Workout by the Numbers

Made my first trip to a gym yesterday.

Signed in six weeks ago at the urging of more than one friend. Knowing that my admission and membership would be fully covered by my insurance, I had run out of excuses not to.

Still, New England’s fairly tolerable weather through December and into January kept me walking in the wildlife sanctuary just outside my door on most days. On others, windchills turned me around after barely half a mile, at times at the end of my driveway where I achieved nothing more than retrieving my mail.

Yesterday was raw, rainy, so in I went. I thought about leaving as soon as I stepped into the locker room. Not because of guys walking around wrapped in towels, or having to change in front of others–I’ve been a Renaissance faire performer for 22 years for God’s sake. No, it was the pounding disco or hip-hop or whatever the mindless thump-thump we hear out of speakers everywhere is called these days. Off those tiles it was so loud, I still wonder if its purpose is to prevent loitering.

Instead, I changed quickly and was in the vast gym looking for a basic treadmill. In retrospect, I was too quick, forgetting my water bottle in my “gym bag,” actually a touristy canvas tote-bag my mother used back in the 90s with names of California and Nevada cities and towns all over it, a motel chain it appears.

Before long I stepped onto a treadmill and asked the first person who happened by to show me how it started. He set it at 1.5 mph and showed me how to increase and decrease the speed. Presto! I was off.  What I realized right away was that by leaning on those two handles in front of me, I was taking a fair chunk of weight off my feet, and I liked how it felt.  I gradually notched up the speed and had it at 3.0 mph for the last 20 minutes.

My mistake was not bringing the water bottle, and I feared that I would not return if I took a break for water–as I do on the bench in the reserve where I have no choice but to walk back, save for a few days when I couldn’t resist the offer of a ride. So I plowed on until I reached 2.1 miles (about the round-trip distance of my walks on Plum Island) in 47 minutes, and had worked up a sweat that doesn’t happen in the reserve at this time of year.

Machine said 188 calories, and when I mentioned this to a couple guys in the locker room, I could tell that they both resisted laughing. Instead, they assured me with wide smiles that it’ll go up when I keep at it.  Yes, they said “when” not “if.” One said it was likely wrong and that I must have burned more.  Both said that the only important thing was that I got there and did it. That’s what those friends wrote in response to the bragging emails I sent them last night. A variation on the old Woody Allen line, just showing up is victory.

None of them mentioned the “no criticism” or “judgement free zone” of which Planet Fitness and other gyms boast to encourage new members no matter how out of shape we may be. Both phrases are all over the walls, but neither mattered much to me, as I enjoy self-deprecating humor. When anyone moves to the side of an isle of the supermarket or anywhere else as I approach, I can’t resist: “Oh, I’m wide, but I’m not that wide.” Yesterday, I made a point of wearing the t-shirt I just bought at the New Bedford Whaling Museum with a white whale on it, as if I was inviting ridicule.

That was my second trip to the annual marathon reading of Moby-Dick. Before the first one three years ago, the Newburyport Daily News interviewed me for a story, and when asked about my interest, I didn’t hesitate: “Call me Ishmael! Everything about him is true of me.” That was then. Now, I’d be more accurately cast in the title role.

Never an athletic specimen, I was always in fair shape thanks to busking and the Renaissance faire, always on my feet keeping a beat, sometimes dancing. Then I quit cigarettes in January, 2007, and by April of that year, I had gained 35 pounds I never shed. Three years ago the pandemic shut me down, and I indulged my appetites. Potato pancakes with sour cream every morning; hamburgers laced with molasses every evening with India Pale Ale to wash them down. Before long it was another 35 pounds, and only now am I intent on bringing those numbers down.

So it makes sense to have numbers in front of me–and numbers that I want to go up.

Today I made sure to have the water bottle with me. Those machines have cup holders on both sides of a screen with all kinds of controls that I’ll ignore for at least a month. There are also machines that do other things, such as de-escalators that people climb. No thank you. And a weight room. No way. Television monitors showing all kinds of stations line a wall in front of rows of various machines. I think of stories to fit the pictures; weather maps I imagine as military campaigns–which, thanks to climate change, they often may as well be. The brainless thump-thump is broadcast, but the place is so huge that the sound dissolves long before it bangs your eardrum.

Today’s numbers were 2.45 miles, 51 minutes, 206 calories, and I had the speed up to 3.0 mph within five minutes of starting and kept it there. As of today, I have set two goals: 1) to have all three numbers at least match the previous workout; 2) to shower and get dressed in noticeably less time than I workout. The first seems relatively easy, but the second? Even the obnoxious thump-thump has failed to hasten my departure.

That’s why this is strictly a winter habit, though it will also serve as a rainy-day option year-round. When the weather is tolerable, I’ll be back on the Refuge Road. I’ll miss the handles to lean on and numbers to increase, but I’ll take the sights and sounds of the marsh over so many indoor distractions, no matter how enticing some of them may be.

More than anything, I’ll welcome once again ending my workouts right here at home where I can fall on a bed for as long as I want before having to shower and get dressed.

All in blissful silence.

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Harpooneers of this World

More than anything, I wanted Chapter 62, “The Dart,” a more common word by which whalers called a harpoon. To get it, I asked for a ten-minute slot on the ungodly midnight watch.

That’s how the Moby-Dick Annual Marathon is divvied up. Each of the 25 hours it needs is a watch, all of which starts at noon Saturday and concludes at about 1:00 pm Sunday. Since 62 falls midway in the 135 chapters, I put in for 12:30-12:40 am and got it.

Three years ago, I guessed too late and read 69 and 70, “The Funeral” and “The Sphynx,” both strong stuff, as is every chapter in a long book that frequently bounds from comic to ponderous, from whimsical to confrontational, at times all at once. In 2020, I was mesmerized all the way to dawn’s invasion of the 3rd-floor windows of the New Bedford Whaling Museum’s reading room, inhaling as much as hearing every word.

True, I twice sat in the adjacent coffee room, conversing with a young couple who drove up from Maryland, and then with the owner of a boat shop who flew in from Chicago.  He told me that there were readers from California and Europe.  I don’t think there was as much of that this year, as there were noticeably fewer people listening in the wee hours, and far fewer sleeping bags in the wide corridor to the elevator. But, as Ishmael doesn’t hesitate to sometimes admit, I could be wrong.

Following the Sunday morning “Chat with Scholars,” one of several sideshows held during the main event, I had a memorable conversation with a recent graduate of College of the Atlantic up on the Maine coast. A Texas native, she’s now working for the National Parks Service in New Bedford, and may be the only person who has ever noticed that Ishmael describes an object that “fell to Ahab’s feet,” and remembered that Ahab had just one foot.

If only the world would pay a fraction of that attention to detail.

Details draw me to “The Dart.” The first of two compelling reasons is something that no one writing newspaper columns, as I’ve been doing for 40 years, can resist: Decades, perhaps a century before the term was coined, Herman Melville wrote an op-ed column.

In the persistent voice of Ishmael, one who challenges conventional wisdom every chance he gets, it opens with a description of how the whale boats were manned as they leave the ship in pursuit of a whale. He then finds fault: The harpooneers participate in the rowing, leaving them exhausted when it’s time to throw a 25-lb. spear. He offers proof: Low success rates. A solution: Leave them idle. Followed by a litany of reasons–“no wonder…”–that states a need. Followed by a concession of what will be compromised: The speed of the whaleboat. Countered by a claim of why the loss is negligible compared to how much more will be gained: Accuracy and efficiency.

In the best op-ed style, he ends the chapter with a “kicker” to drive the point home:

To ensure the greatest efficiency in the dart, the harpooneers of this world must start to their feet from out of idleness, and not from out of toil.

Coming at the end of about 650 words–standard op-ed length–that line by itself is the second reason I wanted “The Dart.” I memorized it long ago, a metaphor that applies to anyone if you replace the two nouns, “dart” and “harpooneers” with others that share the relationship of an object and the people who use it. To ensure the greatest efficiency of art, the artists of this world… To ensure the success of any attempt to influence a distracted public, the activists of this world… Call it an echo of Hamlet’s “the readiness is all.” At the reading, I was able to look up from the book and scan the audience. Most had their eyes down, reading along. Those looking at me sat bolt upright.

Not bad for people who had been up some 17 hours and counting. I was lucky that a friend from King Richard’s Faire read not long after, Chapter 66, “The Shark Massacre,” describing what happened to a whale’s carcass after it is stripped of blubber and oil and dropped back into the sea. Vinny, the tour de force of Toe Jam Puppet Band wildly popular with children in southeastern Massachusetts, might have been typecast for it:

[A]ny man unaccustomed to such sights, to have looked over her side that night, would have almost thought that the whole round sea was one huge cheese, and those sharks the maggots in it.

We broke for the coffee room after he was done. Much of our conversation was about how Ishmael’s jokes, his whimsy and mischief, are much more prominent when heard aloud. And, oh, how they make Ishmael’s portentous and profound passages more palatable. He stayed until past 4:00 am when another friend of his read.

Another mutual friend was with Culture*Park Theater performing “Midnight on the Forecastle” (Chap. 40) on the museum’s auditorium stage, the only chapter performed rather than read, and with song and dance. Elizabeth, formerly of King Richard’s Gypsy Dancers, played Tashtego, one of the harpooneers, as she did three years ago.

But there was a new cabin boy. This year’s Pip, a New Bedford fourth-grader named Josiah Bodden, gained a fan club in the former whaling capital of the world when he faced the audience, jolted forward, fell to his knees, slid toward the front of the stage, threw his head back, shut his eyes, clasped his hands over his head, and closed the chapter with a prayer:

Oh, thou big white God aloft there somewhere in yon darkness, have mercy on this small black boy down here; preserve him from all men who have no bowels to feel fear!

An hour or so later, the co-founder of the Newburyport Melville Society read “The Chart” (Chap. 44) which describes Ahab, alone in his cabin, studying maps rolled onto with their corners pinned into the wooden table. My bare description may make it seem like dry stuff, but Patricia, like so many of the 211 readers, made Ishmael’s mystical narration so vivid that the chapter’s kicker landed with the full force and relevance of any pronouncement today:

God help thee, old man, thy thoughts have created a creature in thee; and he whose intense thinking thus makes him a Prometheus; a vulture feeds upon that heart forever; that vulture the very creature he creates.

Not long after that, the Newburyport Melville Society convened across the street in the Moby Dick Brewery for clam chowder and pints of Ishm-Ale. That, plus the unlimited coffee supplied by the museum overnight, the presence of Vinny, and especially the extra rush of adrenaline after delivering “The Dart” made it easy to stay awake past dawn.

Had planned to start home at sunrise, as I did last time, but couldn’t resist a Portuguese omelet at Tia Maria’s European Cafe, also across the street.  Refreshed, I went back in for another scholarly session and a chat with my Newburyport friends before starting home well after 11:00.

Halfway home, I had to stop at Starbuck’s in Braintree, just off the highway, and sat for half an hour with a tall, black, dark roast before finishing the trip.  How’s that for poetic karma?  Starbuck helped guide me home from my pursuit of the White Whale.

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Screenshot by Richard K. Lodge, cropped by Lenovo.
Vinny Lovegrove, Photo by another reader, Cora Peirce of the Pocasset Wampanoag Tribe of Massachusetts & Rhode Island.

A Child on Refuge Road

Sometimes you just have to laugh.

I’d go crazy if I didn’t, unless I’ve already gone crazy without noticing. Or I’d quit, as many folks, including a few good friends, think I should.

Some of the laughter takes effort, but I’m so used to it that I can make it look and sound natural–like the Irish fiddlers who pride themselves on appearing as relaxed as professional gamblers while playing the most acrobatic jigs and reels at breakneck speed.

Those laughs are my way of deflecting the implied criticism of those who tell me they like my writing except when I write about politics. You know who you are, and you have me outnumbered. Way outnumbered. My laughter says “Fine, skip it. Enjoy the rest.”

My vignettes of Plum Island and Newburyport gain laughs I can share outright. Maybe that’s why I thought I’d experiment with a recent blog about the walk I took into Plum Island’s wildlife reserve on New Year’s Day.

An unseasonably mild day set the mood for an amble to a bench where I would sit and watch clouds eclipse the sun, and duck glide upon the marsh. Genesis 1:2–…and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

All very easy-going, whimsical, and light-hearted, with a photo of two black duck as a cover, but I did headline it “A Powerful Transfer of Peace,” and so there was bound to be some kind of civic or political content.

It begins with the mild transition the weather has made from 2022 to 2023 here on the Massachusetts coast. The plot thickens when I muse about being stuck on column that I was writing for the local paper, an anticipation of the anniversary of Jan. 6. I look out the window. A view of a convertible with the top down snaps me out of my chair. I go for a walk and write with my feet. While sitting on the bench, I find–I see–what the column needs: contrast.

“Of, by and for the Empty Seats” ran in the Daily News the next day, the “holiday observed” as we call those Mondays nearest the real deal, a very busy day at the Screening Room where several patrons let me know they approved it.* It also drew five emails, as many as I ever get for a newspaper column. Four expressed approval, each of them signed, one from a neighbor I haven’t yet met who took the implied point of “empty seats”:

I am at fault as I did not attend the meeting at City Hall with [US Rep. Seth] Moulton. I will try and attend the next time. If for no other reason than to balance off the QAnon folks who believe that, if they scream louder and wave their flags higher, they must be the voice of America.

Catch you on Refuge Road.

The fourth email was anonymous, sent under the name “Newburyport Guy” with the subject line, “Your childish drivel”:

It’s clear you have a child’s understanding of the world.

It is unpleasant to begin the year with your Democunt (sic & sick) observations.

With the Bible in one hand and the Constitution in the other[,] we Republican patriots are invincible. We own the Court and the House. In 2024 we will own the Senate and the White House. It is God’s will.

I suggest you utilize your time and energy investigating and reporting why our so-called “public library” hires only women. How is this legal? Why is the library director always female? Where are the male librarians at 94 State Street? I thought you Democunts were all about equity, diversity and inclusion. Investigate and report on this scandal. 

I hope 2023 is a year of learning and maturity for you. Write about something important.

God is life!! Abortion is the holocaust of our time.

For all our talk about the separation of church and state, we are up against the union of church and hate. Anonymity? That, as one friend calls it, “is the KKK of speech.”

For the record, there is at least one male employed at the Newburyport Public Library, and no one needs a sociologist or optometrist to tell them that far more women go into that profession than men. But there are far more pressing issues in this email than the gender distribution of librarians.

Rather than sorting through Newburyport Guy’s agenda, I’d rather return to the first email from a neighbor vowing to get involved in civic life. That describes not only my last column, but my next to coincide with the upcoming Martin Luther King Holiday prompted by a quote of his to rattle my I-don’t-want-to-hear-about-politics friends:

He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it. He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it.

My response to Newburyport Guy? Well, I’m relieved he didn’t say anything about catching me on Refuge Road, but honestly, I just laugh.

Still, he may be right that I have a “child’s understanding of the world.” I have grandchildren. Other grandparents and parents may prefer not to connect the indelible dots of the present to the inevitable blot they spell for the future. By contrast, I have no choice but to call attention to the world that the young, the innocent, the meek are about to inherit.

That’s why all that deflective laughter takes more effort than I care to admit.

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Martin Luther King (Photo via history.com)

*The column: https://www.newburyportnews.com/opinion/as-i-see-it-of-by-and-for-the-empty-seats/article_34bc2fe6-8877-11ed-a05c-4b3eb2603ae1.html

A Powerful Transfer of Peace

A string of mild days has both ended 2022 and commenced 2023 here on New England’s coast.

Sitting here with a view of the entrance to the sand dunes and marsh of a wildlife refuge out my window, I’ve spent New Year’s Weekend watching lines of cars, mostly SUVs, roll by as they do on a late spring day.

For a couple weeks before this front moved in, Plum Islanders were bundled up and hunkered down against unabated Arctic blasts over the marsh that turned freezing temps into single digits with minus signs on the shortest days of the retiring year.  With plenty to write while sitting at my laptop, more to read while lying in bed, and no end of college and pro football on the tube, I was content to remain indoors.

As I was Friday morning when I noticed several cars heading toward the gate. That was enough to tell me that I could tolerate my daily two-mile walk on the refuge road–something that I had suspended for longer than I care to admit, using Christmas gatherings as much as the weather as an excuse.

But I had an idea for a Daily News column that demanded to be written, and a deadline coming up, albeit self-imposed. And that Kenyan coffee that arrived in the mail tasted so good! So I kept writing and sipping until, stuck for a precise adjective or a clever analogy, I looked up from my keyboard and out the window to see a convertible drive by–top down.

Well, I wasted no time closing tabs, logging out, shutting down, getting dressed, filling my water bottle, turning the heat down, and getting out the door.

Yesterday was damp and overcast, and today had a slight wind-chill, but I made it to my mile-marker bench that overlooks the marsh each day and was able to sit awhile watching a few black duck float on a salt panne, so still they could have been sleeping.

Maybe it was their complete lack of effort–no flapping wings, no plunging beaks–that made something clear to me on this first morning of a new year: Our weather has given us a peaceful transition of years.

The thought reminded me of the November day following Ronald Reagan’s re-election in 1984. We all knew he was going to win, but the fact of it was devastating for anyone who cared about the environment, about the accessibility of health care and higher education, about workers’ rights and occupational safety. For anyone who cared as much for line-items as for bottom lines, it was a day of mourning.

Until you opened the Boston Globe or any other paper that carried a syndicated column that day penned by Eugene McCarthy. A former Minnesota senator and a presidential candidate in 1968 most attractive to college students and faculty with his “Clean for Gene” campaign, McCarthy seemed the perfect choice to write the post-mortem for the doomed campaign of his fellow Minnesotan, Walter Mondale.

And then I read it. Not a word about the election, nor about government or politics in any form. As I recall, he mentioned no person nor any place to be found on a map. Instead, he described a place I’ll never forget: his garden. Yes, he seemed to be saying, life goes on, so let’s make the best of it, plant these seeds, train that vine, pull these weeds, water that thyme.

This, from the guy who single-handedly forced Lyndon Johnson to abdicate his bid for re-election.

I thought of the draft column I had waiting for my return home. It’s subject is the peaceful transfer of power, or rather America’s loss of that hallmark of a free and self-governing people two years ago this week. By the time I left the bench, I was thinking: Maybe the precise adjective is “powerful,” and the precise noun “peace.”

Look to the duck on the marsh, if not to the gathering clouds that threaten rain. Or to the tomatoes in your garden, if not to the rabbits who run through it. Consider the lillies of the field, if not the developer who builds on it.

Nature offers analogies, both clever and precise, for all we do.

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Black Duck pair, photo by Michael J. Parr https://abcbirds.org/bird/american-black-duck/

By a Marsh on a Rainy Day

On the year’s shortest day, Robert Frost famously watches a villager’s woods fill up with snow.  On the second, I hear a menacing forecast. On the third, I awake to see a saltmarsh fill up with water.

Frost’s horse thinks it queer to stop without a farmhouse near, but I’m still at home upon a hill in bed before a window watching grasses disappear.

My windows rattle in gusts of storm, odd echoes of harness bells that shake the old man back awake.  But this old man watches, making no mistake, pausing nothing but breakfast.

Nor is there a house in sight from my island to the mainland where Frost’s woods stretch toward a frozen lake. My marsh, now lake, keeps moving north, whitecapped in surging tide.

Frost’s darkest evening becomes my gray day, all grasses now submerged in a shade matching sky, as well as the two-lane road, leaving but a utility pole and the top half of a fire hydrant as reminders of just where I am.

No, that’s not at all Frost, but for the old man who stopped on Plum Island four decades ago, it’s a first.

Frost’s downy flake is my driving rain; his easy wind my gas heat, an easy, welcome warmth up from my floor.

Mouth of a river? Atlantic salt marsh? Arrival of winter? Sea-level rise? Encroaching climate change? A cacophony, perhaps a symphony of ocean, moon, storm, and melting glaciers?

My estuary may be lovely, but it is neither dark nor deep. To tell of its contrary charms, I’ll leave for another day, for there’s an omelet I must eat.

Does way ever lead onto way? All I know is that the tide will turn and the grasses reappear on these darkest days of every year. And I will sip coffee.

And that makes all the difference.

All the difference is what that makes.

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Photos by Lenovo facing SXSW.

Thelma & Louise Live!

Hard to imagine anyone comparing the film She Said to Romeo and Juliet.

But first things first: She Said is as powerful a film as I have ever seen. While the “reporting twins” played by Carey Mulligan and Zoe Kazan are most reminiscent of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein as played by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman, and while the New York Times‘ pursuit of Harvey Weinstein and Miramax resembles the Washington Post‘s investigation of Richard Nixon in All the President’s Men (1976), She Said‘s impact is more akin to that of an event, a la Little Big Man (1970), Thelma & Louise (1991), and BlacKkKlansman (2018).

Nixon’s crimes in question, after all, had nothing to do with gender or race.

Flush with Director Maria Schrader’s attention to detail, She Said‘s boldest stroke is a dual introduction: first, a brief prologue of a young Irish girl hired for the crew of a film as it is being shot on the Irish coast, followed by her running in terror down a city street; second, a few scenes in 2016 of the New York Times‘ revelations of sexual abuse by a presidential candidate–ending with the announcement of his election.

And then to the full expose of Weinstein and Miramax. Women agonize as they re-live assault and rape, Ashley Judd one of three actresses playing herself. Reporters Megan Twohey and Jodi Kantor agonize as they coax those women to tell stories they might hesitate to tell of themselves. Their editor, Rebecca Corbett played by Patricia Clarkson (sounding uncannily like Nancy Pelosi), guides them through their agony by asking them about their families and telling them to go home and get some sleep–all while reminding them to get documentation.

We see them at home with supportive husbands, one of them a reporter with grueling deadlines of his own, and children. Kantor’s pre-teen daughter is starting to ask difficult questions. Twohey’s newborn is rocked by a husband who sashays unabashedly in a public park while listening to her grill a staffer with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission over “non-disclosure agreements” via cellphone.

At the risk of reading into it, that’s one of a few scenes aimed at what we call “policy and procedure.” Almost as a sub-plot, She Said exposes the ubiquitous term as an all-purpose excuse not to think. In this case, it’s a gag order on conscience.

As a piece of the larger story, it’s yet another obstacle that women face regarding future employment, reputation, and the threats they must endure. It’s impossible not to recall Christine Blasey Ford’s futile testimony in Brett Kavanaugh’s confirmation hearing when the reporters come to a realization in mid-film:

Kantor: The only way these women are going to go on the record…

Twohey: Is if they all jump together.

Cinematically, She Said fills every frame with detail. A scene with any film’s two main characters talking will be as riveting as what they say. She Said passes that test, but adds more when they walk down a sidewalk toward the camera with two construction workers–male–halfway between. After an earlier scene in a pub where Twohey has to scream at a jerk to leave them alone, what do we expect as they walk past the hard-hats and toward us? But what then happens?

When Twohey, after arriving at his home after dark and unannounced, asks an accountant about payouts, the expression on the face of his wife could be a scene all by itself. No matter that the wife’s question to him, “What payout?” is her only line in the film. It’s also one of several reminders that the grievance conveyed by the film is not limited to a list of Weinstein’s 82 victims, or to the hundreds of thousands who signed on to the #MeTwo movement.

From the reporters’ daughters to their editor, She Said effortlessly reminds us that this is about all women–and therefore all of us–today and into the future.

Which may be why, this time, the two women do not drive themselves off a cliff.


A comparison to Romeo and Juliet seems bizarre only because we have come to confuse comparisons with equations. We have lost the distinction: For an equation you need to match everything, for a comparison just one.

Many will insist that for a comparison to be useful, its two objects must have more in common than in contrast. Better to compare She Said to other newsroom films in a storied tradition that runs from All the President’s Men through Absence of Malice (1981) to Philomena (2013), Spotlight (2015), and Bombshell (2019). As an event, I’ll add Network (1976).

All of those would make for good conversation, but I’ll counter that a single point of comparison can be as incisive and enlightening as several. In fact, all the differences might make it moreso.

Differences between She Said and Shakespeare’s most frequently adapted play are obvious: Neither plots nor settings have anything to do with each other; characters live lives that couldn’t be more foreign to each other; and dialogue in a film about the birth of the #MeToo movement is necessarily too graphic for iambic pentameter. If only Father Lawrence had a cellphone!

Moreover, any comparison to the world’s most renowned love story may understandably annoy, perhaps offend women in the #MeToo movement and men who supported it. That, however, is the point: Romeo and Juliet is also literature’s most incisive statement on revenge. From Romeo’s revenge to Weinstein’s accountability, it’s one spectrum that the two stories share.

You could say that, for public consumption, R&J is disguised as a love story.

So, too, She Said serves a dual purpose. Cast as an expose on sexual harassment, as was Bombshell three years ago, it also serves as a journalism seminar. In a day when we are too easily led to believe that the press makes everything up, we see the pains taken to insure accuracy. In a day when the refusal to publish unfounded smears is considered by many to be censorship, we see the point and purpose of the First Amendment illustrated. In a day when people fall for lunatic conspiracies and cheer for those who threaten violence, we see people who stand for truth.

I’m not sure which is the disguise and which the incisive statement, but She Said is as much a manifesto for freedom of the press as for an end to sexual harassment.

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L2R: Reporters Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey played by Zoe Kazan and Carey Mulligan; editors Dean Baquet and Rebecca Corbett played by Andre Braugher and Patricia Clarkson.
Actually, there is a second item that this film has in common with all of Shakespeare’s plays: comic relief, mostly in the form of well-placed one-liners. This is one of several scenes in which the reporters knock on the door of someone who has not answered their calls. Success is mixed, as no one at this point wants to be named. This one shuts the door as soon as Kantor (on the right) says New York Times, Harvey Weinstein, and Miramax. Camera shifts to Kantor who turns to Twohey and deadpans: “Think she’ll go on the record?”

Other Side of the Bridge

Lines in the Newburyport Post Office any day in December look like the lines entering a Renaissance faire on a mid-October weekend.

Difference is that, on the holiday that has five names, we rennies and our patrons wore all the color and decoration.  In this season of three religious feasts, most everyone is bundled up in dark, thick coats with colorfully wrapped and decorated packages in hand.

Across the Merrimack River on another errand, I swing by the Salisbury Post Office, figuring it can’t be too busy.

Bingo!  Just one counter, but I’m third in line, and the two before me are quick.  In addition to two small packages needing to be weighed, I need stamps.  Forgive me, but I’ve never cared for Christmas stamps or any seasonal postage.  If it’s any consolation, I love carols–even the dreaded “Drummer Boy”–and often played many of them with pizazz for many a Christmas past, but on envelopes?  No stars, halos, snowmen, or decorated trees for me.  Years ago, I made an exception for Gabriel with his alto-sax, but he has yet to make an encore as a thumbnail pic with a serrated edge.

Always asking for stamps with musicians, I mailed everything with Pete Seeger and his banjo on the top righthand corner of the envelope this summer and fall. Though I doubted there would be any left for sale, I asked the Salisbury clerk, who lit up at the question:

Sure we do! Lots!

Wow! Hard to believe. They were issued so long ago, I thought they had to be gone.

Jack, you’re on the other side of the bridge. Can’t sell’m this side.

I buy three panes. She puts at least three back in her drawer.


Salisbury is the northeast corner of Massachusetts, sandwiched between the Merrimack and the state border with New Hampshire while the Atlantic pounds its east side.  In a blatant crime against cartography, surveyors sent up from Boston in colonial times decided to ignore the common sense of letting the river, like the ocean, be a natural boundary and claimed a three-mile buffer from the north bank for the Mass Bay Colony.

We can only wonder if this map set the precedent for another Massachusetts invention soon to follow: gerrymandering

As a much smaller town, Salisbury may lack Newburyport’s culture and commerce, but it does have Annarosa’s Bakery with its rosemary & sea-salt dinner rolls I can’t get enough of.  If you go looking, it’s on Rt. 110 just across from a memorable billboard for a CBC store: “You have in-laws. We have pot.” Now that’s the holiday spirit! After a short drive, I was still laughing when I arrived at the post office where I would learn of a postage stamp that our neighbors to the north want none of.

Good chance that most Americans born after the Eisenhower years do not know who Pete Seeger was, or know only the name. We children of that decade knew him as a folk-singer. Our parents may have known him as a conscientious objector blacklisted in the McCarthy Era. In the Sixties he was a leading voice in civil rights, anti-war, and environmental movements. At the end of the Sixties, he was one of the foremost reasons that the Smothers Brothers show, a forerunner of all the creative commentary we now see on cable TV, was banned from network television. This was back when all television was network. Censored was his song, “Waist Deep in the Big Muddy,” clearly aimed at a Democratic president.

Seeger was tireless. He harmonized with voices for humanitarian causes right up to the day he died in 2014 at the age of 94. Though his banjo was inscribed with a combative message–“This Machine Surrounds Hate and Forces It to Surrender”–his own statements and song lyrics were always in the spirit of peace and unity, usually addressed to “brothers” and “sisters.” Never cast in anger, his songs conveyed spiritual and cultural messages as much as political. His best known, “Turn, Turn, Turn,” an adaptation of the Book of Ecclesiastes, serves as an example:

To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose under heaven

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together

That the people of Salisbury have any of this in mind when they purchase stamps is doubtful. Far more likely they prefer pics of race cars that had a recent issue, or American flags that are always issued. And now there’s one with Johnny Cash walking the (rail) line with his guitar far more likely to sell on either side of any American bridge.

No doubt I would have taken a pane home had Seeger not been there.


Still, there is room for doubt.

Three hundred years after its first crime against cartography, Massachusetts is the bluest of blue states while New Hampshire has been trending purple in recent years.  Relative to New England, New Hampshire screams red in a sea of blue, and if you zoom in to our little corner, the change in color is not at the state line but at the Merrimack River. Only the fireworks stores observe the border.

Whether or not the clerk had any of that in mind with her “other side of the bridge” crack is anyone’s guess. But I think she was in on the joke. A wry smile on her face suggested that she would have felt my pain had she no pane to offer.

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The USPS poster for the day of release. Next to the date it says: Newport, Rhode Island 02804. This refers to the Newport Folk Festival where the color-tinted, black-and-white photograph was taken in the early Sixties while Seeger played his signature five-string banjo. The photographer was Seeger’s son, Dan Seeger. Kristen Monthei colorized it for use on the stamp.

Erratic, Eclectic, Elusively Eccentric

Back when I started writing newspaper columns some 40 years ago, I noticed that several of my favorites–such as Ellen Goodman on the Boston Globe‘s opinion page and Dan Shaughnessy in the Globe‘s sports section–had a habit of writing end-of-year columns of random thoughts.

Headlines would read “1983 in Review” or “Tying up Loose Ends” or “Preparing for Auld Lang Syne” or “Clearing out the Mail Bag.” Yes, back then it was a bag, not a box. How quaint!

Reading with a mixture of envy and amusement, I was reassured that if my turn came up in Newburyport’s Daily News, and I didn’t have a single subject worth 650 words–or that could not be contained in 750–I could always throw together a grab bag of doings and undoings around town.

As Newburyporters know, there’s no shortage of doings here, and those doings are outdone by undoings, but I never did any listing of them. Not for want of trying, but because every time I started one, I thought of more to say about my first “random” item, and went on and on until it was no longer random but fully, if not over- developed. Whether or not those columns were well developed is another matter, and I’m sure it comes as no surprise to Daily News readers that I went on and on.

When charged with that literary crime, I plead Irish.

Looking over my records, I see that I focused on three subjects in my first few years: Street music, cross-country drives with my pre-teen daughter, and the goofy national disaster known as Ronald Reagan. May seem strange that my pet subjects were completely unrelated to each other, but today I write book and film reviews while the Red Sox or Patriots or Celtics or Bruins are on a screen just over and past this one.

I can look up whenever an announcer gets excited. I can oscillate or saucer Jack Edwards’ colorful verbs into my own sentences about strolling on Plum Island, fighting City Hall, and sitting out on State Street. I can hit mute when I have to listen to a video for the sake of transcribing a quote. I can go from First Amendment to first down without calling time out.

Is that random? Some would call it eclectic or eccentric. Critics might call it confused or erratic, if not schizophrenic. I don’t call it anything, although it might be a by-product of semi-retirement.

Must be semi-retirement that has me thinking, after all these years, that I might finally write a column of random tid-bits. Such a collection–from left-over scraps cut from columns and blogs–seems suited to this feeling that I can do whatever I want whenever I want.

May sound overstated, but it’s actually understated. For me, semi-retirement is more advantageous than the full deal. I work just two days: One as a projectionist in a cinema where I push a few buttons and then sit for two hours, ideal for a writer; the other when I drive about 250 miles with eight or ten stops, ideal for thinking of things to write–with NPR on if I need a prompt, off if I do not.

I’m lucky that my employer’s Ford Transit has far better brakes than I. Truth is, I’m incapable of writing a random grab bag. I have no brakes at all. How many times have I started a single paragraph or sentence to post on its own on social media, only to think of context, of cause and effect, of comparisons, analogies, and metaphors? Time after time, on and on.

Some remain in my files, but they are mostly bad jokes that belong in the trash. No one really wants to hear that Coal Mine Owners’ senator, Joe Manchin, chairs the senate’s Energy Committee, do they? Much less my response that we might as well have Kevin McCarthy chair the Ethics Committee and Porky Pig as Secretary of Agriculture.

You see it right there: I’m already filling out the canvas. Want more? No? Too bad:

Corporate servant Kyrsten Sinema, despite her defection from the party that sent her to DC, remains chair of the Banking and Commerce committees. Jim Jordan, despite his obstinate denial of an election that was upheld by over 60 court challenges in the battleground states, will soon chair the House Judiciary Committee. By that standard, Hannibal Lechter could head the Food and Drug Administration.

Good thing Hershel Walker lost or they’d name him chair of Education.

Even if you did have a taste for that sort of low-ball humor, I see that my word count has topped 750, leaving no time for anything more than a sign-off.

Oh, how I envy Ellen Goodman and Dan Shaughnessy!

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Even in church, I argue on and on. One friend tells me that’s called confession. Probably not talking about the writing process, but the pen in the pocket has to count for something. Photo by Richard K. Lodge.

American Ecclesiastes

Took me by surprise to learn that William Lloyd Garrison was a dedicated teacher.

We think of him as a leader of the Abolitionist movement and as the co-founder, publisher, editor, and lead writer for The Liberator, a newspaper that appeared every week for 34 years.

He didn’t quit until the Emancipation Proclamation was delivered and it was clear that the Union was about to win the Civil War. After that, he became a leading voice for women’s suffrage. He also added his voice to the call for Prohibition, but he can be forgiven that lapse. Two out of three ain’t bad.

So how did he find time to teach?

Historian Kabria Baumgartner, a professor at Northeastern and a resident of Newburyport, tells us that Garrison instituted apprenticeships at The Liberator to serve a dual purpose: to produce the paper and to teach young Black men “the power of the pen and the power of the press.”

In Newburyport’s 3rd Annual William Lloyd Garrison Lecture at the Old South Church, just around the corner from where he was born and raised, Baumgartner took most of us by surprise. Her title, “I Will Be Heard: Antislavery Printing and Youth Activism at William Lloyd Garrison’s Liberator Office,” hinted at a talk that at times was more about the technology of typesetting than the history of race relations. So the surprise was not his inclusion of Blacks in the process, but that he and co-founder Isaac Knaap, another Newburyport native, made a point of grooming them to send them elsewhere.

Elsewhere was across a country that was expanding by the day, down the Ohio, across the Mississippi, to the Rockies, where they would establish independent Black-owned newspapers. Baumgartner reminds us that this was a time when the Southern states were passing anti-literacy laws, banning pamphlets from the North, and putting bounties on the heads of influential pamphleteers such as David Walker whose “Appeal to the Colored Citizens of the World” set the stage for Frederick Douglass, another leader of the Abolition movement.

She then spoke of something most of us never hear in school. Newspapers in the North that called for Abolition lived with violence an ever-present threat. At least three died, burned to the ground in New York, Ohio, and in Alton, Illinois, where the white publisher was fatally shot trying to fend off a pro-slavery mob. When The Liberator published a sketch of the riot, Elijah Lovejoy became a martyr for the Abolitionist cause.

Another surprise–and another item that this native New-Englander never saw in a textbook–was Baumgartner’s revelation of “drapetomania.” To counter all criticisms of slavery, Southern politicians concocted the myth of “benevolent” conditions, a myth that I do recall from my 1950s & 60s texts. By 1851 the plantation owners feared that the number of runaways would make the myth impossible to believe.

To their rescue came a Mississippi doctor named Samuel Cartwright who “hypothesized” that the desire to escape was a mental illness–drapetomania is a combination of the Greek words for escape and madness–that resulted when owners became friendly with servants. This only confused the servants who…. Ya, right!

The concept was immediately mocked and satirized in the North. In the South? Don’t know about drapetomania, but in their howling objections to The 1619 Project, we heard several Republican office holders, on both federal and state levels, insist that slavery, for the most part, was “a benevolent institution” and the enslaved lived comfortably and well–an absurd claim echoed today by the absurd dismissal of January 6 as “a normal tourist day.”

Baumgartner, the author of last year’s In Pursuit of Knowledge: Black Women and Educational Activism in Antebellum America, did not shy away from today’s echoes of the mid-19th Century. She compared the anti-literacy laws to Florida’s recent “anti-woke” law and to the “boogeyman” reactions to critical race theory, calling it “a false debate.”* She hit closer to home when she addressed New Hampshire’s passage “of what is effectively an anti-critical race theory law.” Speaking of New Hampshire teachers:

Some of them are very nervous and scared that if they are teaching about Black history, any aspect of it, someone’s watching them, might report them. They might lose their job… Those laws are very, very similar, eerily similar to the anti-literacy laws passed in the South in the 1830s to suppress Abolitionist literature… There’s a direct tie.

As a friend told me later on, her “calling out New Hampshire for its CRT law, and [its] chilling effect on education, was admirable… [I]f ever there was a call for action where someone asks ‘Is this still going on, and what can I do?’ that was it.”

In a tone that suggests something Baumgartner has repeated hundreds of times, she sighed that CRT “is not taught in elementary or high schools,” only “in law schools.” She said it twice.

At the risk of reading into her words, Baumgartner’s use of boogeyman suggests a belief that CRT has become a term to mean anything about race and discrimination, both present and past. As whites who complain about it are quick to claim, CRT makes their children “uncomfortable.”

Without her saying it, that may have been the most, well, uncomfortable echo in Baumgartner’s talk. Coming at the end of “I Will Be Heard,” it was a sharp reminder of what she said earlier of Daniel Laing Jr., an independent Black printer in Boston, likely one of Garrison’s apprentices though there is no record of it. His marriage was announced in The Liberator, if that helps.

Already renowned and respected as a printer of books and pamphlets that fueled the Abolitionist cause, Laing’s dream was to become a doctor. He and two other Black men entered Harvard Medical School in 1850 but were soon expelled after protests by Harvard’s faculty and other students.

According to the stated grievance, Laing and his two friends made Harvard’s white people “uncomfortable.”

Garrison would have been proud. Whether Laing was his apprentice or not, making people uncomfortable was his life’s work. Moreover, when all else fails, it’s a potent educational tool. But there were no failures in Baumgartner’s assessment of William Lloyd Garrison as a teacher, the role that made his most far reaching, if least known contribution toward a more perfect Union.


As a postscript to the lecture, and to this blog, Baumgartner was followed by five vocalists accompanied by one pianist sent by The Performing Project of Lawrence to sing a song of worship that two friends tell me is from the soundtrack of The Color Purple (1985). I still have figured out the song’s title, but I’m working on it, and will post, as soon as it comes, an answer to my query at:

http://performingproject.org/

Meanwhile, you can hear it on the video pasted below, starting at the 1:05:10 mark. If you can identify it, please let me know.

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*Applications of 19th Century laws to today’s gag orders and other curbs on discussion of climate change, reproductive rights, and gender issues in various Southern states are easy to make. Texas’ law offering $10,000 bounties for information on women seeking abortions could be modeled on the infamous Fugitive Slave Law.

Photo by Richard K. Lodge

Almanac Maniac

Almanacs have fascinated me since childhood.  Can’t pinpoint any item in one, much less a specific date, but my father’s addiction to newspapers made it happen.

Every day he brought home three Boston papers: The Globe, The Herald, and The Record-American.  Our hometown Lawrence Eagle-Tribune was flung onto our porch each afternoon.  And anytime we visited my mother’s family ten miles downriver, The Haverhill Gazette was sure to come home with us.

Summer vacations were never vacations from news.   My aunt and uncle  in Ohio subscribed to The Akron Beacon-Journal, which my father managed to read before they did each morning.  In the afternoon, he’d saunter down to a nearby store and return with the Cleveland Plain-Dealer.*

In New Hampshire’s White Mountains, he’d find, buy, and read The Manchester Union-Leader–even though he considered it an insult to the intelligence of anyone able to read.  “It’s important to know what they say,” he’d explain.

As I came of age in the mid-Sixties (with all that that implies), I’d inherent his addiction to news and agree with his assessment.  When I was 19, I was electrified to hear William Kunstler, trial lawyer for the Chicago 7, emphasize it in more blunt terms to a packed house in the Salem State College Auditorium:

“We must keep abreast of evil!”

Almanacs keep us abreast of good and evil, the comic and the tragic, hope and menace, the popular and the profound, and everything in between.

When I was young, I was more consumed by ornate trivia in the almanacs many newspapers carried under rubrics such as,  “This Date in History.” Weird entries such as, “1109–Rudolph the Rude of Romania arrives in Russia to marry Czar Raskolnikov’s daughter, Rubella, and claim her dowry of uranium, rubber, and recipes for rhubarb pies.”

No wonder they are usually placed on the comics pages. My amusement at such things lasts to this day, although, as I got older, I learned to use almanacs as a valuable source of ideas, as well as a resource for ideas I already have.  For example, while trying to make sense of the MAGA movement in recent years, it helps to spot the entries for the 1950s when McCarthyism gripped the nation.

Almanacs also remind us that extremism is not confined to any ideology any more than it is to either side of any border–as well as reminding us, much like any late-night comic, that it can offer the wildest comedy. For an example of both, here’s today’s entry in an almanac posted by a life-long friend who shares my fascination:

1951–Santa Claus and angels were banned in Hungary at Christmas this year. Pictures of tractors holding gifts would replace Santa Claus and his elves. It was not entirely clear why communist officials became so provoked at Saint Nick, but it seems that they could use some of his generosity.

I suspect that my friend himself added the commentary of the second sentence, as he did months ago when he added to the notice of Moby-Dick‘s publication in 1851 that someone named “Jack Garvey deserves an autographed copy.”

Be that as it may, I was, if not amused, bemused to learn that in the year of my birth, for my first Christmas, the Commies replaced Santa & his sleigh with pictures of tractors loaded with gifts. Sounds pathetic, but when pictured, it’s hilarious. Seems outrageous, but it’s nothing other than flat-out ridiculous when imagined in song:

You better watch out

You better not cry

You better not pout

I’m telling you why

Fat tractors are coming to town 

Other adaptations would include “Rudolph the Red Nose Sparkplug” and “I Saw Mommy Kissing Johnny Deere.”

Nonsense aside, I let very few days go by without seeing an almanac. Haven’t had many days of travel or hospitalization these past twenty years that I’ve been reading newspapers–not as many as my father, but enough–online rather than in print.

Before that, there were three summers that my daughter and I took ten-day vacations in Ontario to attend the theater festivals in Stratford and Niagara. We agreed that they would be “news holidays” as well. Before the curtains were drawn, we strolled the parks along the Avon River or overlooking Lake Ontario until finding benches where I’d read my Sinclair Lewis, and she her Anne of Green Gables.

On some summer day in 1991, I thought it enough that she pick up my addiction to reading.

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*My uncle rolled his eyes. More than once he asked what an afternoon edition would  have that a morning paper lacked.  Then came that hot summer day in 1966 when the entire state of Ohio was plunged into mourning. It began for us when my dad returned with a front-page banner headline in a font so large and thick we could have read it from across the street:  “Jim Brown Quits Football.”

In Central Maine, they may have found a compromise by putting Santa and Mrs. Santa on tractors that pull trailers stuffed with toys:
https://www.centralmaine.com/media/gallery/handsewn-santa-mrs-claus-driving-tractors-in-fairfield/