I’ve been digitizing old photos over the past few weeks. I have a ton of them. There’s no way I could save all of them in the event of a fire. I wouldn’t even want to. There are too many.
Walt Whitman’s lines “I am large, I contain multitudes” keep popping into my head. I’ve gone through so many phases in my nearly 60 years. I contain multitudes. We all do.
One theme I’m finding is that we (like everyone) mostly took photos on vacations and holidays. And there’s one vacation destination in Massachusetts that everyone knows: Cape Cod. It’s known simply as “the Cape.” (There’s another popular cape in Massachusetts, but that one gets referred to by its full name: Cape Ann.)
Cape Cod is where the Kennedys summered and it’s just one of those places that everyone in Massachusetts has memories of. If you didn’t have a friend with a house “down the Cape,” then you probably rented one or stayed in a Cape hotel at least a few times in your life.
My earliest memories of the Cape include barfing after eating scallops at Thompson’s Clam Bar, having my grandmother tell me that they thought I’d drowned when I went missing at the beach one day, and waiting for the sun to come out.
I’ve been lucky to visits “The Islands” many times too. (If you’re from Massachusetts, you know that The Islands are Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket.) But the Cape is where my earliest vacation memories happened.
I’m realizing that the places where our memories were made—where our lives have played out—are quite meaningful. They’re the settings for our stories.
The Cape, August 1970At the beach on Cape Cod, 1970, with my Italian grandmother in a bathing suit (a rare occurrence). I don’t remember how I hurt my knee, but I do remember wearing that huge bandage.
Sometimes your little life overlaps with historic events.
I’ve already written about the nation’s bicentennial and how I was there to see President Ford speak at the Old North Bridge in Concord in April 1976. I was ten.
I was reminded of another historic event while watching President Carter’s funeral this week—the Iranian hostage crisis (1979-81). American GenXers will remember this because it was such a BIG deal. Everyone knew about it. Yellow ribbons were everywhere.
In a nutshell: In November 1979, Iranian militants stormed the U.S. Embassy in Tehran, taking 52 American diplomats and citizens hostage, including Bill Keough, a former school superintendent in my town. The hostage takers were mad at the U.S. for supporting the deposed “Shah” of Iran.
They kept those poor people captive for 444(!) days—in very harsh conditions—led by the evil “Ayatollah Khomeini.” (Every GenXer knows how to say that guy’s name because it was on the news every single night.) Diplomatic efforts failed, and a U.S. military rescue mission, Operation Eagle Claw, ended in disaster in April 1980, killing eight servicemen. This severely damaged President Jimmy Carter’s administration and contributed to his loss in the 1980 election. The hostages were released on January 20, 1981, just minutes after Ronald Reagan’s inauguration, following the signing of the Algiers Accords (for which the Carter administration did all the legwork).
When the hostages were finally released, everyone watched with bated breath and there was widespread jubilation, especially in my town where we knew one of them! My high school marching band was invited to participate in a massive homecoming parade for Mr. Keough.
As one of the “goose-fleshed majorettes,” I mainly remember how COLD it was. I was 16, with not an ounce of fat on me, wearing a short little dress and holding a cold metal stick — in Massachusetts in FEBRUARY. Having recently compared notes with one of the “rosy-cheeked trumpeters,” I was reminded that our band director Mr. Toland made a last-minute decision to nix “The Empire Strikes Back” (one of our favorite numbers to perform) as we approached the grandstand. I guess he “read the room” and realized Darth Vader’s theme song was not the thing to play when celebrating triumph over the actual Evil Empire (Iran).
I was not political in high school. My parents didn’t talk much about politics (possibly because they were on opposite sides of the fence) and I cared way more about my hair than inflation or gas prices. But watching President Carter’s moving funeral, I was struck by how little credit he got for the hostage release. In The Boston Globe article above, Mr. Keough gave President Carter and his team full credit and gratitude for getting him home:
“Keough took the occasion, as he would again at a ceremony after the parade, to praise the handling of the hostage crisis by former President Jimmy Carter and his negotiating team “even in the face of personal disasters in their own careers.” “We are thankful that our President made the right decisions all along the way.” he said, adding his “eternal gratitude to the eight young men who died trying to rescue us and who will live in my memory and I hope in yours.”
GenX, if you didn’t get a chance to watch President Carter’s funeral and have time for only one clip, I suggest you watch President Ford’s eulogy, delivered by his son Steve. It’s hard to imagine that this level of grace and humility in politics existed in our lifetime.
Here I am in my skinny majorette days practicing with the marching band.
Stevens Coolidge House & Gardens in North Andover, Massachusetts
You gotta love a polar bear
I want to get some of these sphere lights for a tree near my driveway.
Shooting in 0.5x (ultra-wide lens) mode on iPhone gives a wider field of view but is available on the rear camera only, so you have to take a blind selfie (with the back of your phone facing you). It gives the photographer a very long arm.
It was in the low 20s last night on my son’s birthday, but we were dressed for it because we know how this works. It’s all about having the correct outerwear!
We added our wishes to a wishing tree. “Learn Italian without Trying” was my son’s.
Mine was the same as many others: 🌍☮️
All in all, a fun outing, but the lights were not quite as impressive as I’d hoped.
For some truly impressive winterlights, check out Brian’s post from Longwood Gardens in Pennsylvania.
Cyclists on the rail trail who don’t yield to pedestrians. They like to “thread the needle” through two pedestrians (or groups of pedestrians) walking in opposite directions, coming within inches of the walkers. Just wait until it’s safe to pass, jerk!
E-bikes on the (very flat) rail trail moving at top speed. Technically e-bikes are considered “non-motorized” vehicles, so they’re allowed, but they can go very fast and seem dangerous. Typically, the people choosing to use all the power their e-bikes have to offer are quite fat and should really be pedaling (in my opinion).
Anyone on the rail trail in MAGA gear. Honestly, just fuck off. This is Massachusetts.
How’s that? Angry enough for a Tuesday? Thanks WordPress. You finally let me answer the Daily Prompt and now I’m mad! 😡
I encountered a lot of naked despair, grief and anger at church today. I belong to a liberal Unitarian Universalist church outside of Boston. Many people were absolutely wrecked over the election results, including the minister.
We have many older members (I guess that includes me now at nearly 60) who have been fighting for all types of causes for decades, from the climate crisis to abortion. My church helped lead the marriage equality movement in Massachusetts. (We were the very first state in the country to legalize gay marriage in 2004–twenty years ago!) During the fight, our then minister refused to perform weddings in our beautiful historic church until same-sex marriage was legal. He really took a stand and it helped move things forward. Shortly after the law was passed, he married two longtime beloved church members—two women—in front of of the entire congregation. It was euphoric.
Anyway, I was doing OK at church, holding up pretty well, until the music director played John Lennon’s Imagine during the offertory. Oh man, hearing that just broke me (and a bunch of other people too). She was playing it beautifully on the grand piano (with no vocalist) but of course everyone in our congregation knows the words and was quietly singing along.
I love the ubiquitous clip of Amy Poehler and Maya Rudolph saying “sweater weather.” It’s dumb, but it makes me laugh every time. I think it’s because Amy Poehler is using an authentic Boston accent. She grew up two towns over from where I did.
It is, in fact, “sweater weather” in Massachusetts. And I’m very pleased to report that I wore a sweater out to lunch yesterday and did not regret it. Maybe my hot flashes are finally subsiding.
I am continuing to write letters and postcards to help get out the vote in swing states, but that will be ending soon. My extreme anger at the Trump movement has risen to the surface again. I’m really fucking pissed at everyone who voted for him in 2016 and/or 2020, including members of my own family (not my husband or my kids). And I truly HATE all of Trump’s Republican enablers in the GOP. My hatred extends to all the Republicans who don’t support him, but have strategically kept their mouths shut during this campaign. For example, my college classmate Jane Swift (former Governor of Massachusetts) has not said one thing in support of Harris. Fuck you Jane. Nobody cares about your daughter’s engagement ring. Post about something that actually matters. Be BRAVE, like Liz Cheney. Speaking of former Massachusetts Governors, where the fuck is Mitt Romney??!? He should be out campaigning for Harris. Bill Weld has been public about supporting Harris, but unfortunately nobody gives a shit about Bill Weld anymore.
19 more days.
I think I should stop watching the news and just watch videos of cats in sweaters for the next three weeks.
I think a lot of people in the Northeast (including me!) checked off “See the Northern Lights” from their buckets lists last night. This was especially rewarding for those of us who missed seeing them in May. Who knew our once-in-a-lifetime chance would come twice in one year?
The Northern Lights from my very own neighborhood last night around 7:15pm. I was on my way to choir practice and happened to look up.
This feels like a lot of things.
Remembrance
The lights and colors in the sky last night reminded me of my close friend from college, Carla, who died in 2022. She had brain cancer. She really wanted to see the Northern Lights before she died, but was too sick to travel, so her friends and family found a way to project them onto the ceiling in her bedroom in Santa Fe. It was beautiful.
A Sign
I know I’m not alone in feeling a lot of anxiety about the state of the country and the way it feels like we’re never going to go back to “normal” — no matter who wins the election. I’ve never in my life been afraid of a US election, but I’m afraid of this one.
Similarly, I never once saw the Northern Lights as a kid growing up in Massachusetts, but this year, many New Englanders saw them twice! A little girl standing near me last night said, “this is God.” Maybe so. Or maybe it’s a sign of transition to a new era—an era where completely new things happen.
Unknown new things are scary and I have a strong urge to “circle the wagons” and try to protect the ones I love. (I think to myself, “please stay in Massachusetts where you’ll maybe be a bit safer from gun violence, flooding, dangerous reproductive care, crappy public schools, etc.)
But I know that’s not really possible.
My new granddaughter will hopefully live into the next century. She will live out most of her life in this new era, whatever it may be. I want her to feel free, adventurous, and safe to explore the world beyond her home state.
Living in the transitional time
An activist friend of mine left for New Zealand yesterday. She’s staying until the end of the month. She said she just needed to get out of the country for these last few weeks before the election. I can relate. In some ways, it’s all just too much.
Maybe seeing the aurora borealis is the reminder some of us needed to center ourselves and live in the moment. Humans have been around a long time and have accomplished many great things and many terrible things. Even though it sometimes feels like end times are upon us, there’s a decent chance that something great is just around the corner too.
Now, the first of December was covered with snow So was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston Though the Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frostin’ With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go
That’s right. The Red Lion Inn is three years older than the United States. It was built the same year colonists were starting to get super annoyed with King George and dumped a bunch of tea in Boston Harbor.*
The Red Lion Inn in Stockbridge, Massachusetts is one of the oldest hotels in the USA. It started as a tavern in 1773.
We had dinner on the famous front porch of The Red Lion Inn last night and met some very interesting people, including two non-binary GenZ artists and a woman our age who is launching a solar farm business.
Interior view of the Red Lion tavern
Our room at The Red Lion Inn had to be locked and unlocked with an actual key 🔑
The Lost Lamb is a wonderful French patisserie in tiny, quaint downtown Stockbridge. I got both a chocolate croissant and a plain croissant with my café au lait.A pretty stained glass window in St. Paul’s Episcopal Church (est. 1834), which is directly across the street from Red Lion.
After a swim in the outdoor pool at Red Lion, we stopped for a delicious lunch at the Starving Artist Café in nearby Lee. We chatted with a woman from nearby Pittsfield, where I was born and spent the first three years of my life. Back then, everyone in Pittsfield (including my dad) worked for General Electric.
I don’t know why I hadn’t been back to this area in decades, but I will not wait so long to return. After lunch, we put on some James Taylor in the car and hopped on the turnpike back to Boston. The traffic gods were with me and I got home before 4pm.
A mural in downtown Lee
*The Boston Tea Party was a political protest by American colonists against British taxation policies. It occurred on December 16, 1773, in Boston, Massachusetts. Colonists, frustrated by the Tea Act—which allowed the British East India Company to sell tea directly to the colonies, effectively lowering the cost but undercutting colonial merchants—disguised themselves as Mohawk Indians and boarded British ships. They proceeded to dump 342 chests of tea into Boston Harbor. This act of defiance became a pivotal event leading up to the American Revolution.
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