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manchester, nh and a few of its neighbors

I never realized the history that is Manchester, NH until I picked up the book AMOSKEAG by Tamara K Hareven & Randolph Langenbach. In it is written that “The Amoskeag Company founded the city of Manchester and dominated it over the entire century of its existence. There was hardly a person in Manchester between 1838, when construction began, and 1936, when the mills shut down, whose life was not in some way affected by the company.” www.manchesternh.gov

Tonight I’ll read about the Manchester I knew, and about the role the Amoskeag Millyard played in the lives of the many people who lived at the time when, “it was the world’s largest textile plant, employing up to seventeen thousand workers.” I wish those red brick factories that line the Merrimack River could tell the stories of those whose lives were impacted by the founding of the Amoskeag Mills in this American city.

The Manchester of today is changing. The once short restaurant list is now much longer, and folks don’t necessarily go to Boston for things that they “need”, and new businesses are opening, companies are locating here. Highways are being expanded, and homes are being built. And these days those solid red brick buildings have new occupants. But it was only a short time ago, or so it seems, when Thursday evening on Elm Street was a time for families and friends to shop together. They’d walk up one side of the street and down the other stopping at the small stores along the way. Woolworth’s was there – it had something for everyone-even if was just sitting at the long clean counter enjoying an ice cream soda. And there was The Puritan where folks would go before, during or after shopping often for a grilled English muffin with lots of butter, or a grilled tomato and cheese sandwich, a root beer float, a sundae, or a cup of coffee – there was something very pleasing about a cup of coffee in that small white cup at The Puritan. Then it happened – almost in the blink of an eye-that Elm Street became a lonely place as people drove toward the newly-built Mall of New Hampshire. www.puritanbackroom.com/history.php

Now, after all those years of lonliness, Elm Street is looking good. And, just as with the factories, once again it’s occupied with businesses. Manchester has a phenomenal location. It’s approximately (depending on traffic) one hour from Boston, from the coast of Maine, and from the White Mountains. And The Lakes Region are never forgotten with there many beautiful big lakes and small mountains. Wonderful places, including Concord, the capital of New Hampshire, are bustling, and its many small shops near the capitol and along the main street, are thisclose to Manchester. www.lakesregion.org www.winnipesaukee.com www.concordnhchamber.com www.visitwhitemountains.com www.visitmaine.com

And one hour north of Logan International Airport in Boston, and nearer to Manchester, is a grand New England Victorian hotel called Wentworth By The Sea in New Castle. It’s a AAA Four Diamond resort and it’s also a member of Historic Hotels of America due to the fact that at the end of the Russo-Japanese War in 1905, the Treaty of Portsmouth Conference was held there. The Portsmouth Peace Treaty was the result. Wentworth By the Sea Hotel & Spa is a beautiful place to be. If wending your way by car, be sure to stop at a good eating establishment for a delicious seafood meal.
www.wentworth.com/seacoast-nh

Have fun!

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the storyteller

Still she thinks of herself as a poor black girl living in the south before blacks and whites mingled. I say this because her past is always with her as those times seem to be more real than present day life. Since I’ve known her it’s been that way. Some things run real deep. She’s a good storyteller, and when I look at her I can vividly imagine that little girl back then in Arkansas. The stories she tells of that time will make you laugh, though some will bring a sense of acute sadness. My childhood was in New England and those stories never reached me.

I like her style of cooking. I think it’s changed just a little from her mother’s way. She makes corn bread every week, eats the greens of the south (gave up frying, but makes every attempt to recapture that taste by vigorous sauteeing). Her mother once took her and three of her siblings on a trip north to visit family, and she talks about seeing, for the first time in her young life, whites and blacks together. You feel in the telling of this that every fiber of her body relives the shock.

She didn’t marry a black man and didn’t stay in the south. She owns a nice three-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, has a big loving heart and, has what could be called, a good life. The value of money that was instilled then holds true now. Money or no money, she’s solidly frugal. I feel that keeping those stories alive is important because many people still haven’t grasped the enormity of what happened if you were black and living in the deep south at that time. From listening to her stories, a new understanding was very gently pounded into my head during my stay with her this year. Any new insight has the potential to shed new light on other areas of life. I thank her for that and for the loving person she’s become in spite of it all.

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mr. traveling man

I met Mr. Traveling Man in the beautiful mountainous area of Boquete in Panama a few years ago. We where both staying at Pension Marilos www.pension-marilos.com located a few blocks from the town’s center square. We’d go for long walks and long talks. We’d walk up into the mountains, or on a road leading to the pizza place, or to the factory to buy jam and then onward in another direction, or along a main road to a coffee plantation for a cup of Panama’s delicious coffee, or over the bridge to look at the beautiful flowers that are so plentiful in Boquete, esp. the orchids. And when it was time for dinner we’d go to a place in town for the usual tasty $3 dinner. This was the routine for two weeks until it was time for Mr. Traveling Man to leave.

He lived in South Carolina when he wasn’t on the road. His wife died two years earlier, and now he doesn’t want to live in the big, beautiful house he helped build. As we walked and talked he’d give me traveling tips. For instance, I should have a Bucklite knife, 3″ blade, with a plastic handle along with a small sharpening stone. And if I were ever sick to take 1 litre of water, 7 teaspoons of sugar and 1/2 teaspoon of salt for dehydration. Yes, bits of information that could be very helpful along the way. And as we walked he’d point to different parts of a house explaining, e.g. how a roof should be built in order to withstand Panama’s heavy rains, humidity and sun, and what kind of wood to use, the best draining system for the rains, etc. He had traveled a lot with his family, and, now alone, to what are called exotic places. Not for a second was he boring.

Mr. Traveling Man lives in Thailand now. On his way there he drove to California to finish some repairs on his adult daughter’s house and to spend time with her. Last year he married a beautiful, gracious Thai woman with two children, and has slipped easily into that lifestyle. He’s built a big, beautiful house in Thailand with his new wife, is eating his favorite foods, and enjoying life with his new family.

Mr. Traveling Man is in his seventies and seems to get stronger as he gets older. He’s living and loving it all, and since he has a love affair with Thailand, he’s in the right place. Traveling brings people to you that you’d not necessarily have the pleasure of meeting otherwise. Here’s to you, Mr. Traveling Man. Continue to enjoy it all.

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the hand shake in vilcabamba

Someone I saw only briefly continues to bring a sense of wonder to me when I think about him. I saw him in Vilcabamba, Ecuador as I sat on a mini bus waiting to go to Loja, a drive of an hour or so, depending on who’s driving. That morning I was an early passenger waiting for others to come aboard so that we could begin the ride from the valley. The bus would stop often to pick up more passengers, passing small old villages along the way. The ride from the valley around the mountains and its many sharp curves was a perfect way to start the day because there’s so much beauty everywhere.

The last person to board before leaving the Vilcabamba bus station was a ninety-five year old man. This I heard from another passenger. He had a full head of the blackest of black hair and as he stepped up he looked at the bus driver and shook his hand. As he came to the first passenger he continued the hand shake, and, while looking into the eyes of the one whose hand he was shaking, he said a few words in Spanish. I wish that I’d understood what he said. When he got to me, I noticed the most innocent of eyes as he stood before me. They were radiating kindness. Such kindness I’d never seen in eyes before. He sat quietly after the handshakes with a serene expression on his face, and when it was time for him to get off the bus he began again the handshakes.

I think I was in the presence of an angel. No one uttered a sound or complained about the time it took for two round-trip hand shakes. That day I knew I would always remember this special person. I cannot forget his radiant eyes and the way he looked at people as he approached each one, or the honesty in his handshake. Sometimes it’s the simple things at the most unexpected moments, that can make a day extraordinary. Someone unexpectedly enters your life for a brief time, and brings you to another kind of understanding about life and how it can be lived.

“The deeper the self-realization of a man, the more he influences the whole universe by his subtle spiritual vibrations, and the less he himself is affected by the phenomenal flux.” -Swami Sri Yukteswar

“Our ability to relax into life reflects our willingness to trust.” -anonymous

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those grand old nyc department stores

Once upon a time in Manhattan there existed elegant, old-world charm department stores. Then investors came on the scene who saw only money in their pockets, and not the beauty, and not the importance of keeping these wonderful places intact for the people living in and visiting this city. They  didn’t care that these buildings had their own special energy.  They ruined their essence with renovations and ideas that didn’t work, and then sold them when the profit they wanted was not realized. In the process, what was once grand was gone with the greed. I’m thinking of B. Altman & Co., Gimbel’s, Bonwit Teller, Franklin Simon.

B. Altman & Co. was located on 34th Street between Fifth and Madison Avenues. It was elegant throughout. The old beautiful water fountain ( it was not any old water fountain) was on the main floor, and had an ever-ready supply of drinking cups.  And all the floors had their own wonderful feeling, along with friendly, knowledgeable sales people who had been employed there for years. They knew the merchandise, and were thoroughly professional. If you weren’t sure what exactly you were looking for, they managed to find out for you.

The very large restaurant on the top floor was airily decorated with huge white birdcages hanging from the inordinately high ceilings. It was all white and had a dreamy feeling. The waitresses were always cordial. What a pleasure it was to be in that atmosphere.

Indeed, I remember the times when these special stores existed. I remember because lately I’ve heard people commenting about the sterility of many Manhattan neighborhoods. And started thinking of the many delightful small bookshops, the “mom and pop” places, and the wonderful, well-loved department stores that were once an important part of life in New York. I know change happens, especially in big cities, but maybe not to the extent that New Yorkers experience it. Ethnic groups arriving have always been a part of NYC,  and we get used to and enjoy what they bring,  and the old stands side-by-side with the new. That’s good; we learn from each other. But those elegant, old-world charm department stores, well, that’s an altogether different matter.

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ireland can sometimes be wet


Around the year 2002, I began traveling with lots of anxiety, lots of inexperience and a big suitcase. I took off into the friendly skies and headed for Ireland. I decided to go there for the simple reason that I had to make a decision, and, at that time in my traveling life, it seemed one place was as good as another. It’s a weak reason, but as it turned out, it was a good choice. I liked Ireland; the public transportation is efficient and convenient, English is spoken, Irish people are friendly and they are great storytellers, and there are stunning sites in Ireland. How can one go wrong? I’ll tell you how: not paying attention to the weather.

People would say, ‘Why didn’t you come last month? -That’s the best time.” Luckily, my hooded, long raincoat and a pair of shoes that could stand up to any downpour were perfect – most of the time. I will always remember Galway and Connemara for the times I was caught in heavy winds and buckets of rain. I was whipped into traveling shape with those experiences. And I remember exactly where I was when Venice popped into my mind. I was facing Galway Bay, walking from town to a B&B when the rains came. There was no place to go, and it felt like a beating. I was soaking wet, and when the worst was over I continued walking to the B&B. Along the way, I remembered reading about Venice in a thin book I’d bought at a shop in Galway, and I grabbed onto that thought. Venice? Why not?

I came through that traveling experience in Ireland intact, mostly due to the kindness of people I met along the way. Not that I made any effort to meet people. No. I was too busy keeping myself together dragging a big suitcase from one B&B place to another. The B&B package I’d bought Stateside made the trip a bit difficult because tourists from other countries had a similar package, and the owners of the B&Bs wanted money in hand, not a voucher. I don’t blame them. But because of this, I had to spent a lot of time on the phone inquiring about availability.

Maybe someday I’ll return to Ireland; it will be when the sun is shining, the days are warm, and people say, “You’re lucky. This is the best time to be here.”

www.abbeyleigh.net
www.buskerbrownes.com
www.kylemoreabbey.com
www.ontours.biz

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imagine

July 9, Saturday, was a perfect day to go to Strawberry FIelds. A steady stream of people, mostly tourists from many countries, strolled past and took pictures or sat quietly. A guitar player sitting on a bench steadily played the Beatles music. And I was surprised to see so many people staying to enjoy the stillness and the music. So, I sat and watched and stayed for a long time. A man in his thirties got up from time to time to rearrange the roses and remove any little leaf or paper that fell. I wondered whether he appointed himself caretaker of the area. I stayed because I didn’t feel like leaving that pocket of quietness. Pictures continued to be taken and when the guitarist played “Imagine All The People Living Life In Peace” we sang, we hummed, we reflected. I was so glad to be in this place at this time. It was a fine place to reflect on peace for our world.

A second guitarist arrived to play, and the one who’d been playing placed his guitar on the ground. I didn’t want to leave, but it was time. It was a lovely peaceful Saturday afternoon in Manhattan. And the peace was felt by all those who were there. And that’s very good.