And so I polish...

by Mary Reiman

Today I polished a spoon. You might think I have a rather boring life. Maybe. I have had several (OK…many) moments of feeling catatonic in the last few weeks. But this is more cathartic. In some ways the spoon has the touch of a worry stone. A place to go to find calm. I could hardly put words together for the short segment of our group blog last weekend. I was feeling motionless. 

I believe this silverware came to me for a reason when I found these pieces deep in a box last week.

The spoon with the R on the handle was a family piece. A well-worn family piece left behind after cleaning out the farmhouse. I am finding serenity by focusing on this simple act of polishing.  

Reflecting on one thing leads to another when thinking about the past. 

My trip to Iowa last weekend took me back to the family, the land, the memories. It just happened to be Veterans Day weekend that included a visit to the cemetery to honor Dad, a WWII veteran who served from 1942 until the end of the war in 1945. He went into the Army when he was 21 years old. Like so many, he never talked about those years, and mom told us not to ask.  I often wonder how much he shared with her. 

Recently, thanks to the families of others in the 748th Tank Battalion posting their stories online, we are now piecing together his story…history. 

Instead of going directly overseas after basic training in 1942, Dad was part of a unit sent to the Arizona desert to be trained on the use of the British-developed Canal Defence Light or CDL. Over 9,000 soldiers were sworn to secrecy about the project. This light would be attached to tanks for the purpose of disorienting approaching enemy troops and it needed to be tested before use.  They were told they were being trained with a weapon that was going to change the course of the war. Unfortunately, after months of testing, the light did not work as the military had hoped. It was never tested in battle, but it did get used during the war for security and illumination, especially when they were crossing rivers. Dad’s unit was in the desert from July, 1943, until March, 1944. 

Their battalion landed in Europe on April 6th, 1944. After arriving on Utah Beach, Dad drove a truck at night, in the dark, through enemy territory in France, Germany and Austria. His friend’s documentation described what they saw, and how they kept going in spite of what they saw. I now have a better understanding of why dad never talked about it. He was a private in the Army. And he was private about that experience forever after.

I wonder what mom and dad would say about the state of our nation today. Patriotism is defined as ‘love for your country and loyalty towards it.’ A definition currently interpreted in so many ways. 

With each journal I read, I find clarity in Dad’s life story. Do I wish I had known sooner? Yes, but maybe we learn more when we are meant to learn more. Maybe gaining more knowledge of the past will help me more clearly define patriotism, loyalty and courage. 

I feel there is much to wonder about, to worry about…and so I polish.

Reflections on Post-Election Mayhem

THE HARD WORK AHEAD
JOANNE YOUNG

We always knew, didn’t we, that electing a woman to be president would be hard work. We hoped it wouldn’t be this hard. We know the benefits. We know their capabilities. It’s harder than we thought. Even so, Kamala Harris said after Tuesday’s setback that the fight will continue.

If I don’t see a woman in the Oval Office in my lifetime, at least I will know that we fought for it, and to hell with those who stood in our way.

In the meantime, I will choose to fight locally. Historically, local efforts have been a key to keeping democracy alive.

“If people have more of a foothold in their own communities, they are then more likely to support the kinds of legislation that supports the community:  education, health care, you know. And that may be the future of democracy, if not a national democracy,” says historian Heather Cox Richardson.

There are many politicians here making important decisions for us – people being elected to the state Legislature, for example, that is stuck with a stagnant minority of women, around 30 percent, if we’re lucky. With the recent election, six of those women will be Democrats, one an Independent, and seven will be Republicans, including Kathleen Kauth, who will continue her work on a bill that would define K-12 school locker rooms, bathrooms and sporting teams as either male or female, based on a student’s sex at birth, and Tanya Storer, who has vowed to “attack the woke left”.

Our Legislature has 15 Democrats and one Independent, again, less than one-third of the 49 senators. Historically, the diversity has also been woeful.

I’ll also mention that all six of the state elected executive offices are held by Republican white men, some of whom continually try to subvert the rights of women, children and the electorate.

We have hard work ahead. But hard work is good work and can be joyful work, Harris said. And the fight for our country and state and community is always worth it.

It is always worth it.

***

WHITE HOT ANGER
MARILYN MOORE

I’m trying, really trying, to bring some order, some thoughtfulness, some peace of mind to this post-election time.  I’ve tuned out of the news…I do not need, nor want, to hear boasting, bragging, blaming, fault-finding.  I’ve taken lots of long walks, good for the soul, good to counter the excessive leftover Halloween candy bars I’m eating.  I’ve spent time with friends; we’ve commiserated, laughed, cried, and sat in quiet contemplation of a horror too great to put into words.  I’ve sent checks to organizations that amplify my voice.  I’ve sent checks to organizations that meet the basic needs of members of our community; the demands for their services will only increase in the coming years.  I’ve tried to identify the issues I care about most, the ones about which I’ll be especially watchful and outspoken in the coming years.

 But with all those reasonable, rational, somewhat indulgent responses, I have to admit that deep within me is a white-hot anger, a huge WTF? trying to get out.  And sometimes that anger is not deep within at all; it’s right at the surface, as evidence by the WTF.  That is language I do not use…and there are moments now that I want to stand on the front step and shout it out to the universe. The anger is that once again, a truly competent, capable, and well-prepared woman has been defeated by a man that is none of those things.  And that in the process, he bullied, he belittled, he threatened.  Especially women.  The language in this election has coarsened our society (see the endless repetitions of Your Body, My Choice said by men about women), and it will not easily nor quickly be diminished.  This dangerous language, which denigrates women, will be what our daughters and granddaughters and nieces and great nieces and all women, young and old, of color and white, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, of every education and income level, will live with for years to come.  And that makes me very angry.

***

10.5
MARY REIMAN

On November 1^st, NPR reported ‘More than $10 billion has been spent on ads in the 2024 election.’

“Altogether, $10.5 billion has been spent on campaign ads in the 2024 election cycle, on races from president down to county commissioner, according to data compiled by the ad-tracking firm AdImpact and analyzed by NPR. That total is up $1 billion from four years ago.”

10.5 billion dollars.

What purpose did those ads serve? Did we not know who we planned to vote for by October 1^st, when it seems an extraordinary abundance of vicious ads began rolling across our screens, whether through television, newspaper, or social media.

$10,500,000,000

A few million could have been used for one week (I would prefer one day only) of campaign commercials. The rest should have been used to provide food, shelter, healthcare in our communities. There are so many ways our country could be a better place for all.

***

WALKING THE LINE BETWEEN LIGHT AND DARK....
MARY KAY ROTH

 I barely pulled myself out of bed Wednesday morning but my dog, Pip, was blissfully unaware of the previous day’s nightmarish election.  So, we walked and marveled that the sun did actually rise – quite beautifully.

Nature has always calmed my rawest tears and fears. 

Meanwhile I’m also calmed by actually doing something tangible. Subsequently, last week I gave money to the ACLU and OutNebraska. Subscribed to a few national publications that bravely covered the campaign. Started exploring meaningful local initiatives. Held my loved ones close.

I’m truly gutted, reading conflicting analysis of what happened Tuesday, trying to comprehend the thick, black Sharpie line that divides our country.  

I actually worked the polls this election for the very first time, a 14-hour day with nary a confrontation and record numbers of voters.  My favorites were the first-time voters and most especially brand-new citizens who so proudly announced their delight in voting – as poll workers handed them ballots and applauded.  

In those moments I was feeling so good about democracy – I’ll absolutely work the polls again,

Today, however, I’m wondering about those migrant voters.  Legal or not, I’m terrified for them, as well as other underserved, marginalized humans of different gender orientations, racial identities.

My grown kids and I cried together a few days after the election.  My son pointed out that our family – middle class with privilege – may have our ethics crushed over the coming four years but will likely not be harmed significantly.

The question that looms large for me is whether those of us with privilege will be willing to stand up for those without – in a toxic climate that could put us at risk.

Yes, I’ll continue to bask in the golden light of sunrises. But I’ll also be asking myself if I have the courage to do battle with the dark. As the days have passed, I’m not really questioning who we are as a nation. Instead, I’m asking myself, “Who am I and what am I willing to do?”  

I’ll know, sooner than later.

***

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF DOG!
PENNY COSTELLO

In 1996, I moved to Lincoln, Nebraska from Minneapolis to be with my partner, Kate. As a single mom, she put herself through law school, became an attorney, and began her 38-year career as a legislative staffer in the Nebraska Unicameral. She always drew a clear distinction that she was a “policy wonk”, not a litigator. And in the coming years I would learn the difference between policy and politics. And I gained tremendous respect for those passionate souls in government who worked long and hard to formulate policy that would improve peoples’ lives, as opposed to the politicians who set their sites and their priorities on one election cycle after another.

I came to my political awareness with some reticence. I really didn’t want to spend much time thinking about what was going on in the legislature, either at the state or national level. Kate challenged me on my apathy at one point, and my response was anything but apathetic.

“I have a right to be apathetic!” I said. “In my first ten years, they assassinated John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, and Martin Luther King. Not long after that, Watergate happened, and we all learned that our government lies to us and sells us out. So, yeah, I’m apathetic!”

“Well,” she chuckled, “you’re pretty passionate about your apathy…” She had a point.

Then near the end of the 20^th century came the state constitutional amendment that declared that Nebraska would never recognize same-sex marriage or civil unions. One of the most stringent such laws in the country. So, in 2005, we created our own commitment ceremony, surrounded by friends and family, including our dog, Dexter, who made sure he was standing with us as we exchanged our vows. That ceremony made a difference for us. We felt like a real couple, committed to ‘the we that is us’, as we like to say.

Ten years later, the U.S Supreme Court mandated that same-sex marriage would be legal and recognized in the United States. We both happened to be home that day, and had the TV on when the news broke. A month later, we became the first same-sex couple to be married in the Rotunda at the Nebraska Stae Capitol, officiated by Senator Ernie Chambers, the firebrand from Omaha who had been fighting for equal rights for all for over 30 years. It was a day filled with unsurpassed hope, love, jubilation, and validation. Definitely one of the best days of our lives.

When Hilary Clinton ran for President against Donald Trump in 2016, I got my hopes up for the possibility that finally, after nearly a quarter of a millenium, this nation would select a woman to lead it.

And when President Biden withdrew from the race this past year, and Kamala Harris became the nominee, that hope was rekindled, until it was Trumped again. Those hopes were dashed, smashed, and trashed. I don’t need to regurgitate the outrage, the WTF?!, the how the hell could this happen? There’s plenty of that all over the news, on social media, and none of it changes the result.

At least for now, and hopefully for the rest of my life I am still married to the love of my life. And it’s very clear that I’ll have to leave that old apathy behind, and make sure to stay informed, involved, and fulfill my responsibility as a citizen of this democratic country.

In the midst of all this, my two dogs, Boone and Idgy, have been especially sweet and present. They have been very snuggly, staying very close by, and giving me that look that says, “You know, if you take us for a ride in the car, and we go to the dog park, we know you’d feel a whole lot better. And if we stopped at the drive in on the way home and you got us each a pup cup, everything would be even better!”

Wise pups. Turns out they were right. Fresh air, dog romps, looking up at the sky and saying hello to the trees and the birds and the butterflies, these are the things that ground me, that remind me that, for now, in this moment, life is pretty darned good. We’ll see what happens in the weeks to come, but for now, we’re hanging onto those pure, good moments. 
They need to be savored, not squandered in doom scrolling and diatribes on social media. I can choose where my energy goes, every moment. And as often as possible, I’m going to hug a snuggly dog. Hit me up if you want to join us for a romp and a pup cup.

                    ***

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Drawn to the Light....

 

By Marilyn Moore

Early this fall I was part of a small group walking through the wonder that is Wilderness Park.  It was a nature walk; we had a wise and caring guide, who stopped at points along the path to talk describe the precious moments of summer becoming fall.  We walked together for a time, then our wise leader suggested we choose a path and go at our own pace, or perhaps find a comfortable spot to stop, and look, and listen, and feel the breeze.  

I headed out, continuing on the trail, especially noticing the berries that were hanging by a thread, waiting to fall to the ground and become a new seedling next spring.  It was a warm day, and there were shady spots along the trail, where it was tempting to stop.  But I didn’t stop, much as the shade would have felt good.  As I reported back the group when we gathered again, I could see the trail ahead, and I was drawn to the light.  I kept walking, drawn to the light.  

Kind of how I live my life, drawn to the light.  The approaching winter months awaken anxiety within me…I do not look forward to those long winter nights.  I know…darkness and cold are the conditions needed for rest and restoration of all living creatures in the forest and the prairie, but a remnant of the fear of the ancient people that perhaps the sun isn’t coming back still resides in my DNA.  I will breathe a sigh of relief, and gratitude, on the day of the winter solstice, knowing that a minute or two more of daylight each day will get me through January and February.  

But more than the darkness of night, which has the blessing of stars and comets and which triggers our circadian rhythms to let us fall asleep, it’s the darkness of prejudice and poverty and damage to our planet and lack of compassion that is most unsettling to me.  Those are the dark places where I most crane my neck in search of light…the writers, the poets, the volunteers, the caretakers, the teachers, the policy makers, the inventors, the health care workers, the astrophysicists, the artists, the lovers of life, who light candles and draw a wide circle and shine a light on the shadows and into the dark corners, making the world a better place.

I’ve thought of that path in Wilderness Park, that beckoning light, often in the weeks since then, particularly in the turbulence of the time leading to the 2024 election, now just days away.  In the midst of violent rhetoric, accusatory and blaming language, loud and divisive voices, I’m drawn to the light.  Light that shines possibility, a hopeful future, an affirmation of the value and dignity of all people, an assumption that collectively we can do more and be better, that chaos  and disruption need not be the new normal in our political life.  Like the light on the path ahead, I’m drawn to the candidates whose language conveys light, not darkness.  

In a town hall meeting with Republican women earlier this fall, Kamala Harris was asked a poignant question.  The woman started by saying that she was anxious, so very anxious about the election, and she wondered if Kamala was anxious, too.  She asked her, “How do you sleep at night?”  And Kamala’s response was empathetic, compassionate, and hopeful.  She acknowledged that she wakes up most nights at two in the morning, worrying about something.  Then she said that she manages anxiety and worry with all the healthy things we know about – she tries to exercise daily, she tries to eat wisely, she stays in touch every day with her family.  And then she said that what gives her hope is the goodness of the American people and the democratic systems in our country, the US Constitution, the opportunity and responsibility to participate in those democratic systems, that by doing so we affirm our commitment to something bigger than ourselves.  

It was a stirring response, for several reasons.  She acknowledged what every woman I know has experienced, waking up at two in the morning, anxious and worried about something, knowing that it won’t be so frightening in the light of day, but in the dark, it is.  Watching the women who were in that room with her, you could see that every one of them had been there, too…lots of head nods.  She affirmed the daily health habits we all try to maintain, knowing that sometimes it’s a “tried, but couldn’t make it” day.  And then, she shined the light of possibility and belief in American people and democratic systems in this very dark and stormy time.  

Our choir sang an anthem last week, “Can we sing the darkness to light?”  The text describes “chords of compassion and peace.”  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., reminded us that hate does not drive out hate, only love does.  In these days that are fraught with darkness, my heart and mind and soul are asking… 

* Can we sing the darkness to light?

* Can we love the darkness to light?

* Can we vote the darkness to light?

And my heart and mind and soul, drawn to the light, say, with a whisper, sometimes, and with my big girl voice, sometimes, yes, we can.  Yes, we can.  Yes, we can.  We must….

Finding promise in one tenacious line of citizens . . . in the ten-day countdown to our election

By Mary Kay Roth

I went looking for hope this week.

I’m guessing most everyone feels like I do right now, bone weary from the bombardment of noxious commercials, the chill of toxic politics and the heavy shroud of doomsday hovering above our heads.  

So, I roamed and meandered about the city, initially thinking of destinations like green space and walking trails. Yet somehow I was drawn to the Lancaster County Election Commission on Friday – the final day that people could register to vote.  

 

Lo and behold, the place was overpacked with nary a parking space in sight, a long line of people literally wrapped around the Election Commission building: People registering to vote, casting early ballots.

Upon arrival, I simply and directly walked up and said I was curious about why they were there – why they were willing to wait in line.  

• “I’m here because I want my voice to be heard.”
• “There’s a lot going on right now and I’m worried.  There’s just no excuse for anyone not voting this November.”
• “Voting is important every year. But this time it feels different … Somehow there’s an urgency.” 
• “This is a democracy, so my daughter and I are exercising our right to vote – our privilege – our obligation.” 
• “I would argue this is the most consequential election in my lifetime.” 

I didn’t ask anyone about their politics. I didn’t want dogma or debate. I only explained I was writing a blog and was looking to find some faith in the election season this year.  Somehow their answers started to thaw my icy-cold soul. 

Oddly – and I know this is something of a weird analogy – the sensation was much like my mindset when I approach fall chores.

Each year at this time I cut back my perennials, mulch, clean gutters, stack up precious new piles of firewood.  I put my garden to bed for a long winter’s sleep, saying goodbye to my last geraniums as they yawn and nod.

And I find satisfaction in the wisdom that I’m protecting my little world from the coming cold, wrapping everything up in a blanket of warmth.

I’m feeling much the same way about that line of voters and their tenacious belief in democracy. Unexpectedly – now ten days until the election – that frosty shroud of doomsday is feeling much more like a cozy blanket of promise and possibility.

Sure, this was only one line of voters in one county in one state. But somehow it isn’t hard for me to imagine such lines forming in counties and states across the country … with folks who sound just like the citizens of Lancaster County.

• “I’m here today because I live in a democracy. That’s what voting is all about.”
• “I only need to officially change my address this morning … But I’ve voted in every election in Nebraska for the past 50 years and I’ll vote again this year.  It’s the way we make a difference.” 
• “The United States is at a crossroads.  And we get to have a say in which direction we will go.” 
• “Yes, I procrastinated.  But I don’t care how long this line gets. Voting is not just a right – it’s an honor.” 

Now, I’m not completely naïve. Voting should be as easy and accessible as possible, yet in recent years anti-voter bills have erected unnecessary barriers for people to register to vote, vote by mail, vote in person.  Suppression efforts range from strict voter ID laws and cuts to early voting, to mass purges of voter rolls and systemic disenfranchisement. 

Trust me, I worry.  I will continue to stay vigilant and advocate.

Nonetheless I found people of all walks of life at the Election Commission on Friday, people of various ethnicities, ages and sensibilities.

Granted, there was the inevitable funny guy who claimed he thought this was the line where he could order a double whopper.

And the man who – I truly don’t know why – felt it necessary to call me by that ugly pejorative reserved exclusively for females.

But just when I was about to head home, I encountered three eager students from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln who were practically bouncing up and down in line. One of them boldly stepped forward to talk with me: “My dad is from Poland and my whole life I was raised with the belief that the right to vote in this country is special – precious – sacred. My dad was passionate about voting.  So, I am passionate about it too.  I’m here to register to vote for the very first time and I brought my two best friends along.”

Be still my heart.

This coming week I’ll replace the furnace filter and drain gasoline from my mower. I’ll trade out hoes for rakes and snow shovels.  

And I’ll tackle my very favorite fall chore, planting bulbs. Because I know this spring those bulbs will poke their heads out of the ground and bloom.

Yeah, I could always lose everything with a really hard freeze.  But I try my best to keep the faith. 

I plant. I mulch. I vote. I believe. 

I believe this spring we’ll look back upon a November election when record numbers of voters made (mostly) wise choices about their community and their country.  

I went looking for hope this week.  I found a glimmer.

***Election day is Tuesday, Nov. 5, 2024.  Vote. Encourage others to vote. Wear your “I voted” sticker proudly. Volunteer to offer rides to polling places.  And keep the faith.

October is the fallen leaf . . .

 “October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations above them once again.”   

 - Hal Borland

***

Marilyn Moore

Wilderness Park

***

JoAnne Young

Root Beer Falls, 

Tahquamenon State Park, 

Upper Peninsula, Michigan 

***

Penny Costello

Black Hills of South Dakota,  Sacred Paha Sapa 

“These granite spires ground me and recharge my soul in a way no other place can. There's no place like home."

***

Mary Reiman

Outside my window

***

Mary Kay Roth

Holmes Lake

Life disrupted in one step

By JoAnne Young

I took a step one night in September. I thought it was the right step. But just as I tried to take another, a step forward into my normal future, I discovered a second step, hidden in the dark, that stopped time. 

 

Here I was, missing that step, landing hard on concrete. My future, over there, where normal time continued with the second half of the Husker football game and pizza and chatting with friends, was lost to me. 

 

I entered a time warp, a painful one, involving a high stakes surgeon, lots of ceiling views, an existential stroll through the narcotics cabinet, and an apprentice’s introduction to new people, new ideas. 

 

Quantum physics all around me, acting on every scale. (Hmmm, is that the hydrocodone talking?) 

 

Long story short, when I crashed hard on the concrete my femur pushed through its familiar territory and into my pelvis, breaking it into Humpty-Dumpty pieces. Thus the need for the royal surgeon to put me back together again. 

 

Now, here I sit in rehab, trying to regain some hard-fought control and some faded strength and conditioning. Not waving the white flag, mind you. Learning the one-legged human role that has been assigned to me for 10 weeks. 

 

Along the way, I have been handed lessons. May I share some with you? 

 

* When you leave your home on any given day, with only your wallet or purse or backpack, you don’t usually consider you could be separated from your belongings – your clothes, your phone charger, your favorite books or teas – unexpectedly, for days or weeks. How would you describe to someone what you need and how to find those things to bring to you while you are temporarily cut off? Especially when you are a bit shaken. 

 

Maybe many of you are more organized than I am, but when I had to tell my husband what I needed and where it was, it took many more brain cells than I had available at the time. Clothes are scattered in a couple of closets and numerous drawers on two floors. While I know all the nooks and crannies I would look in to find things quickly, it’s a much bigger chore to explain it to someone else. 

 

* I have many caring friends and loved ones and while I know that, I don’t appreciate it often enough, like every day often enough. I know I need them, but I frequently forget they need me, too. Please don’t ever let that thought slip away. 

 

* I met so many good people, both experienced and just starting out, in health care. I spent nine days at Bryan Medical Center West, waiting a couple of days for my first major surgery ever and then recovering from that surgery.

 

During those days I talked to several dozen nurses, nursing assistants, health technicians, physical and occupational therapists, and several doctors. They were both women and men. Some were travelers, some students, others working to move up to higher positions. They talked about how nursing and hospital work has changed, especially in the past four years, to become more stressful and demanding, and how patients have become more disagreeable and at times combative. I found almost every one of those health workers to be caring and helpful and their stories to be compelling. 

 

They all start out with the motivation to help people. They learn far too quickly how much more complex the motivation must be to stay in the field. We, as patients, need to show them how important they are to us and to our daily lives. 

 

* When you spend hour upon hour in a hospital room, you have a lot of time to think about your life and the lives of others. In the predicament I found myself, my mind often drifted across the ocean to places like Ukraine and Gaza. How awful would it be if we were injured and in pain and did not have competent and available paramedics, doctors, nurses, well equipped hospitals, skilled surgeons, sterile operating rooms, ambulances, emergency rooms with immediate treatment options?  We are so lucky to have such good access to care in our city, our state. I spent more than a few minutes each night thinking about the people in those war zones who are suffering, and pondering the what ifs. 

 

* Lastly ... during my stay at Bryan West I was able to get a close look at the nine-foot mosaic pillars at the entrance to the hospital created by UNL’s Eddie Dominguez to commemorate the experiences of medical personnel, hospital staff, patients and families during the Covid 19 pandemic. In those pillars he recreated the reflections, efforts and emotions of all those affected by those years of connections and disconnections, suffering and fears the pandemic brought to our community. 

 

The feelings expressed in Dominguez’ art aren’t confined to the Covid years, but can be felt now, here and universally by those seeking and giving safekeeping and care. 

 

Those words he engraved in mosaic: “Exhausted, sensitive, sympathy, resilient, confidence, abandoned, challenging, overwhelming, friendly. Happiness. Amazing. 

 

We can turn these experiences into gratitude, into pieces of our personal narratives. 

 

I wish you all good health. And please, no quantum leaps. 

Follow us on Facebook at 5 Women Mayhem. 

Unexpected Moments

By Mary Reiman

Travel brochures give trip highlights, but last week I found the best part of the journey to be the lesser known, unexpected glimpses capturing my attention, my admiration, my oh-my-heavens-I-can't-believe-I-am-here-moments. The scenery. The ocean. The passion of the people who shared their deep love for their beloved country.

The adventure began in Portland, Maine, famous for lighthouses, of course. But I had never known that on April 23, 1945, the U.S.Navy’s Eagle Class Sub-Chaser was torpedoed and sunk by a German U-Boat

only 9 miles off the coast of Maine. 49 U.S. servicemen were killed. It was a misty morning when we were looking out over the ocean, giving the area an ominous feel of the history that had taken place there. Yes, 9 miles from where we were standing. 

And then on to Canada:

Halifax, Nova Scotia. 121 victims of the Titanic buried in the Fairview Lawn Cemetery in 1912. The number on each headstone indicated when their body was recovered from the sea. Some were never identified. Others were never claimed. The community continues to support the upkeep of this final resting place.

Corner Brook, Newfoundland. Picturesque fishing villages with a rugged coastline. Look what I found. Boats with great names. Snails making their way across the coastal walkways. 

In the midst of Sept-Iles (Seven Islands) was a sculpture garden tucked along the edge of the park.

Over 100 pieces created by Jean-Pier Synnott, local industrial welder/artist who uses recycled metal to create a variety of creatures, all shapes and sizes and designs. Fascinating! 

Saquenay, Quebec, has three major industries. 

#1 aluminum. The bauxite is shipped from Brazil and other international locations, using the hydroelectric power plants in the area to create the aluminum (think Alcoa) that is then often shipped back to the U.S. 

#2 black spruce, for the pulp mills. The paper was often sent to the United States but the mills have been cut back due to less print newspaper production. We also visited Baie-Comeau, a community built in the 30s by the owner of the Chicago Tribune, specifically for the paper industry.  

#3 blueberries. The largest blueberries I’ve ever eaten! 

Quebec City, the walled city with such a rich history, famous for British-French battles in the 1700s.They were also prepared to defend themselves against the United States. 

No voyage to this area would be complete without viewing Montmorency Falls.

They are indeed as majestic as described in every tour book. Indeed, a must see. The view, the sound, the magnitude of the force of the water. 

And then the final chapter. 

Morrin Centre in the middle of Quebec City. There we were.

The setting of Louise Penny’s book, Bury Your Dead.  

As it should be. 

The end of the journey.