My Favourite Month

Well not really. I haven't written this month here, but I have made audio recordings and a long-hand old style journal entry. Life goes on here in Juniata County. I feel as distant from Harrisburg as I did on the island as the kids are still hard to reach. My working roommates come and go at all hours, but are generally well mannered and respectful. We had one disagreement and I really do think one of them was trying to force me out, in that I have a nice furnished two rooms, good heat, my computer and a big cable TV.

I may be wrong. In any case the landlords young son Simon, 11, is now staying with us. He wanted to get away from his mother in Kentucky. Jason asked if I would help him with his homework. Well its beyond that, I make him breakfast and see him off to school and take him fishing and feed him when he gets home. His father works long hours for the railroad and told me he has little patience.

Some of Simon's friends already refer to me as the "nanny", in an odd twist of fate. But it gives me something to do. Mary says I am being abused. She has a problem that I see now-she has never been loved and sees human caring and protectiveness as some kind of weakness. Unless it is towards her of course. I think she is too cold and too demanding for me. Talk about the classic "Guilt Trip", to coin a phrase. I told her that I am a free spirit and that go where I please. She says that I can't. Don't tell me "can't".

The other reason that I haven't written is that my old PEI computer died. I bought this laptop on Ebay. Most all of my work and images are on line so I didn't lose much.

The good news today was that I heard from Shel. I had wrongly threatened to turn her into the RCMP for what is really a non-issue. I was very upset after an ice-cold email she sent that was just too much. I told her today that I am just glad that she is safe and happy and that I will leave her be. The awful part of it is that if she needed me, I would probably leave right now. Probably. After all she is still my family and shall remain so, I hope that over time we can at least establish a correspondence-that would be wonderful.

That all means that when I crossed the bridge into New Brunswick on December 3rd, that world and really a 20 year cycle came to an end. I have been amazed for all of my internet presence and writings, how few people I hear from, really hundreds whose lives I were in have simply vanished.

I have a few new DVD's I bought-one is the "Edge" with Anthony Hopkin's. The film is very hard for me to watch.

So I wait to decide my next life or Port 'O Call. We'll see as the winter wains and maybe my heart gladdens in a new horizon, always warmed by the fondest of memories-being truly in love. Maybe I will be myself again. Its been 5 years. Some may say longer.

Home in Appalachia

Waking up on a sub-zero morning here on the west bank of Susquehanna, among the ancient ridges and the valleys of the mountains beyond Blue Ridge I am home. In my last entry I tried in vain to explain my personal concept of home. Only someone who has spent his life in travels in work and play would understand. I have often joked that I have been in a plane, train, boat, or car going somewhere all of my life. Often I think it began in the now fading memories of trips with my family to Florida, the Canadian Maritimes, and Mexico as a very small child. Being to young to remember much of that in the 1950's I find my powerful memories near the place I am now.

My extended vacation on Prince Edward Island even after a few months in the past seems almost remote. The emotional voice of my Mary there, here accent and semi-inquisitive Eh? bringing me back to mackerel at my wharf in the fall, and her warmth, her cooking and simplicity. This is truly something to miss. After "having it all", I often tell those who may listen about the beauty of simplicity-true freedom sans materialism and the rush for ephemeral success among the harried and strained world.

I will from now on consider this home, the "Oriental House", as my young son might have called it, the "camp".
Son says it is much like Westline, the old inn there. Perhaps this is the southern camp and that the northern. Westline is so far north and west of here it is really beyond Appalachia in some sense. This is remarkably similar to the interior of PEI, without the forever nearby sea. Not so much the French "Up West" there, more like "Out east" near the stunningly beautiful country near East Point and North Lake. There when the weather is right, the Cape Breton highlands can be seen. From the sea the mountains at the end of this chain meet the ocean. That is an unforgettable scene, especially as to my first trip there with my family around 1960, and later trips with wife 2.

My fellow campers here are Jason who is a railroad supervisor. He is suffering a painful divorce in his mid-30's and here we have commonality. The other pair of residents are the "sons of Dixie" as I call them. Seemingly forever travellers from the deep south, they are working temporarily near Harrisburg. The whole crew speak in a charming drawl and show the scars of a less than satisfactory life. The pair are father and son that I suspect are on the trail together out of real need, but there is simple bonding there that is touching. It saddens me as I feel lost as I hear them talking quietly for hours at night in their bunks with a closeness which for years has eluded me for years with my own children. Of course I have my trips with Joey to Arizona's rim, and Westline. Both kids to the fish hatchery in Huntsdale, and my one trip with them to Island Beach Park, New Jersey. It was there I have a photograph of my father on the beach, with me. It was his last trip to that special place before he left us.

There is the single trip I took with my daughter to Pittsburgh in 2006. She was still a little girl then. But no more.

Today is Friday and some locals may gather. We play an odd gambling game at the rustic little bar-much like the Pine Tree Inn of old. We pass a box of dice and lie about our scores and bet a quarter. I guess that's called "liars poker". I am not very good at it.

The deadline approaching with Mary for a return, the elusivity of my children, and my sisters problems place my decisions on "place" outside soulful serenity. Yes, where your heart is. But when it is scattered to the winds, all points nearly of any reachable place, I must find root in the solace of memory. But perhaps the constant chase, as my mother asked "what am I running from?", was rooted in the travels she and my father provided before I can remember. Always happier with any new vista and mission, no matter how painful, I now must decide on a home for an extended period. The questions are beyond resolution today. But it is only Friday. The weekend at Turkey Ridge and Ox Mountain, Appalachia.

Oriental

So I write again. Here at the base of Turkey mountain I am home. Long last. The wood stove heats and my son and I just ate a 20 inch trout I found under a covered bridge by the house. And the Amish. All around they confirm but do not really satisfy my curiosity of the simple and plain life.

Many unpleasant mails from my distant non wife. Quiet. In the Appalachians we have quiet. Maybe beyond the island. I hope to make a study of this culture.

Joey my son was here today. Only 30 miles north of Harrisburg but a different world. I need time to learn this place and my son, my daughter.

The fact that I caught an amazing trout less than a mile away is telling. The little rural bar on the hill seems sad after the step dancing of my island life. I will wait.

The mountains here abound with game. And soon the warmth will return and I shall fish the streams of youth-and new places.

My dads guns now adorn the wall. Soon to be used again.