hearing the end of “Rocketman.” Over and over again and again Elton John trills, “And I think it’s going to be a long, long time…”

Elton is wrong. But even if he was right, the dentist and I have a good laugh. Until she tells me not to eat anything for at least three hours. Elton is right.

I’m at a gas pump. I’m out of town, so the station is new to me. I put the card in the slot as always. Soon, I see the screen, as always and as I expect, with the word “remove” and I pull the card. At the last second I notice that the screen said “Do not remove card” (my emphasis). Next comes “Authorization Failed” and then “See Cashier.” In 90 degree heat and hellish humidity, I look across half a football field’s worth of asphalt to the truck stop’s plaza’s center and say a word Paul Simon never heard in the Bible.

I get in the car and U-turn to another pump. I think I saw Curly do that in a Three Stooges movie.

I’m in a public library. Way out of town. This is one of five libraries where I stop while making my weekly deliveries to Western Mass. I have no cellphone, nor any other device with me. Even though I have the right password, I am blocked from logging into email by a screen asking me where to send a verification code.

This is new. After 20 years of the password being enough, now there’s a code. I have nothing with me to receive it. In effect, one cannot access Google or Yahoo mail–I have and have tried both–on a library’s computer unless he or she has some device that does access email.

If I had that, why would I be in the damned library to begin with?

I’m in a bagel shop. Two friends, a flautist and a guitarist, are playing for the first time with a bassoonist. As I enter, she’s playing the melody, the lead for Paul McCartney’s “Michelle.” As clear and precise as any instrument, any player, in any place I’ve ever heard.

I’m in heaven. Actually, I’m in The Bagel Mill in Peterborough, New Hampshire, which often hosts Grove Street, a trio that includes a cellist, but the cellist is away on a trip, and a bassoonist fills in. My flautist friend has put his flute aside to accompany her with bongos as the guitarist keeps the rhythm. Flute and bassoon will converse through several Celtic and folk tunes. I dab at tears of joy hearing music in my own repertoire played as if hearing them born again.

I’m lost in nostalgia for tunes I left behind long ago. Flute takes the lead in “The Butterfly,” an Irish classic, while bassoon plays a baseline. Through the song once, they hold the last note and begin anew with bassoon as the lead and flute embellishing in an upper octave. Again they hold the last note, and the two wind instruments reprise their original roles. The guitar holds it all together, like the wind on which the two butterflies flutter and flirt.

Joy puts her bassoon aside for a tambourine while Chaz launches into melodies he’s been playing for years with Eric. Riffing with swagger and force, he hits every note that’s there, adding possibility. Eric sets the stage, determines the frame, makes sense of all of it.

I clench my fist, close my eyes. Chaz then sets his flute aside for the bongos when Joy plays more Beatles. A most unforgettable “Places I Remember” in which she goes staccato for that baroque mid-section, and a hilarious “When I’m 64” to close the show.

An odd song for a room full of people pushing 74, but there were a few grandkids running around.

I’m back home, in bed, thinking. Next time I’ll start the day at the Bagel Mill. No three-hour delay for my apple crunch bagel with cream cheese. No ridiculous security for the sake of security. No hi-tech irritations or surprises.

Just music. Live, natural music.

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Sixteenth Note on the Text: What I have just described is a combination of two trios. I’ve heard talk of possibilities they may combine on occasion to play as a quintet. Or maybe I’m just making that up to push them in that direction. If they can stand a frontman to make inane jokes introducing every song and then stand back and play harmless, unobtrusive bass notes on a tenor recorder, I’ll move to Peterborough and make it a sextet:

Poster by Eric Blackmer who plays in two trios, Grove Street and Maple TreeO.

A publicity photo for Maple TreeO, also based in Peterborough, NH, with David Flemming on flute and Joy Riggs Flemming with her bassoon on either side of Eric

Both Sides of the Mouth*

Yes, Nao Trinidad was everything Newburyport’s tireless public servant Bob Cronin claims in his letter of thanks to all involved.

Especially satisfying for me were crowds flocking to the replica of a 500-year-old ship during the very week two other letters faulted me for clinging to the 1840s.

So much they don’t know. For instance, my blog includes 20 reviews in the past 24 months of books from the “New Releases” display in the Newburyport Public Library’s lobby.

Before that, I offered NPL eight links to start a website feature with “reviews of books, especially new or recent releases, written by patrons.”

On June 7th, 2021, came the then-assistant, now-acting director’s reply:

“Thank you for your suggestion and if we decide to highlight reviews from community members, we will advertise this option. I took a quick tour of your site and you’ve done a great job with the reviews!”

No room for patron reviews, but for at least three weeks NPL’s site did prominently display the harassment charges made by the NPL staff against eight volunteers.

Daily News readers saw it June 14. The volunteers’ response the next day was no more welcome on NPL’s site than patrons’ reviews of new books.

On June 27, I went to City Hall to inquire about the propriety of airing dirty laundry on a city-sponsored site.

One City Hall official agreed to meet with me, but while closing his office door behind us, said pointedly: “I don’t want to talk to you, but I’ll hear what you have to say.”

He saw nothing wrong with the NPL posting, so I focused on the charge that the volunteers “accept money” from patrons. Quoting the vols’ rebuttal that this “simply refers to taking a quarter for a Xerox copy,” I asked: “So that’s all it is?”

He nodded, “Yes.”

“So, even though you know it’s just pocket change, you see nothing wrong with their posting the insinuation on a city-sponsored website?”

He denied this made any insinuation.

“But it gives the impression of something much larger.”

“It’s money.”

“One cent is worth Fort Knox?”

He shrugged.

“You see nothing ethically wrong in this?”

His glare was indifferent. As he said up front, he didn’t want to talk to me.

Later that day, I described that look to a friend who replied: “If you want to see it again, come to Salisbury Town Hall.”

Three weeks later, I crossed the river to watch an entire Board of Selectmen look indifferently at citizens who spoke against their appointment of Samson Racioppi to the town’s Housing Board in 2018.

Prior to 2018, Racioppi had a well-documented history of promoting anti-gay and anti-Semitic groups, but no one else applied, and the board preferred not to know.

Now, however, Racioppi’s commitment to what ought to be called “Trump Uber Alles” is well-known:

He hired buses to bring people to the January 6 insurrection, organized protests in support of Wisconsin gun-boy Kyle Rittenhouse, and led the anti-gay parade in Boston in 2019.

Racioppi caught wind of the opposition and withdrew his application for renewal, but a few speakers, accompanied by loud applause, made sure that his would-be appeasers did not escape unstained.

Wind? A winter’s worth of Nor’easters pound Salisbury’s sand with no more ferocity and force than that with which citizen-activist Monique Greilich slammed the board members’ “shameful” tolerance of Racioppi and their “cowardice” in not speaking up long ago.

Board members were visibly shocked when she informed the small but packed hall that Racioppi would’ve missed the deadline to reapply had not one member contacted him back in June.

Greilich’s masterstroke was to leave the one unnamed. All had been silent, making all complicit, and so her conclusion was as sweeping as damning: “Shame on all of you!”

Thus, a hatemonger was erased in Salisbury just as dirty laundry, after at least three embarrassing weeks, was deleted in Newburyport.

Problems solved? No, because those responsible for both still call the shots. Best we can do, as Greilich said when it was over, is:

“(B)e willing to stick your neck out, take the heat, and persevere.”

She could just as well have said that of Magellan’s trip around the world. Why else would we flock to celebrate his ship five centuries later right here in the Mouth of the Merrimack.

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*Readers, both casual and faithful, of “Mouth of the River” may recognize passages from at least three recent blogs. Originally, this was intended as a column in the Newburyport Daily News, and it has become the first column–of about 500–I have submitted to that paper in forty years that has been rejected. Editor says that the dialogue with the mayor’s chief of staff “feels like a personal beef” and cannot be substantiated. I offered it without the official’s name (which I have kept out of this version) and without direct quotes (which I have restored). Still no go. I still maintain that, in every version, nothing personal is said, that it is very specifically about a posting on a city-sponsored website that is itself unsubstantiated with any specifics. And anyway, there’s not much to substantiate about one and two word responses. As the official also said in that meeting, speaking of the volunteers, they are free to respond. As of now, so is he.

https://www.tideschart.com/United-States/Massachusetts/Essex-County/Plum-Island-Merrimack-River-Entrance/

A Note to Subscribers

All these forty years I’ve been writing columns for the Newburyport Daily News, one of the most, perhaps the most frequently asked question is, Have you ever been censored?

Happily, save for a handful of phrases that I have harmlessly softened at an editor’s request (always for the better I’d later realize), the answer has always been no.

Until now.

Here’s advance notice that tomorrow I will post a blog headlined “Both Sides of the Mouth.” You may recognize passages from at least three recent “Mouth of the River” blogs. Originally intended for the Daily News, it is now the first column–of about 500–the paper has rejected.

Editor says that the dialogue with the mayor’s chief of staff “feels like a personal beef” and cannot be substantiated. I countered that nothing personal is said, that it is very specifically about a posting on a city-sponsored website that is itself unsubstantiated with any specifics. And anyway, there’s not much to substantiate about one and two word responses.

Still, no go.

And so I intend to post it as a blog with hopes of circulating it on a Newburyport website or a local page on social media. That requires a link. As the chief-of-staff himself said of people smeared on a city site, they are free to respond. Well, so is he.

As consolation for those hoping for something brand new, here’s a response to “The Return,” a new short story by Joyce Carol Oates just published in the new (August) issue of Harper’s. Yes, it is indirectly related to the controversy hinted at above, more directly to two blogs I have written about “weeding,” now a term of art in libraries across the country, although the story, set in rural New Jersey, does not use the word:

Weeding Our Reading

When the widow in “The Return” (August), wonders what to do with her late husband’s books, I wonder if author Joyce Carol Oates knows her complaint is about a national trend in American libraries called “weeding.”

Says the widow: “Libraries no longer want such special collections, eighteenth and nineteenth-century first editions, classics of science….” As librarians from here in Massachusetts to the west coast have told me, the higher-ups are now using computer programs to show how often a book is checked-out. Books gathering too much dust get weeded; those in demand are available in multiple volumes.

Hence, today, in the Ipswich (Mass.) Public Library, you can count 82 books by Danielle Steele compared to four by Herman Melville, one of them a Modern Library of America edition. His other three MLA entries are not available in Ipswich but can be obtained on interlibrary loan. So much for browsing.

Oates’ widow goes on to say that a library would not accept “the complete works of Charles Darwin, his Life and Letters.” Harper’s readers may think that a part of her prolonged delusion. Not at all. In the past year, the Newburyport (Mass.) Public Library weeded two volumes of The Life and Letters of John Greenleaf Whittier, published in 1895, no matter that Whittier lived barely ten miles from Newburyport and was a friend and sometimes ally of Newburyport native William Lloyd Garrison.

The widow concludes: “The local library is always downsizing, selling books, it’s shocking to me to see the books they sell, priced at a dollar in a bin like something at Walmart.”

As crude as the word is, “weeding” is a euphemism for dumbing down. Republican governors do it with legislation. All public libraries need is an algorithm.

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We call this one “Jack at the Mailbox,” taken at the end of my driveway, March 2006. Photo by Michael Boer: https://www.flickr.com/photos/onewe/albums

Idiot Detection Systems

When Illinois Gov. JB Pritzker told Northwestern University’s graduating class, “If you want to be successful in this world, you have to develop your own idiot detection system,” he offered examples but no red flags.

Examples so rich the Class of 2023 may have heard the melody of Bob Dylan’s “Idiot Wind” as the soundtrack and ended each one by singing the last line, “a wonder you still know how to breathe.”

Obvious looney tune quotes from conmen such as Donald Trump and George Santos made them laugh out loud, and Marjorie Taylor Greene’s warning of “gazpacho police” may have sent a tidal wave across Lake Michigan. Still, a list of signs would be in order.

Such was the reaction of Guardian columnist Arwa Mahdawi following her report of that section of Pritzker’s commencement address that went viral:

I think we could all do with a bit more of a comprehensive guide, don’t you? So I’ve helpfully put together the beginnings of one. Behold, five golden rules for spotting an idiot.

For me, the operative word in that is “beginnings.”

Mahdawi’s five-point list (see link below) emphasizes boasting, whereas Pritzker emphasized cruelty. Most fascinating is her mention of people who boast of not reading books. For years, yes decades, I’ve taken in for granted that few people ever read books and have heard no one ever bother to boast of it. However, I have increasingly heard–over these past eight years especially and specifically, people boast of not reading (or watching or “following”) the news.

That would top my list which emphasizes laziness, but I’ll offer it as an addendum to Mahdawi’s point and add five more:

6) Anyone who says that they will not watch a film with subtitles (the visually impaired excepted), though I admit that’s not so much a sign as an open admission;

7) Anyone who pops into a cinema and asks, “Is this film any good?” What I want to answer: “Get a dunce cap, why dontcha?” What I answer: “Greatest film ever made! Cinematography the best since Galileo! Acting the best since Shakespeare! Dialogue the best since Hemingway!” and on and on in that vein until the light bulb goes on;

8) Anyone who condemns Congress without specifying or distinguishing members and parties, who says “They’re all the same.” We hear that declaration a lot less of this lately, for obvious reasons, but it is implied in the generalized condemnations of “Congress,” often conveyed in the pronoun “they”;

9) Anyone who wants to avoid controversy by saying “There’s a lot we don’t know” when there’s already enough that we do know. If this isn’t an excuse for laziness, then it’s an excuse for complacency, or, worst of all, cowardice;

10) Anyone who habitually uses the word “appropriate.” This takes people by surprise when I mention it. Which, in turn, often takes me by surprise because I’ve been harping on and writing about it a full forty years since I first heard it so often in the administrative ranks of higher education.

Then in politics. In 1985, when then-New Hampshire Governor John Sununu dismissed the “linkage” between the construction of a nuclear plant on the coast and the storage of nuclear waste some 80 miles inland as “inappropriate,” I knew I’d never trust anyone who used the word again unless they specified what they meant. And unless they didn’t mind my interrupting to ask every time.

That didn’t go over well in department meetings, no matter how liberal you think colleges and universities may be. To the Aproprios, the word was–and still is–as much an all-purpose ticket to slide as it was to Sununu forty years ago. Gone were the complex realities of necessity, relevance, and ethics. In was the simple efficiency and smug presumptuousness of “appropriate.” When the Aproprios started to outnumber Educators in the administrative ranks in the ’90s, my days were short-numbered.

Readers of this blog, or of my columns, may be thinking right now, “Oh, no! Here he goes again!” But what better sign, what better red flag is there for idiocy than a reliance on words that have no specific meaning? If you start asking for specifics, you’ll soon see it for yourself.

Of course, questions themselves aren’t always welcome these days, now, are they? My hunch is that this is what Pritzker was getting at in his commencement address and what Mahdawi, in her uniquely satirical way, aimed to re-inforce.

Only question I have is: Which is the more sure sign of idiocy: Refusing to answer questions? Or the failure to ask them in the first place?

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https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2023/jul/23/how-to-spot-idiots-jb-pritzker-northwestern-speech?CMP=oth_b-aplnews_d-1

Pritzker on the campaign trail in Chicago: https://www.chicagotribune.com/politics/ct-met-barack-obama-jb-pritzker-20181031-story.html

https://genius.com/Bob-dylan-idiot-wind-lyrics

Put Yourself on a Roll

Friends who take a week-long vacation in the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts every summer are always sure to send me news of Arrowhead, Herman Melville’s home that is now open for tours offered by the Berkshire Historical Society.

Today they tell me that Arrowhead now offers “Musing with Melville” for anyone wanting to sit and write at his desk with the window that looks out at Mount Greylock 17 miles to the north.

Thanks for the notice, but at $300 per hour, I’ll continue to write while looking out my own window over a very flat Plum Island Sound here on Massachusett’s Atlantic Coast rather than at the majesty of it’s highest peak by its New York border.

However, I was fascinated by something else they mentioned, and took more time considering its possibilities: For just $10.99 at a nearby deli, you can pick “The Melville” from the sandwich list: Tuna with Swiss cheese, tomato & onion on sourdough.*

Seems an easy choice for how to spend three bills: One hour at his desk, or 27 sandwiches with his name?

Of course, Melville would have tuna, if only because there’s no whale to be had on today’s “Save the Whales” market. And I bet the tuna is not albacore, but yellow fin, because the first rule of food and drink is: The darker, the better.

When at the Thanksgiving table, do you choose the always moist dark meat or the relatively dry white meat? Is your rice brown or white? Now that corn is in season, will you insist on bright bumblebee or settle for pale canary? If you are particular about coffee, do you prefer dark or light roasts? If about beer, do you enjoy light or amber? Dark or milk chocolate? White or wheat bread? Or rye?

So many preferences got me to thinking: If you had a sandwich named for you, what would it be?**

Call me rosemary ham with sharp, aged cheddar, a Calimari tomato, and ranch dressing on pumpernickel as dark as there is. Dark rye is fine, but pumpernickel makes for good conversation. I have yet to have lunch with anyone who did not enjoy the story of how the word came to be:

For it we can thank Napoleon. When he went on that ill-fated campaign to conquer Russia, he camped outside a Saxon town where he took a liking to a local bakery. One very dark bread may have been the reason he had his army linger there a few days. Be that as it may, he sent his officers into the town to get it.

We overlook that Napoleon was Corsican, really more Italian than French, hence his black hair and darker complexion. His officers, of fairer skin and fairer tastes, thought that their general was indulging in crudeness for this bread, and did not want to admit to the German baker that a French general would want such a thing.

So they made a point of telling him that the bread was for Napoleon’s horse, Nicole. In French, bread is pan, and for is pour, and so the German ear heard pan pour Nicole. Adopting that phrase to name his bread auf Deutsch, the baker coined pumpernickel.

I tell the story now as an example of how to craft a sandwich named for you into something you can craft conversation around. In addition to European history, I can parlay the rosemary into mention of a realtive who avoids it eleven months out of the year because it reminds him of Christmas. Calamari tomatoes are a recent discovery for me, and the first that I ever liked putting into omelets. Ranch dressing I like to say is a tribute to my years in the Dakotas, which it really isn’t, but it starts a good story if anyone should say, “Oh yeah? What’s it like out there?”

Last night when I began typing ideas for this, a friend now living in Western Pennsylvania rang my phone wanting to know if I knew anything about Hunter Biden vacationing years ago on Plum Island. That interested me about as much as would Spam and Velveeta with Miracle Whip on Wonder Bread, so I ignored the question, and spoke excitedly:

“M———, if a friend of yours opened a delicatessen and wanted to name a sandwich for you, what would it be?”

I’d have been thankful if it just made her forget about Hunter Laptopper, but she dug right in with relish. Well, not relish relish, but as if she was starved and about to chow down on grilled chicken and mozarella topped with tomato and basil on sourdough.

Not sure what she would have to say about any of those items, but the word “grilled” could well serve an historian and genealogist who does a lot of writing, which she is, and therefore asks a lot of questions.

Another friend, answering the identical question, didn’t hesitate: “It would have to be roast beef from a cow still mooing.” She mentioned mayo as if she’d turn the jar upside down rather than bother with a knife, as well as “lettuce with a crunch,” presumably to drown out the poor cow’s mooing, and a heirloom tomato all on the sesame-seeded, crusty white rolls crafted by the legendary Virgilio’s Bakery in Gloucester. Now that’s loaded with conversational possibilities, as well as argument from the well-done crowd.

So there you have the first three items– “The Garvey,” “The Mel” (preferring her nickname), and “The Annie” (preferring her first name)–on the sandwich board at the Cold-Cuts-R-Us Deli. My travelling friends have not yet responded to my invitation to add theirs, which makes me worry that their Melvilles may have turned into Moby-Dicks and sunk them.

To stay afloat, I am taking suggestions on-line in the comments section–or, as we call it in the real world, over the counter. In time, with apologies to another famous Berkshire resident, I hope to be able to boast that you can have anyone you want at this oh-so personal restaurant.

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*Everyone has likely seen these. Within my rounds, I can recommend the Maine Diner’s “El Tiante,” named for the legendary Red Sox pitcher of the ’60s and ’70s, corned beef hash with poached eggs and a side of fruit. And the Early Bird in Plaistow, N.H., reaches back to the 50s with the “James Dean,” Hollywood’s rebel without a cause, biscuits with gravy and sausage.

For later in the day, Wild Willie’s “Annie Oakley” up in York, Maine, a burger with blue cheese–Yes please! Here in Newburyport, the Port Tavern’s “Tom Brady,” a burger with avacado–No! Just no!

But my all-time favorite was on the beverage menu at the Great Lakes Brewery when I visited Cleveland in 2008: “Eliot Ness IPA.” Now that’s gloating at its finest, and the brew lives up to it!

**The word itself is from the Earl of Sandwich who, in the 18th Century, was the first person to put corned beef between two slices of bread. Turns out that his obsessive gambling was the mother of his invention:

https://allthatsinteresting.com/john-montagu

Worth More Than Admission

Not much I can add to the unanimous praise for Past Lives that Screening Room patrons have already posted on social media, but I can relay one unlike any I’ve ever heard from one woman who saw it last night.

And to that I’ll add a “don’t be late” for the sake of an opening act unlike any I’ve ever seen.

Regret to say that it plays just one more day, today (Thursday, July 20) at 4:30 and 7:00 pm, after which Oppenheimer will take us out of a world that never ends into one that could end at any time.

Last night in the last minute rush before our last show, I overcharged a woman’s credit card by $20. That’s the difference between the Screening Room’s general admission and senior passbooks, so it wasn’t that noticable. Plus, it was showtime and we were both hustling. Didn’t realize it until after the film started, so I withdrew a $20 bill to hand her as she left.

She and her friend were the only two in the audience who, bless them, sat through the end credits, so she was easy to catch. But when I approached and held out the bill, she said:

“Keep it. That film is worth twenty extra dollars.”

I thought she was joking, but she was choking up as she kept refusing to take it. And so into the theater’s general maintenance fund or an Oscar College Fund it has gone. Let me hasten to add that I do intend to resist any temptation to do this again.

A review? As much as I might like to try, nothing I could conjure up would endorse Past Lives better than that.

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A Muse I Hope I Amused

Hoping for something both local and personal to mark the 40^th anniversary of the Daily News’ “As I See It” column, my wish was granted in the shadow of William Lloyd Garrison’s statue across from City Hall last month.

And I regret it.

News of the passing of Sarah Bodge was as hard to register as her age, 87, was hard to believe, even by those who knew her. And they are many.

For years, and right into early June just three weeks before passing, Sarah served at various local assisted living facilities. Years ago, she helped establish the Salisbury Senior Center’s food pantry.

On this side of the Merrimack, Sarah established BodySense, a most popular beauty shop downtown, in 1973, and ran it until the mid-80s. According to current owner Lisa Gianakakis, Sara remained helpful through the years, “a lovely, most considerate woman.”

Meanwhile, Sara volunteered her service on many of the Port’s civic boards.

In her prime, she was an acrobatic dancer who graced the stages of venues such as NYC’s Apollo, and ever since contributed her artistic vision to arts organizations that perform here in the Port.

I knew her as a long-time, frequent patron of the Screening Room, and without her ever knowing it, I turned her into something else.

Though “As I See It” is now 40—with the venerable Stuart Deane and I the only remaining members of the original cast—I never posted on social media until about ten years ago.

That coincides with the rise of the Tea Party that quickly combined the ugly undercurrents of white nationalism in the Republican Party which soon propelled a crude but charismatic huckster to power in 2016.

And which to this day presents a clear and present danger to this country—most immediately to Black and Jewish people each and every day.

Out of self-assigned necessity, I, a white guy, began writing about race.

At the time, I knew few Black folk. After living seven years in the Dakotas, I’m more familiar with Native Americans than with African-Americans.

And so it was that Sarah Bodge became my muse.

Writers do this all the time. Writing teachers coach students to think of someone whose opinion they value and who knows more than you about the subject. Not someone close who thinks alike, but at some distance they sometimes talk to.

A simple thumbs up would let me know I put enough emphasis in the right places. Her comments filled in what I missed but could file away for next time.

Hoped I’d see her at the reading of Frederick Douglass’ “What to a Slave is the Fourth of July?” speech, but she passed four days before.

Unlike my commentaries on events in far-flung places, I’d be writing about an event we both attended. The test was welcome, but like all tests, it makes one nervous.

Would she agree with me that the single line capturing what Douglass faced in 1852 is what we face today:

Where everything is plain, there is nothing to be argued.

Maybe that’s why I never heard Sarah argue, or express any impatience, much less anger. Even now I can’t picture her without a smile on her face.

Her quiet responses were enough to let me know where she stood—that if I wasn’t on the right track, I was at least headed in the right general direction.

Perhaps I should let it go at that. Better that she be remembered as her many friends knew her, and as her daughter describes her: “my adorable, kooky, formidable mama.”

Still, I can’t help but be rueful thinking that the person for whom I write is no more.

Then again, a muse is inspiration. Sarah’s reached me long before she hit “like” or added a comment. It came long before I hit “send”—in this case before I left the shadow of Garrison’s statue.

Writers do this all the time. It’s as we see it.

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Sarah Bodge. Photo by Tracie Ballard, Charlotte, No. Carolina, May 2016
https://www.gofundme.com/f/donate-to-support-sarah-bodges-favorite-cause

Democracy by Default

Across the Merrimack from Newburyport in the northeast corner of Massachusetts is one more town before you cross into New Hampshire. Known mostly as a beach resort with a honky-tonk playland on the North Atlantic, Salisbury’s year-round population is barely 5,000.

Size, however, does not matter to the MAGA crowd whose organizers in the recent years have strategically run for local elected offices and sought appointed positions on commissions and boards.

Salisbury must have seemed ripe for MAGA inroads thanks to one bizarre auto body shop on a main drag that features large political signs targeting such Democrats as “Joe and the Ho.” To be fair, many Salisbury residents have complained about owner Rob Roy’s signs only to run headlong into the First Amendment, which the MAGA crowd interprets as the right to be crude and stupid.

Salisbury’s town officials were neither when they appointed Samson Racioppi to the town’s Housing Authority in 2018. But they were careless, if only because no one else applied for the post. Prior to 2018, Racioppi had a well-documented history of promoting anti-gay and anti-Semitic groups.

Since then, he has hired buses to bring people to the January 6 insurrection, oranized protests in support of Wisconsin gun-boy Kyle Rittenhouse, and organized the anti-gay parade in Boston in 2019. More recently, he ran for a seat as a state rep, but Massachusetts Republicans are not so Trump Uber Alles as they are most elsewhere in America, and so Racioppi was defeated in the primary, receiving just 112 votes of 2000 cast.

Another verdict will be cast on Racioppi tonight when Salisbury’s selectmen decide whether to renew his membership on the Housing Board. Difference is that this time they know of his affiliation with several right-wing hate groups.

Anybody paying any attention knows, as it has been reported on the front page of the Boston Globe as well as detailed by the New England chapter of a group called Confronting White Supremacy. He also made Newsweek, while hatemonger Roy had to settle for the Boston affiliate of CBS. Word is circulating that the Globe intends to cover tomorrow’s Board of selectmen meeting, but I have not been able to verify that. I do know that a Newburyport Daily News reporter and at least one of the paper’s guest columnists will be there.

No doubt Racioppi will be there on his best behavior. My friends in Salisbury tell me that the recent law school graduate knows how to carry himself and play the role of Mr. Polite & All-Smiles. And he’ll be sure to show up without close friends such as Diana Ploss whose campaign for governor he helped last year. Ploss, for those who never noticed her fringe existence, is a known anti-Semite who featured a ” Minister of Hate” in her live Facebook feeds. Charmingly, she indicated July dates as ” Jew-lie.”

As he told one reporter, “We’re looking at it as if it’s a war, right?” When asked if he would participate in another January 6, he enthused,” Of course I would do it again.”

By sundown tonight, Salisbury town officials will decide whether this man will continue to hold a civic position. Says my friend, “This is not about politics. This is about right and wrong. This is about decency. This is about gay people and Jewish people feeling comfortable in their own community and knowing their elected officials have their backs.”

This evening I hope to see and eventually report that the Salisbury Board of Selectmen repudiate people who associate with anti-Semites, engage in the intimidation of minorities, and, oh by the way, aid and abet attempts to prevent the peaceful transfer of power. Looking ahead–because the MAGA crowd will persist in this in all corners of this state as much as every other–the Board might also consider a resolution to investigate applicants for official boards before making appointments.

If you want to see democracy at work–or possibly destroyed–the meeting is open to the public, Salisbury Town Hall, this evening (July 17) @ 7:00.

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Samson Racioppi

As for Rob Roy: https://www.cbsnews.com/boston/news/salisbury-auto-shop-owner-defends-controversial-signs/

Looks like a nice place to spend a Monday evening.
https://www.legendsofamerica.com/salisbury-massachusetts/

Samson Racioppi with his “Straight Pride” flag:

https://www.masslive.com/?chr=1627222035675

Of Paradise & Parking Lots

Once or twice a month, two women, one who barely qualifies for a senior discount and another with but a year or two to go, arrive at the Screening Room for a Wednesday matinee.

Since that’s my day as a projectionist, we’ve been on a first name basis since about a year ago when they first made a habit of spending a day in Newburyport and taking in a movie. They have always remembered my name after I made it easy for them by pointing out that I’m in the trunk of every car.

That would include the car that takes them the 30 or so miles back and forth to where they live. I’m not going to name the town, nor am I going to use their real names in what I’m about to report. Not because they asked to remain anonymous, but because it wasn’t until the show was over and the lights were out that my own light went on.

This past Wednesday was very slow. When Nikki and Liz arrived some 20 minutes early, I was in a chatty mood, telling of the Nao Trinidad, the replica of Magellan’s ship that had been docked in Newburyport during the week of the 4th. They saw it with their husbands, and Nikki mentioned a conversation about history that included an aside, “I’m a librarian.”

Couldn’t help but file that away until the subject of Magellan had sailed out the door of the Screening Room lobby and was safely onto State Street. I gave the pause a three-count and looked at Nikki:

“You’re a librarian?”

“Yes! In X——, and Liz is on the board of the X—– Public Library.”

Looking back and forth at both: “I’m about a decade older than you. My introduction to the Lawrence Public Library would have been about when you were born. I’m sure I was assigned certain books to find, but overall, those grade-school visits were more like discovery than anything else, like Magellan sailing round the Horn into an ocean full of islands unknown and unimagined.”

They smiled, no doubt thinking they were in for a pleasant, nostalgic trip into their own profession. I paused, keeping eye-contact, one to the other: “May I ask what might be a contentious question?”

They glanced at each other and both said yes.

“Does the word ‘weeding’ mean anything to you?”

Both women registered mild surprise that a non-librarian would know what is now a librarian’s term of art, though I’d say “artlessness” would be more honest. Nikki’s explanation was consistent with what I’ve heard from librarians, what few I know, from here to the west coast, citing a computer program that lets librarians know just how often a book is checked out. She looked over at Liz who nodded agreement, and I could see that both were reading skepticism on my face.

I hoped to soften my response with a brief laugh: “That suggests that some algorithm decides what books remain and what get tossed out.”

They seemed to speak at once: “Well, no, we do look at it.” Liz went on, “We also have to consider the condition of the book, and whether it’s in or out of print.”

Sounds to me like an urgent reason to keep older volumes, but I couldn’t tell if being out of print was considered a strike against them. I told the two that such was the case in Newburyport where, among other literary and historical treasures, a two-volume collection of John Greenleaf Whittier’s letters and journals published by his family in 1894 is no more.

Nikki seemed to commiserate: “But I bet there’s plenty of Danielle Steele!”

“That’s my point. Something already well-known, safe, expected. Don’t let Magellan round that Horn!”

Liz noted that the concern was for shelf-space, and Nikki nodded, adding that X—— has a very small library. I don’t doubt that’s true in X—–, but in N-port there is no lack of empty shelves. A day after this conversation, I happened to be in the Ipswich Public Library where entire rows were empty.

Nikki turned the tables on me: “What do you think weeding is?”

I kept making eye-contact with both of them: “I think the word is a euphemism for ‘dumbing down’.”

The two women looked stunned.

“And I mean that literally! You’re paving a paradise of literature and history, and putting up a parking lot of pop-culture. Is there no difference between a library and a bookstore? And what’s the difference between weeding and what the governor of Florida has ordered for public schools?”

Liz: “That’s a total ban. We might weed books, but you can still find and read them”

Me: “No! That’s just what DeSantis says, anyone in Florida can still find and buy and read those books. That rationale is identical whether the reference is to bookstores, to interlibrary consortiums, or to websites. So much for libraries as places of discovery!”

Nikki: “But we aren’t stigmatizing books the way these right wing groups are.”

Me: “No, not at all, but you are erasing them. So the result is the same. We’re erasing history at the same time we accuse others of suppressing it. And we wonder why they laugh at us? Only real difference is that right-wingers claim credit for and boast of what they erase. Algorithms allow us to wash our hands. Who’s in denial now?”

Again, they seemed to speak as one, as well as glancing at a clock on the wall approaching showtime: “Well, yes, we do need to keep an eye on that!”

“And I thank you!”

They slid into the theater as another customer approached to buy a ticket. What I have recorded above is but an extract of a longer conversation far more in agreement than debate, and the quotes are approximate. I was glad that I mentioned my involvement in the annual marathon readings of Moby-Dick in New Bedford and my recent, public feud with the N-port Public Library without getting lost in the (forgive me) weeds of controversy. That ensures that, if they want to know more, it’s all there, a matter of public record. (As well as covered in recent blogs.)

My one regret is that my stop in Ipswich was a day after rather than a day before this conversation. The IPL at the time had just four volumes of Herman Melville at the end of a shelf of over a dozen by pop-fiction writer Brad Meltzer. Recalling Nikki’s crack, I wandered into the aisle marked by the letter S. Danielle Steele had 82.

At that moment, I hoped I had made it clear to them that my argument isn’t about any contest, or any score, or lessening anything for the sake of anything else. Beyond the aisles with S and T was just one that offered everything from U to Z.

Past that were two rows of of stacks, I think five shelves each, top to bottom, perhaps twenty feet long, completely empty.

Don’t know about X—–, but like Newburyport, that’s quite a parking lot.

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Lobby of the Philips Exeter Academy Library, architect Louis Kahn. Photo: Michael Boer https://www.flickr.com/photos/onewe/albums/72157629278698261/with/6859625645/

Love at First Sound

Began for me my freshman year in college when I was still a commuter, back in my room in my family home while classmates partied late in the dorms.

For them, turntables played the soundtrack of their first year of freedom, and the music was rich. Beatles were at the end of their not-all-that-long winding road, but the Stones were still a crossfire hurricane when Carole King reset the Sixties’ stage with the tapestry of adulthood. Pete, Bob, and Joan went with the furniture and kept us forever young.

There was no lack of color or variety. From purple haze to mellow yellow, from let the sun shine in to rain on the roof, and from a pinball wizard in Soho to tin soldiers in Ohio, we took turns heeding Aretha’s “Think,” joining Grace’s Volunteers, and puffing magic dragons.

No question that the Fifties and early-Sixties were American rock-and-roll’s Golden Age. But I came of age right at the time of the British invasion, and it is that rock that many devoted radio stations have dubbed “classic.” Books celebrating the era, from the mid-Sixties into the early-Seventies, keep appearing every year. Just last decade there seemed to be a contest to pick rock’s most significant year:

1965: The Most Revolutionary Year in Music (2015)

1967: A Complete Rock Music History of the Summer of Love (2017)

1969: The Year Everything Changed (2011)

Never a Dull Moment: 1971, The Year That Rock Exploded (2017)*

As a high school grad in 1968, the year when everything–politically, socially, psychologically–did actually, thoroughly change, I heard all of this and had my favorites. As a freshman in the academic year of 1968-69, I may not have partied night by night with new college friends, but I spent weekends with my old high school crew, cruising the backroads of Groveland and West Newbury in the court of the Crimson King.

It was during weeknights in between when turntables spun in college dorms that I was more in tune with a shortwave radio, a high school graduation present to satisfy a fascination I had since eighth grade. When doing homework, I’d find BCN on the FM dial and leave it there, but during any break and before turning in, I’d turn to the weird band at the top and scroll sideways through the static. At any voice or music, I’d stop, but most were far from clear, and I’d move on. Then came the night that I heard talk that was crystal clear.

Couldn’t understand a word, but I could tell it was Eastern European before I thought I heard the announcer say the names “Brezhnev” and “Khrushchev,” suggesting it was Russian. He went on, and I turned out the lights and hit the pillow staring straight up at the ceiling wondering if I was listening to Radio Moscow or Radio Free Europe. Quite a difference there.

He talked at length, and I was about to pull the plug–closer and easier to find in the dark than the small on-off switch–when he paused briefly and resumed in a whole new tone. Before long I heard, in English, the name “Rolling Stones,” which snapped me wide awake even though I had no idea of what was being said of them. Then came the words, “Gimme Shelter,” followed immediately by the sultry guitar opening of that song.

That night, like most others, I probably smoked a joint before I turned to shortwave, but it had to be redundant. Could it get any higher for a teenager in Lawrence, Mass., in 1969 than to bask in the devil’s sympathy broadcast from the USSR in the dead of night? Take my newfound wings and learn to fly…

Over 50 years later, I spend Tuesday mornings sitting in Chococoa, a Newburyport coffeeshop, with three guitarists who often talk about chords and progressions and diminished this and major that while I, a flautist, quietly pretend I know what it means. That’s fine. I’m content to inhale Kenyan dark roast and savor a lemon-ginger scone in blissfully ignorant silence, so such talk does not fret me.

More often we speak of music that we hear, that we like, that we play, and so we talk about our gigs–for me that’s now just the fall Renaissance festival, sometimes jamming with the Buzzards Bay Buccaneers–and whatever musical news we’ve heard or read since we last met. If I’m the odd-man out in the guitar-talk, I make up for it with a projectionist’s advantage of describing films such as Elvis, Chevalier, and Summer of Gold before my friends have a chance to see them–as well as documentaries such as Little Girl Blue, Amazing Grace, and I’m Your Man in fine detail.

Comparisons, from near to far-flung, abound. A mention of chordal suspensions in Tommy will draw one of the same in Henry Purcell’s Renaissance operas. An account of a performance of Seals and Croft at the Blossom Music Center outside Akron years ago will trigger memories of folk, rock, jazz, and classical concerts at venues such as Red Rocks in Colorado and Tanglewood here in Massachusetts, as well as Steve’s view from onstage at the Alaska Folk Festival.

And random connections. When John insists that “Summer in the City” was the Lovin’ Spoonful’s best song, I let him know that the bassist wrote a biography of the group a few years ago and titled it with the lyric: Hotter than a Matchhead. I also let him know that I once dined in Chez Piggy, wacko lead guitarist Zal Yanofsky’s restaurant in Kingston, Ontario.

Borrowing Dylan’s word, our conversations are all free-wheeling. And the wheels ran on both tracks of comparison and connection when Rob reminded us of the repeated hammering note that serves up Janis Joplin’s wail, “Cry Baby.” Whatever the subject before he mentioned it, the rest of us launched into a list of songs with riveting openings, single phrases that command attention, and remain through the years immediately identifiable.

First that came to mind is what I called the single “chord” that opens “A Hard Day’s Night.” John half agreed: “‘Chord’? That was more of a musical mash.”

Mash? How about one of memorable instumental openings? If you like pinacolada, all day and all of the night, let me take you down to the House of the Rising Sun on a dark desert highway where the taxman has got you, babe!

We agreed that as far as we knew, Beethoven should be credited as a forerunner of this category, if it be a category, with the iconic four-note command opening his Fifth Symphony–made all the more suggestive when adapted as a basis for its sweeping, celebratory third movement. As John notes, we limit it with the oft-used description of “opportunity knocks” when the tempo he gives it later on sounds more like opportunity realized. And I have since learned that it is the only musical composition that has a scripted “audience part.”**

From four notes to six opening Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung.” Not long ago I headlined a Daily News column, “Sitting on a park bench,” knowing that anyone close to my age would hear that with a force that grabbed their attention. Whether they kept reading was another matter, and a peaceful, pastoral piece about taking walks along a salt-marsh may have been quite a surprise to those who did. But readers in the following days confirmed my hunch.

Before Tull’s six were the Rolling Stone’s eight to open “Satisfaction,” although we might credit just the first two notes for doing the trick. The Supremes’ topped–or bottomed–that with a single word, “Stop!” before singing “in the name of love.” Could we credit Aretha with yet more efficiency by using a single letter? I vote no, as the R is too musically linked to the E-S-P-E-C-T to stand alone, although I certainly agree that the seven letters qualify the song for a place high on the list of commanding openings.

Back to instrumental intros: After reliving my Moscow Night in 1969, I fast-forward to a summer afternoon aside Mount Wachusett in Central Mass in the early-Nineties when Shenandoah took the stage and launched into a riff that had us, about 2,000 strong as I recall, bouncing for a few minutes. We barely noticed that Arlo Guthrie was onstage with them, strumming away, before he edged slowly toward the mic front center and, in that distinct, nonchalant nasal tone of his, exhaled, “I don’t want a pickle.”

I still hear the roar. But for the sake of a category of music commonly known, let’s stick to riffs on best-selling records. We might credit Sonny & Cher for “And the Beat Goes On” and Nancy Sinatra for “These Boots Are Made for Walking,” but both of those openings were improvised and offered on the spot by Carol Kaye, virtuoso bassist with the legendary studio musicians called the Wrecking Crew that recorded to perfection the songs of many groups–including the Association, Gary Lewis and the Playboys, and at times even the Beach Boys–who then played them on stages where standards were less exacting.

So Kaye gets two entries, as might Paul Simon if we count the lyric invitation of “Hello darkness my old friend.” Yes or no, there’s what he calls the “banjo-roll” that opens “The Boxer.” Once asked why he never played it in concert, he said, “because I can’t,” but I see that recently he has had banjo virtuoso–and superb interviewer/host of a PBS show, My Music–Rihannon Giddens join him onstage. I know that she has added lyrics that extend the reach of Simon’s “American Tune” to 1619, but have yet to find that she delivers that intro.***

When America delivered a victory to Barack Obama in 2008, Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” opened the victory celebration with a joyous bounce that fit the faces of the Obama family and everyone on the stage with them as soon as the first note was heard, well beforethe added exhilaration of Wonder’s voice. Here’s hoping we hear it again in November next year.

Rather than keep adding to this list into next year, let me state the obvious: Anyone could make a list as long or longer, as strong or stronger, with completely different titles. Anyone twenty or fifty years younger than I could do it with a list of songs I don’t know, musicians I’ve never heard of. Anyone older might opt for the instumental accompaniment to “Moon River,” “That’s Life,” and “One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock rock!”

Not to mention the demographics of glam rock that would favor David Bowie and Queen, yacht rock with Steely Dan and Loggins & Messina, and heavy metal for the musically impaired, the mentally challenged, and the emotionally stunted.

For demographics that include me, Stan Rogers’ ominous opening of “Barrett’s Privateers” is my pick for folk music, while the defiant raunch that opens the Standells’ “Dirty Water” is irresistable to fans of Boston’s pro sports teams. For wind musicians what can possibly outdo Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s opening bars of “Serenade for a Cuckoo”? Really gives us the bird, and the bird is most welcome.

How about I say that I’m here only to start the list, and anyone reading is free to add? Of course there are emphatic openings of songs that immediately devolve into idiot wind. The absurd pronouncement of Arthur Brown’s “Fire” and the cackling laughter of the Surfaris’ “Wipeout” would, in my book, be more fitting in a petition to repeal the First Amendment than on any list of songs I’d recommend. But that’s just me.

One I have not mentioned only to save it for last. And, yes, it is my choice for best, but more importantly it’s my choice for most relevant. In the Sixties it was intended to wake us up and keep us woke. And, oh, how we need that now! From the Chambers Brothers:

“Time Has Come Today.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2aEj5U8kHbc

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*The books on 1969 and 1971 are page-turning, eye-opening reads, and I urge anyone interested in rock music or in the era to read both. The 1965 and 1967 entries are delightful treats that I recommend for those my age who care to indulge in nostalgia.

https://www.classicfm.com/discover-music/humour/audience-part-beethovens-5th/

***John adds that, though called a “banjo roll,” it can be played on guitar. And so it is on the original single in 1968 and on the album, Bridge Over Troubled Water. Whether Simon could play it then but can’t now, or if it was played by Fred Carter Jr. who has a guitar credit on the album is not clear. Meanwhile, here’s Simon’s duet with Giddens on “American Tune”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OPWNiVdnU8Y