2019: What I've learned from a year of pain, triumph, grief, hope

When I was a young(er) father, dealing with the outrage of our single-digit year old son and daughter about how this or that was not fair, I suspected trying to explain theologically, philosophically, metaphysically how this could possibly be so true in a universal -- yet not, ultimately, eternal -- sense, would simply confuse the heck out of their precious, beloved minds.

And on a recent trip to visit my grandchildren in Maryland, I saw the same learning curve on the Question of Fairness in play. Wheel do go 'round in circles, still.


It certainly had that effect on me. So, I simply repeated -- after each mean-spirited slight of another child toward them, or when one of them was convinced the other had more ice cream (as measured by teaspoons, I suspect), or the miscarriage of justice in both of them having to go to bed at the same time (despite the eons of difference between being 5 and 7!) -- that, "Life is not fair. It just is (life)."

OK, certainly not as profound as God declaring to the curious Moses that His Name was, "I AM that I AM."  Although, within the Mims household of the kids' youngest years, the debate certainly was as intense, if things are relative. (But of course, we know relativity, applied to questions of fairness, justice, and all the rest is also a plunge down the rabbit hole that lurks at the base of our finite minds; that's another conversation, though).

But no matter how "mature" we get, we always will have moments where our inner child flops on the ground, disconsolate, and cries, "This just isn't fair!"

When your 96-year-old father -- once a talented musician, bright of intellect, and example of Christian faith lived as much as he preached -- lives his final year in arthritic pain, stroke-induced dementia, and deafness that has you shouting "I love you in his ear," is that "fair?"  

Or, your 91-year-old mother -- once sharp-minded, funny, fiercely loving, and able to play the piano as if she were bleeding her vibrance into its keys -- lives her final years having lost cognition, memories, or even the ability to care for her most basic bodily functions? Again, not "fair."

I promise, this will not become a litany of "unfair" events or situations I've seen in 2019, or in my span of 66 years. Honestly, they pale compared to those endured by millions of others on this planet we call home. And truly, what makes any one of us immune to the sufferings, too-often self-imposed, that are common to human kind?

Life changes, every day, in ways dramatic and miniscule alike. We love, we lose; we delight, we suffer; we comfort, and we are comforted.

On Earth, we have what we have . . . measures of joy and mourning, triumph and disappointment, years of health and decline, opportunities to serve, heal and embrace, and to learn humility, by being served, being healed, being embraced.

Those things I have learned, either in 2019 itself, or through life-long experience and what illumination faith has provided to clarify, and expand in the past trip around Old Sol. Most important to me, as a believer, is that God is with those who call upon Him. Mostly, He sees us through the pain, disappointments, challenges, but does not deliver us from them.

Babies don't learn to crawl unless you put them down and beckon them. Toddlers don't walk successfully until they are released to step, fall, and get up again. And in the scope of Eternity, we have all just begun to crawl.

Even at 66 years old.

As you can, walking in the eternal, uncreated light, Love, unconditionally. Give, generously. Live each breath, each heartbeat, each second, minute, hour and year you have left in forgiveness, and gratitude.

May God bless your New Year with His Presence, in and through all things.

Prayer Walks: You never know what life, your feet, and faith, will bring you

I love to walk, to feel the blood pump through my legs and fresh air fill my lungs.

In warmer months, that happens in a T-shirt and shorts. In mid-December, with daytime temperatures in the mid-20s (F), that means warm socks, thick fleece pants, gloves, a sweater and a warm coat.

And lately, I combine the physical exercise with spiritual nourishment via recordings on my iPhone: maybe a monk reading from the Psalter, or Orthodox prayers chanted in Byzantine style by Eikona (http://www.eikona.com/prayers-for-orthodox-christians/), or podcasts from Ancient Faith Radio (https://www.ancientfaith.com).

Sure, I could walk on a treadmill in a nice warm Planet Fitness gym (I do have a free membership through AARP). But I like to feel like I'm actually going somewhere -- in both a linear and metaphysical sense.

Which (finally, thanks for waiting) brings me to the theme of this entry: You never know what life your feet, and faith, will bring you.

On Wednesday, for example, I was doing my few miles on the Jordan River Parkway when I came upon a young woman, in her late teens I would guess, sitting hunched over on the side of the trail. As I got closer, I could see the sadness, that look of hopelessness.

We've all been there. And we all remember how it feels. You look at the cold, gray skies -- and in this case the snow-covered Wasatch Mountains rising in the east -- and watch your breath as a wreath of mist, its warmth and hope gone before you can inhale again.

I couldn't just walk by. I mean, I probably could have done . . . but, for crying out loud, I had just heard a homily about the Good Samaritan through my earphones seconds earlier.

So . . . "Are you all right?" I asked, and tried to smile disarmingly. Shouldn't be too hard for a 66-year-old, gray-haired and -silver bearded, bundled up grandpa with a walking staff.

When she turned to look at me, her eyes were swollen, red, wet. "I live over there," she waived toward a residential treatment facility about a quarter-mile away. "I just needed some time to . . .", and her voice trailed off.

I stayed quiet. She looked back up. "I'm missing my parents. I can't reach them. I don't know how they are. They don't know how I am."

Loneliness is the worst, especially this time of year, when Christmas is so hyped as a time for love, gifts and everything bright, yada yada yada.

So, I told her to try to look at herself, from outside herself. "This feels awful now, but life changes, sometimes every time we just stop and look around. I get up, walk, sleep, and get up, and it's changed. Always. Sometimes not much and not for what seems a long time, but sometimes, you realize what hurt so much is yesterday, and today is new."

There was a glance of hope, or at least interest. She was listening for more.

"I lost both my parents this year. Just me and my sister left, and she's almost a thousand miles away," I shared. "I miss them very much, but I pray for them every day, and I know they pray for us."

I suggested that there are people who care about her, too. They may pray for her, they may think of her with love and concern, and that, too, is a prayer of sorts.

But we are not alone. Hope finds a way, and faith helps guide it within us.

"Things will get better, sooner or later. Trust it will, and until then, just do what you need to do to get where you need to be. God bless your day, young lady."

She nodded, sniffed, and seemed to calm a bit. "Thank you, sir." She took my hand and squeezed. We both smiled, and I resumed my trek.

Half an hour later, as I returned on the way home, she was gone. I whispered a prayer for God's mercy and protection for her.

And I wondered, had I done enough? I may never know the answer to that question.

What I did know, however, was that or this senior citizen, the day had a purpose.

Riches in Heaven: Or, how a tiny church in a poor New Mexico town makes a difference

Pastors Paul and Diane Hesch with inmate friends (Hesch photo)

My latest freelancing effort:

"On Sundays, pastor Paul L. Hesch tells the 60 congregants at Victory Life Church about the power of Christ’s love to bring the spiritual riches of faith, hope, and healing to the poverty-stricken community they call home.

For Hesch and pastoral partner and wife Diane, that home is Las Vegas — not the sprawling gambling hot spot in Nevada, but the economically challenged and historically rough-and-tumble city of 13,100 that straddles northwest New Mexico’s Gallinas River. The U. S. Census Bureau reports that 34.4 percent of local residents live at or below the poverty line, compared to the 12.7 percent of the overall U.S. population. . . . "

To read the rest of this story, click on this link: https://bit.ly/34UB2bK

Book review: The Divine Liturgy: When Heaven and Earth are one

As an Evangelical preacher's kid, Sunday worship was this: three drum-and-electric guitar and keyboard pop-rock worship songs, pulsing stage lights and haze from a smoke machine, a sermon and a quarterly and self-served "communion" of oyster crackers and grape juice.

Then, three years ago, I attended Divine Liturgy at an Eastern Orthodox church. I was inundated by the flickering light of candles, incense, icons, vestments, chants and singing, ancient prayers -- true reverence that engaged all the senses -- and stirred the spirit.

In "Orthodox Worship: A Living Continuity with the Synagogue, the Temple, and the Early Church," co-authored Benjamin D. Williams and the late Harold B. Anstall, I learned it was all that . . . and much, much more.

I experienced this work as Ancient Faith's newly updated, audiobook format (https://store.ancientfaith.com/orthodox-worship-audiobook/). At just under 6 and a half hours long, it was the perfect devotional companion for my daily walks.

Striding down forested trails flanked by meadows and streams, I was easily able to immerse myself in the history of how today's Orthodox Christian worship as a continuation, and fulfillment, of the Jewish temple and synagogue liturgical practices Christ's first disciples and apostles knew from their childhoods.

Deacon Kenneth Timothy's engaging and passionate narration conveys both authors' deep faith, as well as his own. In this way, the book becomes something more than words on a page or eBook reader; it is a conversation with a friend and spiritual brother.

This is a book aimed at the layperson, but no less complete in its theological exploration or attention to details of the Divine Liturgy's content and ancient symbolism and rituals, culminating in Holy Communion, the mystical yet real joining of heaven and earth in true worship.

The Divine Liturgy, at its inspired and best, is not a spiritual spectator's sport. To merely listen, occasionally make the sign of the cross, get in line for Eucharist and then leave unchanged within, is a tragic waste.

The blessing comes with participation, Williams and Anstall stress. Given the invitation for a foretaste of the Kingdom of God, along with the saints and angels, why would we not?

'What God can do with a worm,' says former addict-turned-pastor, is a miracle

Latest freelance story for me, this one on a remarkable couple helping the broken and addicted in Hawaii through faith, example, and humility. https://bit.ly/2OoEEN6

A poem: Of 2019, life's hallways, its memories, loss, faith and hope

The hallway is silent,

my heart is not.

It beats with blood, oxygen and memories,

of love, and loss,

dreams of reunion

anchored in

Eternity

Friends and kin,

grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, 

cousins and friends,

all have walked, some

resolute, some unsure,

these same worn, stained tiles

before me.

And opened that door.

Disappeared

From here,

to where?

Well, There.

Now, I approach 

that threshold

slowly, surely,

with resignation

of mortality;

and comfort of faith.

For below the door,

through the keyhole

Light . . .

And, I am not afraid.

---------------

*Don't freak, dear ones. Just a poem, reflections, as 2019, the year of mourning, nears an end.

Ignoring context, inventing meaning: True in both religion, and pop music

As a still fledgling Eastern Orthodox Christian (yes, three years since baptism, and I'm 66 -- but in the context of 2,000 years and counting for the ancient faith's history, I am still just a metaphorical  toddler), I've learned how important "traditions," both oral and those written down in ecumenical councils millennia past, are to seeing beyond the branches and leaves of the Tree to its strong trunk and deep roots.

That realization led me to reinterpret, and in some cases reject, particular assumptions of my Evangelical/Pentecostal upbringing. . . while still treasuring that background for providing me a foundational love for Christ himself. As a child, I learned my faith's supposedly truest expression was born in a 1906 "revival," where people spoke in tongues at a abandoned barn-like building on Azusa Street, which had been repurposed as a church.

Before 1906, with a few barely mentioned exceptions -- Martin Luther and the Protestant Reformation, and maybe an American frontier preacher or two like the evangelical reformers John and Charles Wesley -- Christianity had apparently gone dormant. You know, the Dark Ages and all that.

Traditions? A misunderstood and certainly satanic idea! The Church Fathers? Men and women saints and martyrs? Not important.

It (i.e., what was needful) was ALL in the Bible, and of course, that was just what you as an individual understood it to be; if your denomination's teachings offended you, make up your own -- and heck, start your own movement! You'd hardly be alone; rather, you'd just add to the thousands of competing offshoots already out there since Rome broke the East, and Luther with Rome.

All of that a long introduction to my realization today that, without context and historical, doctrinal and philosophical foundation, it's an all-too-human thing to make things up as we go along, and passing that along as "truth," validated only by repetition and fancy. 

The catalyst for my conclusion?  Why, "Puff the Magic Dragon," of course.



Since my 1970's high school years, I've KNOWN that Peter, Paul and Mary were (snicker, wink-wink) singing about weed. Heck, everyone knows that, right? Well . . . no, not according to Definition.org. Actually, the 1963 hit's lyrics were mined from a poem by Leonard Lipton, a friend of band member Peter Yarrow -- and it was simply about a child outgrowing his imaginary dragon friend, "Puff."


Click on that Definitions.org smart link above; the revelations (and disappointment, and maybe irritation born of misinterpretation) continue, including ballads and hits that had either more innocent, or far darker intended themes than they acquired in the popular hive mind.

R.E.M.'s "The One I Love?" Never meant to be the romantic ballad at all, lead singer Michael Stipe says. Really, only the title is misleading, he insists, adding that hit or not, the song almost didn't make recording because R.E.M. saw it as "too brutal . . . violent and awful." Lyrical hint: "(the lover sung about is) a simple prop to occupy my time."

Remember the Police's hit, "Every Breath You Take?" Not a love song at all, though it has been played at thousands of weddings s since its release in the 1980s). It really is a dark song about an obsessed stalker, says lead singer Sting.

There are many more examples of songs interpreted as both far more noble than they were intended to be, or alternatively raunchier than envisioned.

In other words, musical reflections of the sola scriptura mindset of the Protestant Reformation?

Or, it just could be me seeing an all-to-human tendency to ignore context in favor of seeing, as St. Paul wrote, "through a glass, darkly." 

Whatever. In faith, as in music, we do seem to (mis)interpret meaning and Truth through our own wishful/errant reflections, though.

The sun retreats, the ice creeps; of lakes and memories

A walk today around Decker Lake.

Actually, a couple circuits on an unseasonable cold (20 degrees) morning.

My fancy hearing aids allow audio streaming from my iPhone 7-plus, so I put on the Eikona recording of Orthodox Christian prayers and walked for the next hour.

Reminders of generations, petitioning the Divine
for forgiveness, mercy, understanding, and acceptance of weakness, made strong by faith and actions . . . however weak and seemingly ineffective.

Only two other people were on the pathway around the lake. To the East, the Wasatch Mountains towered, the first snow caps of autumn clear on a crisp, cold late-morning.

Ducks had waddled into the water further from shore, skidding across think sheet of translucent ice into the still-open waters.

Overhead, a vanguard of Canadian geese circled over the lake, seemingly discouraged by the encroaching bank ice, and flew further to the northwest. Seconds later, some 30 more geese, locked in triangular formations, followed their lead.

The skies were clear, a canopy of powder blue, and the sun, mockingly, shone bright but offered little warmth. A  breeze underscored the changing of seasons, so rapidly from autumn to the first chill breath of winter.

The brown leaves, just a month ago so vibrant and green, then for a glorious couple weeks golden and orange, lay at my feet -- brown, decaying and disintegrating.

It all reminded me of my parents. My father died in January, my mother passed in June.

I imagined the snow covering their graves in Eastern Washington, where it is colder, grayer, bleaker as brief autumn gives way to the arctic winds with a sigh this time of year.

As I listened to the prayers of the Ancient Faith, chanted over the millennia by the believing hopeful, I thought of Mom and Dad. Memories flowed,; and I tasted those still-warm recollections, resolute in my hope of safeguarding who they were.

And now, I am the earthly receptacle of those memories, so few, so precious, and so much of the quality of neuronic snapshots of the epics that were their lives.

Kyrie eleison.

Lord have mercy, indeed.

The Journey of Faith: Beyond 'Convertitis,' hopefully deeper in love and humility

It's been a couple years now since I left the Evangelical/Pentecostal upbringing of by childhood, and indeed, the faith foundation of most of my life, and was baptized an Orthodox Christian.

It was not a decision taken in haste, but after much introspection, study, and yes, prayer. The ensuing years since that life-altering choice has been glorious, painful, lonely, and also wonderful in the sense of a new family I've found at Sts. Peter and Paul Orthodox Church.

Like new convert to any faith, there is an initial period of zealous commitment. That is both good -- a joyful, all-in commitment to suddenly exploded horizons of belief and understanding -- and not so good, i.e. the temptation to vigorously "defend" one's new revelation of truth as not just closer to fully right, but to blithely dismiss anything "less" to be heretical, or at least inferior.

The late Fr. Seraphim Rose

The late Fr. Seraphim Rose, likely to someday be glorified as an Orthodox saint, called it "Convertitis."  He was particularly aware of the tendency toward criticism and self-righteousness. In summary, Rose saw such an attitude as a potentially fatal poison to the newly-acquired, precious ancient faith of the apostles.

From his notes for a proposed, but never published (that I could find) “Manual for Orthodox Converts," there is this pearl:

"Such attitudes are spiritually extremely dangerous. The person holding them is invariably in grave spiritual danger himself, and by uttering his mistaken, self-centered words he spreads the poison of rationalist criticism to others in the Church."

Thankfully, my experience with that new convert attitude faded quickly (but still too long, and yes, I confessed it). In a nutshell, I have known, in my 66 years on this planet, too many people of genuine intent and faith for me to presume to judge anything about their relationship with God. 

One can be convinced of one's faith, and its potential to grow in knowledge of the Truth, without judging another's journey.

To so the latter is to usurp the domain of the Divine, an error of ignorance, and a grievous sin. I've learned that the moment I presume to judge anyone's journey of faith, that is the time to confess, repent, and love. I know that . . . but I remain imperfect, and only more convinced of my shortfalls in love and humility whenever I even flirt with judgment.

Lord have mercy, indeed.

The point? Focus on your own faults, working out your own salvation. The best "witness" of the gospel for most of us is to simply live it, to love others . . . and to trust God to touch every heart where it happens to be on its unique journey -- whether dormant, just beginning, lost, or clinging to what they know, through pain, experience and love, to be the Truth.

Do I believe, with all my heart and soul, that the ancient church of Christ is preserved in its purest earthly, yet still imperfect form within Orthodoxy? I do.

But there is one judge of humankind's soul.

It ain't me. Or you.

Questions? Rather than arguments or theological debates, if you are interested in the ancient faith of Christ, I can only offer the advice I once received -- Come and See.

Painting my kitchen: It sure isn't art, but a lesson in humility

Painting, Pablo Picasso said, "is just another way of keeping a diary." 

Vincent Van Gogh, a preacher's kid, like me, declared that, "painting is a faith, and it imposes the duty to disregard public opinion."

Let's face it; they were both at least not of this world, if not just plain crazy. So, there's that. And if they were talking about house painting, well, certifiably insane.

I sing of the paint brush dripping, not the body electric. (Sorry, Walt Whitman). But this is my brush. The kitchen of our condominium, its paint faded and spattered from past cooking experiments, is the "canvas."

But even if I had the skills of a professional interiors painter, this would not approach art. One coat should have sufficed, but then there were the drips. So, there was the second and third coat. At least the prep -- sanding and taping -- kept the new paint (mostly) within bounds.

Ah, you should have hired a professional, you say? Sure, the result would have been better, no doubt. But if you are retired, $1,100 to freshen up a kitchen just doesn't convince.

So, a second or third coat, whatever it takes.

That's how I roll. Which actually is more to the point. I should have rolled the paint on, my wife shared (with a bit too much glee, however subdued), not used a brush.

So, this is me, watching paint dry. And thinking I just may have to roll, if I want to rock this project.

Another lesson in humility. We Eastern Orthodox Christians are told one can never get too much of that.

Writing: Still love it, and thank God, still got it

After spending more than 40 years as a reporter and editing in news wire service and newspapers, I produced, on average, at least one story a day. On one wild, dizzying, heart-thumping day a few years ago, I had 17 bylined articles.

Crazy, that. And far as I know, still a Salt Lake Tribune staff record. But what was I trying to prove that day? What was one more story about squatters starting an abandoned house in fire, or another 7-Eleven holdup?

Idiotic, I eventually, decided. And yet, I didn't know that, a year and a half after getting the ax in the massive downsizing at the Tribune in May 2018, some vestige of that drive would still be defining a portion of my self-worth.

There's a rush when you report, interview and then write up and hit the send button on a story. From the first time I experienced that feeling -- at age 20,working up piece about local farmers hunting rattlesnakes in central Washington -- to my last feature for the Tribune, about the last few octogenarian monks at a remote Trappist monastery, I guess I took that fix of accomplishment for granted.

In my semi-retirement since, I've done some occasional online magazine articles and copyedited a few books. But it had been months since my last gig. A few weeks ago, I started having nightmares where I would sit down to write, only to discover I had lost the ability to find the lead, compose a narrative, or even do an interview.

It was an anxiety that rode my shoulders into awakening, a couple times at 2 a.m., and haunted me when I finally got another assignment. What if the dream was not just than groundless fears?

Today was judgment day. Having done the interviews and research for a new assignment, I sat down to write. When I identified the lead -- in this case contrasting the hard work of Romanian immigrants in building a community of faith in Portland, Oregon, with the success of their American-born children building on that -- I felt a physical wave of relief.

Really. The endorphines kicked in. Shoulder knots relaxed. A budding migraine faded. I took a deep breath, a gulp of home-brewed dark roast java, and soon found the "nut graph," transition to background and a secondary source, and . . . the rest flowed!

The subsequent "polishing" and "tightening" of the piece, grammar and spelling tweaks, and even the task of providing of Web hot links were not tedious chores; they were like making literary love.

Yeah, I smiled to myself. Still got it.

Thanks for that, God. My hair is gray and thinning, my waist a memory, my knees tyrannical, and the days of hitting 3-pointers off a pull-up jumper from the top of the key are ancient history . . . but I can still read, write, and wonder.

The Cruise: A visit to hallowed ground, and going home

On Saturday, our final day of cruise vacation, we checked our cabin to be sure all has been packed away in our airline carry-on bags. The night before, we had labeled and tagged our checked luggage, and by the time we had our final breakfast aboard Anthem of the Seas, they had been loaded onto our group's bus.

With that, we headed down the gangplank to the pier and boarded the bus for the New York City finale: a mostly walking tour of (or what's left of, about a block) Little Italy, Tribeca, Greenwich Village, Soho, Union Square and Washington Square parks; the weird yet impressive Oculus, a  mammoth combination train-subway terminal and retail shops and office complex; and what I most wanted to visit -- the 9/11 Memorial grounds, where honor is paid to the 3,000 who perished in the 2001 terrorist attacks that destroyed the World Trade Center's Twin Towers.

The bittersweet, yet also oddly comforting heart of the site has to be the Reflecting Absence Memorial, the largest man-made waterfall.

Encircled above by the names of the victims inscribed in bronze on the parapets, some marked with birthday flowers; the water disappears into darkness, symbolic of the void left in the souls of families, countrymen and survivors alike.

By hopeful and defiant contrast, above looms the new One World Trade Center, better known as the Freedom Tower -- at 1,776 feet the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere. Plans eventually call for the "Ground Zero" complex to include, in all, five high-rise office buildings.

We did not see Central Park, a tentatively planned stop on the final tour; Manhattan's horrible traffic made that impossible, as the bus driver ended up getting us to JFK with little time to spare for lugging our bags through the airport's labyrinthine terminals to finally board our plane home to Utah.

After a half-hour's delay once more on the tarmac -- a bookend of flight frustration as it were -- we finally lifted off. It was near Sunday morning when, happy but exhausted, we landed in Salt Lake City, retrieved our luggage and got a lift home from our ride-share friend, Big Jim Coleman.

Be it ever so humble -- and to some, by comparison to the Big Apple mundane -- there truly is no place like home.

The Cruise: New Brunswick, the Bay of Fundy and the case of the reversing waterfall

Caves on beach at Bay of Fundy

Day 8 arrived, and Barbara and I splurged on room service coffee, tea, oatmeal and yogurt, watching the sun swell from the Atlantic horizon, adding color to the gray scale of dawn.

The good ship Anthem of the Seas had arrived in the night at Canada's third-largest port and largest ship-builder, St. John, New Brunswick. Of greater interest to us, however, was the Bay of Fundy, home to the world's highest tides . . . and the prospect of seeing the St. John River reverse its course, and its falls flow backward with the Atlantic pushing into the bay with such force that the tides rise more than 40 feet during a roughly six-hour cycle.

Sue: best guide ever

Our colonial dress-clad, moose hat-wearing guide, Sue, was proud of her Scottish-Irish heritage, and an avuncular, (fast) walking encyclopedia of facts about her "town" of 67,000 souls.

Historically, St. John's is Canada's first incorporated city; when the British lost the American Revolution, it also became refuge and new home for loyalists fleeing the fledgling U.S.A.; riots in the 1840-60 era, between Protestant Scots, Anglican Brits and an influx of Irish Catholics were rampant; and the Fire of 1877 blackened 40 percent of the city.

Today, St. John is a city amid revitalization downtown, and slow, considered suburban growth further out. It seems, with its garden-quality medians, clean streets and thriving arts community -- and some uncharacteristic (these days) community pride -- a great place to live.

One (I suppose) tartan-wearing fly in the chowder would be its high tax rates. The Canadian government's social welfare and single-payer national health insurance comes with a price, and the Province and municipality add their own demands. All told, more than 50 percent in taxes on income, Sue told us.

As for the culinary brand of chowder, we had the best we ever tasted at the tiny Bay of Fundy village  of St. Martins. Then we took a long walk on the beach to some ancient caves; nearby colorful fishing boats rested on wooden cradles in the low-tide mud, awaiting the rising of the inbound Atlantic to get them afloat.

Our Irish balladeer

Back in St. John, we stopped at an Irish pub, packed with customers and welcomed as guests with glasses of golden,  Moosehead lager while a middle-aged Irish balladeer sang folk songs imported from the Emerald Isle itself.  (Sue, fueled by her own ale and her moose-antlers hat firmly affixed to her gray locks, laughed and danced behind our Hibernian crooner.)

The outing concluded with the promised incoming high tide. And sure enough, there it was: the St. John River reversing its course, its many waterfalls disappearing to flow upstream as the Bay of Fundy swelled.


So, sometimes, boys and girls, water does run uphill.

And that is kind of encouraging for those of us unwilling enlisted by the unrelenting passage of time within the ranks of the malodorous, yet revered Scots Order of Auld Fairts.

(*Next: Back in the Big Apple, on the way home)

The Cruise: A day at sea, and perspective from on high

The North Star gondola in action (Royal Caribbean)

Day 7, a full day at sea for Barbara, me, and 5,000 or so our of shipmates on the Anthem of the Seas.

This is a day for us to catch our travelers' breath, and inhale, full-lunged the breezes coming off the Atlantic. The ocean is choppy this day, its energy stirred by the vestiges of yet another tropical storm further to the south. The play of white, gray and slate clouds, darting seagulls, the roar of the water as the ship plows onward, and the intermittent sunlight dancing on the whitecaps are mesmerizing.

Barbara and I get in our Fitbit steps, and then some, walking the top deck circuit, joyfully exposed to the elements. By late-morning, we queue up for our reserved ride in the ship's North Star observation gondola.

North Star: 300 feet up

The glass-enclosed capsule fits about a dozen people, including our host, a tall young Scot who amiably chats with us.

He also gives us the facts: Adding in the 150 feet or so of the ship itself from ocean to top deck, the North Star -- rising on its steel arm above the deck -- will give us a view of the ocean from 300-feet plus above sea level.

 Heights are not my thing. Elevators are fine, as long as it doesn't involve looking through a glass floor; observation decks on tall buildings, which sway in the wind, or the precipice of the Grand Canyon, however, again -- not my thing.

Heights: Barb loves, me not much

The things we do for love. And Barbara loves this stuff. So, there I was, gripping the handrails and moving ever-so-carefully as the North Star growled to its apex. The view from on high was impressive (when I was able to suspend visions of cracking glass, a wailing, hard, short fall, and the crunch of spine and skull just before The Darkness).

Barbara? All smiles,"ooohs" and "ahhs." Had the gondola been open, she'd have been leaning out and laughing.

Back on deck, it was another stroll, pausing to claim deck chairs for quiet and the Atlantic horizon. Then we took a few minutes to watch other seniors relive childhood behind the wheels of electric bumper cars.

Seeing a silver-haired octogenarian burst into laughter after hunting down and slamming into another bumper car driver is . . . uniquely amusing, as it is something of a tear in the Time-Space Continuum.

Dinner, conversation with others in our group, a leisurely amble back to our room, and sipping a glass of red wine (that was for one; Barb does not imbibe) on the patio as darkness fell.

I watched the light fade to where only the white caps fluttered into view, touched briefly by moon beams. Such are the moments best expressed with a simple, deep sigh.

(*Next: New Brunswick, the Bay of Fundy and the case of the reversing waterfall).

A day at sea

The Cruise: Halifax and Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia

Day 6. So quickly have we passed the midpoint of our Royal Caribbean cruise of the Northeast Coast, having arrived in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Halifax is no small city, with a population in excess of 400,000, and it is a major economic and commercial center, benefiting from its shipbuilding and deep harbor (or, "harbour," in their Queen's English parlance). But it is Nova Scotia's stubborn grip on its (surprise!) Scottish heritage culturally, its maritime history and prominence, and mesmerizing. beautiful coastline that brings in the tourists (and cruise ships).

Halifax also has its share of historical tragedy. Consider that while the survivors of the 1912 Titanic disaster were taken to New York, the recovered dead were taken to Halifax. One hundred and twenty-one of them were buried at the Canadian city's Fairview Cemetery, another 29 buried in other grave sites within Halifax.

Then, just five years later, in December 1917, a French munitions ship collided with a smaller supply ship in a narrow harbor passage. The munitions ship blew apart in an explosion said to be the largest man-made blast until the testing of nuclear weapons. Two-thousand people died and 9,000 were injured in Halifax, where all buildings within an 800-meter radius were leveled.

All of this sad history was shared by our tour guide, and we came to appreciate his pride in "Haligonian" (nope, not Halifaxian) resilience. Thank God, the somber bit soon gave way to the present, vibrant city, and then a leisurely stop at Peggy's Cove, a tiny (year-round population of 30) fishing village with world-famous lighthouse and eye-popping North Atlantic scenery.

Unresolved is how Peggy's Cove got its name. Some say it comes from St. Margaret's Bay, of which it is a part; another is that it simply got it's name from an early settler.

But most popular is the legend conveyed in Felix LeRoy Perry's poem,
"Peggy of the Cove."

There’s a lighthouse on the coast

about a hour’s drive from here

Built on the famous rocky cliffs

Familiar to those far and near.

Tis sad but true that many a ship

Have floundered on her treacherous reef

Some even say those silent gray rocks

Are washed with widow’s pure grief.

Now in this a wee fishing village

The people simple, hardworking and plain

Frustrated watched one such shipwreck

Helpless hearts filled with pain

It seemed no one could have survived.

But in the morn’s first dismal early light

They heard a little girl crying

She was such a wee pitiful sight

Though no one knew her name

She became one of their own.

Someone called the child Peggy

The village gave her a home.

Now friends when the waves crash,

To this very day across that cold rock

Some say you oft hear the spirits voices

Of that girl’s poor parents talk.

They smile at the kind fishermen

Who in deep waters must rove

God bless all the good people

In the village of Peggy’s Cove…

The Cruise: Bar Harbor (i.e. "Bah Hah-bah"), and Acadia National Park by horse drawn wagon

While Portland was a welcome segue to a slower, friendlier and more pleasant travel experience after the urban madness of NYC and Boston, Bar Harbor (that's "Bah Hah-bah" in northern Maine) was the epitome of New England charm, scenic vistas and an early, idyllic autumn.

Bar Harbor would be the only port of call that required "tender" boats (passenger ferries/excursion craft) to take us from ship to shore, where we had booked a combination bus and horse-drawn carriage tour of Acadia National Park.

Barbara and I were agreed: that Monday, when the weather broke to breezy, sunlight and clouds amid the lush forests and rocky coastlines of the North Atlantic, proved a perfect day.

On the back of an open-air carriage, the pine-scented air blessing us with rivulets of nature's perfume, the sight of the swaying branches, and rhythmic jostling of the ride, the sound of the horses hooves in a relaxed clip-clop . . . what a way to explore the beautiful forests, lakes, streams, and stone bridges of the region. (Video below)

Our guide and narrator was well-versed in local lore, happy to engage in light-hearted banter with the riders. The carriage roads, nearly 60 miles in all, were the brainchild of avid horseman John D. Rockefeller Jr., who wanted to retain the peaceful transit free of the encroaching automobile. The whole system, employing hundreds of engineers, stone masons, quarrymen and other laborers, began in 1913 and wasn't finished until 1940.

Almost all (45 miles) of the crushed-stone road system, still car- and bus-free, now belongs to the park, donated by the Rockefeller family. Our carriage ride hosts (Wildwood Stables) operates as a private business with a long-running concession to run the carriage trips on the park land.

(*Next up: Halifax, Nova Scotia, and Peggy's Cove)

The Cruise: Maine's Portland and lighthouses

Portland, Maine: Casco Bay

Day 4 found us in Portland, Maine, quickly chasing the rainy, humid and rushed tourist hell of Boston (almost) out of mind.

Maine is supposed to be part of New England, too, but except for the peculiarity denizens of the region have for screwing up the "R" sound (it's a pronounced, "Ahr," and they know it's odd: even saw street signs outside bars and diners boasting of "Clam Chowdah" and "Lobstah Rolls"), I'm not getting the comparison to Britannia. Maybe there's a dialect there in the U.K. somewhere similar? Dunno.

For sure, though, the courtesy and approach to life (slower, friendlier and even in the urban settings cleaner, far less crowded) of the Pine Tree State is to Boston what a bottle of Perrier is to Flint, Michigan's tap water.

Barbara and I opted for a three-hour tour by bus and walking, leaving the ship's gangway about 8:30 a.m. The theme: lighthouses, structures than have long enchanted Barbara, and eventually made me a convert as well. Three representative lighthouses were on the agenda: the so-called "Bug Light," the "Spring Point Ledge Lighthouse," and the "Portland Head Light." 

Careful: A rocky walk to Bug Lighthouse

Even had a "lobstah roll" for lunch. *Thing about lobster, that big spider of the sea, is that unless it is slathered with butter, lemon and garlic, or in this case all those ingredients AND about quarter cup of mayonnaise on a toasted, split-top bun. . . it's pretty much tasteless by itself.

But that said, and with the savory, albeit unhealthy additions, it was tasty. And personally, anything that involves flash-boiling ocean-bottom crawling arachnids? That really doesn't bother me much. (Too big to step on or spray with Raid? Boiling is just fine!)

Back to the lighthouses. Their history of keeping sailors safe from wrecks, and the engineering involved, make them noteworthy enough.

But throw in the breathtaking scenery of ocean waves, rocky beaches, the feeling of salt spray on your face, and the scent of brine and kelp carried by fresh air . . . well, that's a sensory experience rivaling a doggone epiphany.

Spring Point Ledge Lighthouse

Our tour also included the Liberty Ship Memorial. The shipyards at South Portland built nearly 300 of these WWII cargo and troop ships. The fleet of these mass-produced, no frills ships (about 2,700 in all) were launched on a British design by American industry, likely saving our British and Soviet allies while supplying and ferrying our G.I.s fighting the Japanese.

(Next up: Bar Harbor (a.k.a. "Bah Hahbah," Maine).