2009 Comes Out Swinging

Well, let's get the ironic bit out of the way first.

As indicated previously I love getting about and seeing things happen - occasionally being a part of them, making no claims to any kind of objectivity or reportorial detachment.

This compulsion led me out into the cold very close to Midnight and the change of the year.  The plan was to phone from the square as the numbers changed, saying "hello" to C.

Which would have worked had I remembered to bring my phone.  Obviously I was too concerned with getting my camera in my pocket to pocket my phone.

So the moment passed, as so many do.  

This did leave me free to wander around the center of town, behind the Art Museum to see its circle of magic stones, though the wrought-iron gate that only led me back onto the street and not to the usual strange places it has before.  Even magic portals (there are several in the city, which I'll write about at some point) seemed to be shut down because of the cold.

And thus back to Bosnia, the empty lot next to Geno's Rock Bar.  My intention was to brave the Usual Crowd of Smokers, stop in and wave at J.R., the owner, and a couple of the bouncers, big guys like me.

Us big guys need to stick together.

But the Usual Crowd of Smokers suddenly billowed out in front of me, flowing toward me along the icy sidewalk.  More came out of the door and we all gave room.  I tried to dash past but the footing was too risky, too many feet were mushing the snow into soup.

Then the doors flew open again and a couple of guys fell through, locked in combat, hugging with one arm, sucker-punching with the other.  They stood in the doorway for a moment, a violent tableaux and then dragged each other back into the warmth of Geno's foyer.

Hell, I'd hate to be bleeding in that kind of cold too.  I don't blame them for heading back inside.

I had to get across the street and barely made it before two cars full of PPD officers arrived, lights flashing.

Needless to say my first shot had a flash and I was instantly on the police radar - fortunately I managed to get my camera hidden and assume my best "no-one here but us chickens" face - not easy to do in a subzero windchill.  The next shot used the "underwater" setting and is posted above.

Oh, just like the end of "Casey At the Bat" I am aware that I had friends dancing delicious tangos in Montreal, enjoying the Winter Carnival in lovely surroundings.  Other friends were home with beloved animals and a cold beer.  Yet others were at hot jam sessions near the Empire Dine and Dance or home tucking grandchildren into bed after celebrating the New Year with them.

I was standing on a corner taking pictures of the outside of a bar fight.

So the immediate evidence suggests that in 2009 my life may well be the "wild Indian" saga that it's always been, that I'll wind up investigating magic doorways and gritty incidents rather than doing things that make other people feel safe with me.

Maybe the difference is that I'm not going to worry about it anymore.

At least, not for now.

The Longest Night of the Year

This winter feels different than others in recent memory and the feeling is a very interesting thing to contemplate.

Doing this blog brings thoughts from deep inside up to the light of conscious regard.  I know this night - longest of the year - is as far as I can go in darkness.  From here on out the days will get longer, slowly but surely.

I don't have to go in tomorrow - my schedule is very light for the next few days.  I do have a show to try to video but I'm not quite sure how to manage it.  We may well cancel it anyway.

Therefore it's tempting to stay up till dawn, to walk the watches of this longest night and to give space to the quiet thoughts from deep inside.

Still, those thoughts are already close at hand.  Spending so much time writing - both music and words - has called them up where I can think about them - cursing myself with a meta-sense of what's going on inside.

I like where I'm getting to.  I know I have occasional anxieties and sometimes they overwhelm me.  I wonder if my financial choices will work out.  I wonder if not going back to teaching was the right thing to do.  I wonder if my composing will get to where I want it to be.  I wonder if all my friendships are being well-served by my actions.  I wonder is working at the Orchard will let me be who I want to be.

The clarity of these questions - and the meta-sense of my feelings about them - are very close on a night like this.

There is another storm coming.  They're saying we could get almost sixteen inches of new snow on Sunday - only fifty-five minutes away at this point.  They're saying another storm is on the way Sunday night.

The snowfall will begin sometime in the next few hours.

Outside the cars are cleared off; some are surrounded by small snowbanks from not having been moved since last night's storm.  My car is in the garage and it's staying there.

The windchill is down to one below zero.

I suppose the biggest change is this: in years past I would have consciously wondered "how did we get here" but know, deep inside, every step Nature took to make this change.

Now I can describe that process and the capacity to see and create with that knowledge has changed what I know about what I see.

On this - the longest night of the year.

Election Day 4 - 6:45 a.m.

The nice lady invited us all inside.

The line gratefully shuffled forward.

So now I set my chair up by the entrance to the basketball court.

I've blogged about this space  before and it has very pleasant memories.  You can see the line of voting booths far and away on the other side of the room.

Now, as the moment approached and more people came into the lobby - where we weren't allowed to lobby, so KO had to be switched off - you could feel an energy building - well, I could, anyway.

Over on the wall was a big map of the city, with all the voting districts laid out on it.  KT and I checked it out and located our respective houses, comparing them with the various voting districts.  

I was still foolish enough to think I could get some kind of net access and would sit in my chair at the front of the line trying to take notes and update this blog, my Facebook - anything.

It didn't really happen.

About 6:55 I started packing up the chair - with KT's help - she really is a classy lassie - rolling up the sleeping bag liner, putting away the electronics and getting ready to do my civic duty.

With one minute to go the precinct manager signaled me - and the line - to head down to a tape line at the end of the stanchion and wait for instructions.

Last time I was challenged by a rat-faced little squirt - I had my camera and a mental thesaurus filled with clever invective in case it happened again.

But, (sadly) it didn't.  I was waved ahead into the proper A-L line, my name checked off - didn't even need my birth certificate - I was handed two large ballots and away I went to the middle booth.  KT went to one on the end of the line.

Marking the ballot took all of ninety seconds and I'd like to take this moment to thank all of my teachers, students and mentors for teaching me to read and think - and, come to think of it, my Dad, for almost getting his skinny Cherokee ass shot blown off in WWII and making it possible for me to vote.

That's a whole 'nother story.

So, with my job done I went to the little robot machine to place in my votes - when one more responsibility came to me.  The precinct manager said that before I could put my ballots in the slot I had to swear the counter said "zero" and sign a paper to that effect.

I had to put my reading lenses on and placed my ballots on the top.  The manager covered them with his hand so that the votes could not be seen and that - that simple act - is when I think I fell in love with this country all over again.

Funny - though not surprising - I still can't share the story - and have, over the past few hours - without tearing up.  That simple gesture of respect says more about what is important about this entire process - this entire country - this entire world - than anything I can conjure up.

Needless to say KT and I shook hands - high-fiving might have been a little arch - and headed out the door.  I wanted to scream and shout.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to sing.

Suddenly I mostly wanted to eat some breakfast.  Had to run to the store.  Had to get some kitty food.

The sun was rising over the Expo - maybe, maybe, maybe by this time tomorrow the sun of a new - or old - political life will break over the horizon of America.

We shall see.

We shall see.

Election Day 2 - 5:00 a.m.

My back is getting cold - a wind has come up from the direction of the water - lights coming on inside the Expo.  At 5:15 or so the busses leave the garage on St. John Street, a line that breaks up at the corner (shown here), some heading left out Park, some straight to Woodfords, some turning right toward me, heading intown on Park, no riders.

The driver waves at me while passing, seems a little bemused.

I'm hoping this election becomes something transformative.  I called my Dad last night, told him to vote and thanked him for serving in WWII so that I could do so.  Driving down by the American Legion Post, thinking of the old drum corps that used to practice here.

All of it driven by a shared experience of overcoming a threat - everyone working toward a common, agreed goal - even if the motivations and experiences that defined it were radically different.

I've gotten phone calls, emails, chatted on the street, with friends from here and all over the world.  All of them committed to electing Sen. Obama, all of them desperate to have a representative government they could be proud of.

As I've been fond of quoting "it's not that America isn't ready for a black president - is it ready for an intelligent president?"

My hope is this - we will be a different, more committed society because of working together for this critical event.  We will know each other better, trust each other more, work together more effectively to solve whatever problems we are given to face.

Despite its kneejerk conservatism the American Legion and other groups got their strength from the common experience, common mindset of their members.  That lasted a long, long time until the changes of society and reality - and their incapacity to evolve - doomed them to fade into history.

Perhaps a society committed to adaptation to change will have the flexibility to grow and nurture itself.

I've been joined by someone ....

Children's Crusade

MobileMe Gallery is here.  Some pix slightly blurred out of courtesy.

As an ex-public school teacher with a very wide circle of very intelligent friends I've been of two minds about homeschooled kids - or, more specifically, their parents.

There are two types - those who opt out of the public school system for religious reasons.  I'm too liberal not to be biased (go figure - I'm full of contradictions).

And those who opt out for pedagogical reasons.

Now that I'm free of the political considerations imposed by a tax-supported paycheck - and professional courtesy - I can admit that I'm completely sympatico with parents whose kids were simply not served by the strictures the warehousing concepts some schools demand of students and teachers.

Not everyone learns the same way - or in the same order.  Not everything a school district thinks is important is shared by the people inside it.

I hadn't really thought of this until walking back from my JavaNet Window - and stumbled on a group of about 25 home-schooled kids holding an impromptu rally for Barack Obama in the town square, usually a space reserved for the Farmer's Market and fresh produce.

Apparently there was one young lady forbidden from phoning the Obama campaign - so they compromised by letting her organize a rally in Monument Square.

Compromise is at the heart of the American Experience.  Ben Franklin said that "New nations come into the world like "illegitimate" (not his term) children - one part compromise, one part improvise".

It is a wise group of parents that let their kids experience the full measure of our public life letting them freeze their toes off in the central square of the town getting honked at by strangers.

I phoned the local paper and a T.V. station but I don't think any coverage resulted.  Their loss.

I'm sitting in Mousse, having a coffee and thinking about how I wish I could still teach music if teaching could be like what those children were experiencing.  I suppose that my work with the Multi-Age groups really was it - and, pointedly, most of us are now out of the business of working in big time public education.

Big time public education's loss, I think.

Great job, kids.

I think I'll vote for "that one" for president too.

Rainy Market

What a difference a season can make.

Back what seems like an eternity ago I posted from this right here spot about how lovely the Farmer's Market was.

The post is here.

Now, past the one-third point in October, there is a vastly different feel to the Market.  It's rainy, people are layered, with heavy caps, some wearing gloves, some with Bean Boots, all leaning against the push of the wind, all damp with the blowing rain.

Just over half the usual compliment of farmers are selling in the square.  I think it's partly the weather but mostly I think it's the ending of the harvest.  When the Brussels sprouts (I wonder if the Belgians have Portland sprouts?) come in then you know we're near the end of the season.

There is a Harvest Festival this weekend - I'm tempted to be a part of the 5K run they're hosting - but this one involves taking part in a meal at the end of each third of the race - I'm not sure my "level of training" will take the stress - put another way I'm just as liable to lose whatever I eat as hang onto it.

Beer especially.

Working part-time has its liabilities - cash flow, health insurance, that kind of thing - still, when asked I'm able to reply "keeping body and soul together - mostly soul".

This is not a bad state of affairs.  For good or ill I have spent years - over two decades - trying to meet the expectations of other people, with my own needs kind of sandwiched in along the side.  Being able to do so - well, if not wisely - was a modestly lucrative way to support my life.

So, now, with so much more time - and so much less money - I find I am able take time to hear myself, to listen to others.  It's rather like how one's eyes adjust to turning off the lights in a room - you adjust and then detail begins to appear.

I recommended the same trick to my music students - to go outside late, late at night when the sound of business and obnoxious life have died away - your ears begin to hear more and more as the dull roar of classroom machinery - air conditioning, vacuum cleaners, clocks and whatnot - dies away.  You can hear cars in the far distance, crickets, deer in the woods.  

The sound of each individual wave striking the shore.

And finally this bears fruit when looking at the Market.  

So much more is there than was present back when I first started down this path.  People seem more interesting - they way they walk, they way they bend over to ask or answer questions.  The wind blows the tents, some of them threaten to take off flying - a team of helpers hold onto a tent labeled "pastured pork".

More things to see, less to look at - two women with five one-gallon jugs of cider between them, chatting, warm in the middle of the wind and rain.

It's pretty certain that I would have seen all of this back when the weather was warm and summer frocks were everywhere in the Square - somehow I find this a lot more amenable - new things that I've never had time to see when teaching.

Perhaps the greatest gift is time.  That and a good pair of Bean Boots.

...and the vampires got special mention

I don't have the happiest history with sporting events, which history I've written about here.

So when my friend A. suggested I take part in the Reiche International 5k Road Race it didn't take a hard sell.  I've been meaning to move deeper into a skill my father had back after WW II.

He had met another young Native man while serving on the U.S.S. Altamaha in the Pacific.  Dad's friend showed him some running tricks he'd picked up while on the UCLA track team - and years later, when I was 8 or so, Dad showed them to me.

It was in the early Fifties - before I was born - that the film crew for "Jim Thorpe: All-American" came to Bacone College outside of Muskogee - my Dad's junior college home - to film it as the Carlisle Indian Academy.

This was Burt Lancaster's first real starring role and quite a coup for Oklahoma film-making.

So here was a race, using the Bacone's track team to stand in for Carlisle and my dad as part of the background action.

I've seen this race on T.V. when I was a little boy.  Dad didn't watch with me very often, we just didn't have the same taste, but I do remember him sitting beside me for this film, clear as day.

So, in the film the gun goes off and Jim Thorpe (Lancaster) goes flying around the track to demonstrate his obvious prowess to Pop Warner.  There's a whole history right there.

However, when it was filmed it played out differently.

Dad being Dad - and little has changed in the intervening 6 decades - he took off flying at the gun and basically dusted the whole field in the race.  Won it fair and square.

Needless to say the director, Micheal Curtiz (yes, that Micheal Curtiz) called "cut" amid general laughter and appreciative applause.  It fell to him to explain to Dad "kid that was great but you do understand that Burt Lancaster has to win the race, right?"

Oh - so the shot was reset and in the can as you see it in the film.

As a side point the technical director was head of track and field at UCLA (you see where this is going, don't you ...) and he was kind enough to comment on Dad's technique.  This brought up the young man from the Navy and there they were, talking and comparing notes about the war and everything else.

Funny how all these things work out, isn't it?

So I come by it legitimately - and not just the running (as those of you who know me well can attest).

The Reiche International also had a costume section - actually I started the race in that group as it was patently obvious that some real greyhounds were going to burn up the street.  I shared it with the Mommy group and all of us were in front of the walkers and little kids.

Oh - as were the fairies, dancers, witches and the vampire family - son, dad and mom (who did a 5 klick walk in a red sheath dress slit up to here - I just happened to notice).

So, all told it was a hoot.  I suspect that, just like my life had changed by working at the Orchard, things will shift over to allow this new activity to bring out even more energy, just like tango has.

We shall see.

Bay City Rollers

Facebook Gallery is here.

It's hard to write about roller derby.

Don't think it's because of a lack of thoughts.  It's more that my morning coffee hasn't kicked in yet.  And the Moody Blues are just a singer in a rock and roll band - singing really loudly over my shoulder.

Gotta love a good backbeat.

Anyway a tango pal of mine is a member of the "varsity" team of Maine Roller Derby - the MRD Port Authority.  The Junior Varsity is the Calamity Janes.  Either way they're a tough bunch I'd rather have on my side in any bar fight.  Any really good bar fight.  I think, by definition any bar fight you're lucky enough to share with a roller derby team is going to go down in memory as a really good bar fight.

But that's just me.

In the clear light of a Wednesday morning - some two weeks later, comma - in my customary POV at Mousse coffee shop, it seems like a very strange dream.

My good friend C. (Chief the Wonderdog's mommy) joined me, quickly lamenting leaving her camera (she is a formidable photographer) back at home.  Fortunately, if not discreetly, I made it a point to state that I wasn't going to see this many women wailing on each other without having some kind of photographic record.

The Calamity Janes were up against Skate Free of Die, from just over the line in New Hamsha'.

C. had never been to roller derby before - we've all seen it (or think we've seen it) on T.V. and everyone remembers Raquel Welch in Kansas City Bomber (well, I do, anyway).  This was flat track roller derby, with the track laid out on the floor of the Expo with very, very hard-stressed blue tape.

Our guys - gals - whatever - came in from the sides, Indian fashion (OK, I'll let that one pass) to the strains of "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly" (Ennio Morricone probably will never know ...).  Then both sides took the court (or the piste, or whatever) and a demonstration began.

This happened in place, the two teams showing how jammers picked up points by passing the peloton (I don't know how many more sports I can mix up into this).  It was kind of cute, skating in place while also showing the different kinds of legal blocks.

It could also have pretty much been my entire description of the game, since Portland then proceeded to skate the everliving wheels off New Hampshire.

It gave you a chance to experience the beauty, grace, power and sheer majesty of the game because there really was no contest - our girls did us proud.

The players all have great noms-de-guerre; Itsy Bitsy Spider and Sugar Bush were our two most outstanding Jammers for the night but pretty much all the girls got a shot to score points.  Lot's of dramatic makeup, lot's of dramatic grandstanding - a lot of fishnets.

Over in the "end zone" was a large beer garden, the only part of the stands that was really full.  "Rowdy" would have been three shades of understatement - this crowd was liquored up, hyped, over-sexed and very, very well contained by really, really big bouncers in the entrances.  The real highlight of the evening was watching 300 drunks try to do the wave without falling off the back of the bleachers.

My god, it was glorious.

Long story short - we totally sucked out New Hampshire by an incredible tally of 241 to 14.  The only real competitive excitement came when the basketball-style scoreboard passed its designed limit of 199 points and reset Portland's score back to "0".  That's when we showed our class and started cheering for Skate Free or Die to try to catch up with the home team.

Sadly this magnanimous gesture was wasted - Portland still won the game, 241 to 14.  It wasn't even close.

It wasn't even close by a long chalk.

So, what did we learn by going to Maine Roller Derby?

We learned that fishnets on big mean women are oddly interesting.

We learned that bouncers are there for a reason - safety and rescue, mostly.

We learned that everyone can have a good time just watching people have fun.

We learned that Jim Alberty is slow as molasses on a winter morning when it comes to keeping this blog current.

So, it was a total hoot.  Glad I was there and if I have time (as I tend to work on the weekends) I'm going back.

C. has declared she wants to try out.  

Wow.

Steel That Goes Left, Steel That Goes Right

MobileMe gallery is here.

Thanks to my job in the Orchard I've got gallery space on MobileMe.  This has several advantages - the best being that I don't have a 60 picture limit per gallery.  The next is that it provides several ways to view pictures.

If you use the link - and a lot of this won't make sense if you don't - look in the lower-left corner of the page and you'll see two or three options for viewing the pix.

Pick the one that seems best to you - I like "mosaic" as it's easier to read - and "carousel" because it's so cool.  

The speed and results depend on the processor in your computer.  Results will vary but the pix are still fun.

The last time I walked the lost rail lines surrounding Portland I was led to the area down by the Fore River, the switching yards of the old Grand Trunk railroad.  It had an air of energy past, of time out of mind.

I thought it was really cool.

This next foray into urban exploration started with a bus trip out to Woodford's Corner, where a Guilford Railway freight line cuts right through one of the four busiest intersections of the town.  A single train at the wrong time can freeze almost every East-West artery in the City.

I think it's really cool.

These rails are neat.  They're something I've wanted to walk for a long time, having caught my attention for their singular activty.  Only the Downeaster train to Boston seems to have an equal burst of railroad energy.

They lead South from the Corner, trees overhead creating a quiet tunnel behind solid two-story homes in the Woodford's area.  Out of courtesy I paid no attention to the houses - also avoiding being seen "looking" at private residences from their back yards.  I'm sure I'm suspicious looking enough just on general principals and have no wish to be stopped by the cops for "walking while Native American" (WWNA).

The first third-mile was cool, under a rich canopy of elm trees.  With such a warm day and so much sun I could almost fool myself into thinking it was still August and Summer was still in charge of the world.

The right-of-way makes a marked swing from the Fore River South side of town to the inland Woodfords  West Side (or "more westerly").  This meant the rails bent to the left as I walked forward and back to the right when I looked backward.

Very strange angle indeed.

My only company on this part was a gray squirrel, posing on the branch of an elm sapling.  We stood and regarded each other for a several minutes.

This is no exaggeration.  Neither one of us seemed to have any pressing engagements and neither one of us seemed to be particularly upset by the other's presence.

The line crosses several neighborhood streets; there were folks out sweeping sidewalks of early leaf falls, trimming driveways, in one case putting their lawnmower away, perhaps for the season.

Like all things the green roof of leaves had to give way to a more industrial feel.  The rails came out of the Woodford's area and crossed Brighton Ave. between Punky's Sandwiches and the town Water Works.

My understanding is that "back in the day" this line was used by the famous "Bethel Ski Train" which would take needlessly overpriveledged college kids up from Boston to the Inn at Bethel for "Holiday Inn" type skiing vacations.

You can see the evidence of a second track.  That missing track space is now and impromptu support road, bordered by rusting  sets of rails hidden in the adjacent grass.  Some of them are substantially rusted - but a lot of them are not bent to the angle of the right of way, so I'm not sure what purpose they have besides storage.

The greatest impression I have is one of constant use. This track is well-worn and well-maintained.

The gravel ballast supporting the track has a ringing, thumping feel to it, like you're walking on concrete over a deep trench.  The repeated packing by the massive weights of train after train has made it like a drum, echoing and hollow sounding.

The difference between this and the sad, neglected remains of the Grand Trunk yard gave me a sense of curiosity, a need to see trains go by and feel the energy of the trains passing by.

This part of the line is somewhat isolated.  Smaller tract-type houses replace the solid Victorian homes of the Woodford's area.  On the other side, the right, were garages and company truck yards, more ioslated and impersonal.

Far ahead was the overpass for I-295, a six-lane interstate slashing across the city.  Against its brief darkness I could see figures lounging on the walls of the bridge, bikes and beers littering the side.

This was possibility that I had considered when working out this jaunt.  The best thing to do was look for quick exits, tuck my digital minicam into my opposite pocket and saunter my way through.

Which I did.  It looked like a small party of mixed kids and adults, related, I thought. sitting around drinking beers and hanging out on a warm day.  We treasure them up here and they are rapidly ending; I didn't blame them for taking advantage of this one.

"Just lookin' at shit" I grunted while walking by.  They smiled and saluted me with their cans of Bud.

Actually a beer looked kind of good.

You know, now I think of it, perhaps this next section should have its own post.  There is a special neatness to it all and I want to get it right.

The First Evening of Autumn

I have crossed the Rubicon - taken steps into a new place and I have to say I really have had fun while doing it.

So, here I am at Blue, waiting for a dessert I can neither stomach or afford, really - the only part of me  being fed is my soul.

Outside - not only tonight but back to Wednesday - the evenings have become cooler, the air stiffening, becoming more crisp.

The picture here barely captures the complexity of sunsets against the high clouds of the early evening.  

I am drawn to walk the streets of the town, listening as the wind in the leaves becomes a drier, more complex sound.  

The sound calls the magic at the center of my soul, calls it closer to the surface of my face, makes it glow more richly in my eyes.  People see it, I'm convinced they do.  Friends join hands in their hearts with me, we become co-conspirators - we pass around melancholy and boisterousness in equal measures, like we're drinking amber wine from shared goatskin.

You never know quite what is going to happen at this time of year.  The leaves are preparing to change, Nature is taking a great deep breath as it prepares for Fall.

We opened the Orchard this morning - I will write about that later, the memories are still not formed yet, all I would do is describe what happened and the whirlwind of meanings would be lost.

All told I am grateful for what has happened.  It is so hard to just accept it, to breathe it in.  I had a moment of pointless, selfish distress yesterday - what saved me was the wonderful thought: "just be here with your friends, just be here.  The rest will come."  

And that saved me.  The shocking truth was that I needed to just be there - be myself and be present and the rest would settle out.

Well, I suppose I should finish up - tomorrow will be another day and I need to get some rest.

Rails in Rust and Grass

Facebook gallery is here.

As noted elsewhere I have a fascination with old rail lines - spikes, rails, bridges, ladders, engines and other detritus.

My favorite summer job was in the 1975 where I supported myself in marching with the Valiant Knights of Enid, OK by working for the local Kiwanis club.  

My task was to help rebuild a huge miniature railroad in Meadowlake Park in the South of Enid.  The line had been washed away by a flood the Summer before and our job was to restore it.

The man in charge was a crusty old ex-railman named Bill Haney.  You could tell he had worked his way around the West by swinging a sledge and had the work ethic of a man whose paycheck grew based on how much steel he laid in the course of a day.

We didn't stand around a lot.

The neat thing was Bill's insistence that we make it "look pretty" - that just getting the job done shouldn't be enough.  There was more to this than the paycheck.  Or, more precisely, the cash he doled out at the end of each day.  

Now that I think of it it strikes me that maybe he was trying to teach us something, pass on wisdom as an elder - or a father - conscious or not. I never heard that there was a "Mrs. Bill Haney" - I'm sure there probably was and I'm equally sure that it's no damned business of mine.

Still, he made it a point to give us a chance to do really good work.  Maybe I learned more from that job than I thought.  The Valiant Knights won second place in the 1975 VFW nationals in LA that year, though everyone else was at DCI in Philadelphia, the first PBS broadcast - but my first thought, when my parents came to collect me afterwards, was to take them to ride on that silly train.

I still think well of the experience - a Google satellite photo is here.  You can just make out the train line.

Perhaps this is a reflection of the fascination with trains I've had since childhood.  

I suppose it all served to move me to head down to the Fore River waterfront - the part along Commercial Street that has no lobster pounds, no boat chandleries, no antique shops - the part that has pretty much nothing but scrub growth and rusting metal left from it's days as a switching yard for the Grand Trunk Railroad.

A warm day, a very clear day.  The railyard lies below the level of Commercial Street, next to the river.  One rusted spur leads to a gas tank farm but I don't see that it's been used in a long, long time.  Looking close at the rails will show one set with just a touch less rust.  Just a touch.

You can see where multiple lines used to be.  Certain sections twist and turn - one striking section is a series of "S" curves.  

The yard expands out for a quarter-mile - then condenses again, down by the Merril Docks, heading under Route One and the Veteran's Bridge.  The bridge pilings are covered in impressive graffiti - lost declarative artworks seen only by other taggers, wharf rats and the occasional nosy-parker with a camera and a free afternoon.

I wonder at how much traffic those lines must have carried - they represent a substantial infrastructural investment.  And now they are falling to ruin - I'd say "seed" if they weren't all made of cast steel.

Set aside the question of what we have gained or lost by industrialization.  Just think about the good work of the ones who laid that rail, who made it "look pretty".

I wonder at what Bill Haney would have said about it.