Iron City

Pittsburgh is a whole lot different than Vermont. There. Having said the obvious it is now important to say that Pittsburgh is also a whole lot different than it was the last time that I visited some 10 years ago. And the differences are all to the better. Its cleaner and friendlier and the once mostly hidden cultural aspects of the iron city are now front and center. The arts scene has blossomed (they not only admit the existence of Andy Warhol, they have a whole museum dedicated to their hometown boy), and the jazz community is thriving.

Since we only had a few days, I took Morningstar directly to the heart of the matter, Oakland, the university and museum center of Pittsburgh. We spent time at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History, the University of Pittsburgh's Cathedral of Learning, the Phipps Conservatory (just in time for "Chihuly at Phipps:Gardens and Glass"), and the Carnegie Library - one of the first of some 2000 free libraries that Andrew Carnegie gave to the people.

On the last day we went north out of the city and visited Old Economy in the suburb of Ambridge. This was the site of a Harmonist community in the nineteenth century that eventually numbered some one thousand folks. One of the remarkable differences between this group and other religious colonies of this era was its success. They prospered through hard work and very wise investing in railroads, oil wells, manufacturing, textiles and agriculture. At the high point they had more gold and silver stored in their vaults than the U.S. government. Many of their ideas about self sufficiency, working for the common good, lifelong caring for their fellows, and achieving the Jeffersonian balance of agriculture with small manufacturing are well worth studying. ... Bob

Chihuly glass at Phipps Conservatory

Act Now!

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Cry Out

Perhaps it is the grey, sodden weather; perhaps it is reading a small book of poems called, “CRY OUT, Poets Protest the War.” Or perhaps it is the continuing drumbeat of war talk in the news… words like World War III, and Armageddon. Whatever the reasons, these words came to me in the wee hours of the morning, and the knowledge that if there is any hope at all, we must ALL let our voices be heard. NO MORE WAR!

The guns are silent
The dying ended
Our bloodied troops are home
Peace has come to this battered world
And we will fight no more.

My father wrote poetry.
His poems in all their stages
are scribbled in pencil or Parker Pen ink
on the lined pages of a small leather bound
notebook. Words are crossed out, new ones
inserted, so many versions of the same poem
that I don’t always know which is the
final copy… if a poem is ever truly finished.
They are all I have of him who
died so young; my four-year-old memories
are few. They were written during his college
days, and were the heartfelt expressions of a young
man trying to find hopefulness in the aftermath of
the First World War, a war filled with such horrific
human carnage, that no one could imagine ever going
to war again. It was the war to end all wars. Mankind
had become too good with the instruments of
death and destruction. The League of Nations became
everyone’s hope for a lasting peace, including the young
man who wrote of broken bodies, a quiet walk in the woods,
and his wish to make a difference
in the world,
my father.

I think of how many wars we have fought
since that “war to end all wars,” wonder what
words my father would write now in his notebook.
Would he be as despondent as I often am, watching
our red, white, and blue flag-waving nation glorify
war and its ability to annihilate another; making heroes
of dead men and traitors of anyone who would voice dissent?
Would he wonder as I do how a nation as rich as ours
could choose to spend its tax dollars on military might,
sending our youth to fight unnecessary and unjust wars?
Would he shake his head in wonderment at a nation
held in bondage by fear, a nation that feels it can only
defend itself by aggressively attacking another? His
‘war to end all wars’ has become in this 21st Century
a war without end… and our president brashly names
himself, “The War President.”
Father what would you think;
what would you say;
what lines of poetry would you write today?

P. L. Morningstar

The Pigs Did It

We came to Addison County because of my ancestral roots in this place. Soon after the Revolutionary War, Stephen Cooper Sr. and his family left Southampton, New York to relocate in the small village of Shoreham along the banks of Lake Champlain. Shoreham remains, my ancestors do not. Later generations headed west like so many others, looking for greener pastures beyond the horizon. Amazingly, not much has changed in the two hundred or so years since their departure. Vermont is still a land of small villages comprised of 19th century houses, country stores, inns, and Anglican churches with their tall spires rising above the canopy of deciduous trees.

Several villages have stolen our hearts. The closest to us is Brandon. It is hard to say why it appeals to us so much. It has the same vintage churches, brick buildings, grand Victorian houses, and war memorial parks with statues of Civil War soldiers and a cannon or two, as all the rest. Of course Brandon is unique with curbs made of marble, from the days when the community’s economy was based on the marble quarry. But there is a vitality to Brandon that some of the more rural villages lack. We asked several locals about how this came about and were told, “It was the pigs.” About six years ago the town’s artists’ community decided they needed to do something to revitalize the town, it had become a place people only passed through rather than a destination. So the artists came up with a theme – The Really, Really Pig Show. Fiberglass pigs were created, each one made unique by individual artists, and placed around the village. People came from all over to see the pigs. At the end of the tourist season, the pigs were auctioned off. The project was so successful that each year now a new theme is proposed. One year it was “Brandon Rocks” and there were giant wooden rocking chairs everywhere. This year the theme was “Reigning Cats and Dogs,” with decorated cat and dog sculptures. We arrived too late to see them, but the town is now decorated with fancifully dressed scarecrows. They cling to light posts, street signs, and trees, and pose in front of stores. The town gets together every fall to carve jack-o-lanterns, drink hot apple cider, and make the scarecrows from sticks and cornstalks and old clothing. It brings the community together. With the marble industry long gone, we wondered what kept Brandon going now. A local architect told us: “The quality of life is the new industry.”

Best of all, Brandon has a bookstore, Briggs Carriage Bookstore. We were strolling along the street early one evening and noticed that the bookstore door was open. “Are you still open for business?” we asked. “Yes, we’re open until 9 o’clock, especially when we are having an event.” We could hear a speaker’s voice, laughter, and applause coming from the upper floor. A comedian/author was giving a talk and signing copies of his newly published book. Everything about the store drew us in – even the squeak of the old wood floor as we walked from one book display to another. It was their 10th anniversary and they were celebrating by giving 10 percent off all book purchases. Bob and I each chose a book, by a Vermont author, and were given a cloth book bag to hold our books. Later we discovered that the upstairs also holds the Ball and Chain Café with soft seating, free WiFi connection, and of course good coffee.

The fall color is everything that Bob said it would be, and I am unable to do it justice with my camera. It is an elusive thing and cannot be captured by words or photos - like the spirit of hopefulness that I feel here. ... P. L. Morningstar

Thomas Jefferson Was Right

It is mid morning as I sit here trying to find words to describe our Vermont experience. The campground at Lake Dunmore is quiet in this late autumn season. Golden-red leaves fall past the trailer window; some solitary leaves swirl slowly and pirouette a few times before settling on the ground, others throw themselves headlong into the pile. A sudden gust of wind can send a flurry of leaves sailing through the air, bright bits of color that dance in the sunlight. It is warmer than usual for this time of year. And everyone talks about the strangeness of the fall foliage season… it is late in coming to this part of Vermont. In other areas the leaves have already fallen.

Vermont is autumn at its best. The two-lane roads wind through rolling green fields edged in red maple, sugar maple and golden oak trees. The distinctive smell of silage lets you know you have come to a dairy farm long before you see the herds of black and white cows and the complex of barns, silos, and farmhouse. There are pumpkins everywhere, for sale at small roadside stands, lined up on porches, and displayed in front of stores with cornstalks and elaborately dressed scarecrows. The tradition of carving jack-o’-lanterns from pumpkins actually originated in New England in the 1840’s. According to the last Census of Agriculture, Vermont farmers produce over 7 million pounds of pumpkins each year. Apple orchards advertise for “pick-your-own” apples, and the cider mills are busy. The Champlain Valley is the largest producer of apples in the state of Vermont. On Tuesday we visited two orchards near Shoreham.

Champlain Orchards consists of 60 acres of apple trees on high land overlooking Lake Champlain. It was a sunny day as we walked through the rows of dwarf trees picking our own apples - $4.00 for a 1/2 peck bag. Northern Spy, Mutsu, and Wolf River – not exactly common supermarket names. The apples were not perfect, but what flavor! I filled a pint container with raspberries from the pick-your-own rows, and we added a homemade apple pie and a pint Mason jar of dark amber maple syrup to our purchases at the farm market. Then we visited the Douglas Orchards and Cider Mill up the road. The owner waited on us, wearing his farming clothes and baseball hat. He was putting jugs of cider into the cooler, made fresh this morning, he told us. Bob asked how things were going. “Well we had a bad hailstorm in June and I figured it wasn’t going to be a good year, but as its turned out I’ve done better than expected so I can’t complain.” I asked how long he had farmed here, and he proudly told me that he was a fourth-generation farmer on this land - back to the 1890’s. We bought a jug of the fresh-this-morning cider. As we were leaving I saw a woman carrying a big bag of apples up the hill towards the barn – bringing her own apples to the cider mill.

Nearly half a million acres of Vermont land is associated with agriculture, and the farms of Vermont sustain its pastoral landscape. As the Secretary for the Vermont Agency of Agriculture says, “Vermont farms provide a sense of place, an identity and a connection to land and heritage that is invaluable.” Agriculture is a cornerstone of the Vermont economy, producing $3 billion worth of agricultural products each year. In a nation that is losing its small farms and farmers to big commercial agri-farms, there are approximately 6,300 farms in Vermont that produce everything from apples to Christmas trees. It is no accident. It is supported by everyone. Many Vermont chefs and restaurants advertise that they are members of the Vermont Fresh Network, which promotes a farm and chef partnership, and the use of farm fresh local products.

Thomas Jefferson was right. In a 1787 letter to George Washington he wrote, “Agriculture is our wisest pursuit, because it will in the end contribute most to real wealth, good morals, and happiness.”

Simple Pleasures

It is autumn in New England. The sugar maples glow like precious gems along the hills and roadsides. Fallen leaves cover the lawns of century-old homes in the villages that we pass through, and bright orange pumpkins line most porches or march up the front steps. Roadside stands and farm markets sell Indian corn, pumpkins and gourds, potatoes, many varieties of apples, old and new, and fresh apple cider. We left the coast of Maine today and traveled west through rolling farmland and finally to the White Mountains on the border with New Hampshire. We made a brief stop at Annie’s Pride Farm stand, choosing some apples for eating and a jug of unpasteurized apple cider. There were handwritten signs all over the place. Signs like, “They didn’t kill your Grampy. They didn’t kill your father. To hell with the Atkins Diet. Eat more potatoes!! You’ll thank me for it. Spuds. The way life should be,” which is the State of Maine’s motto - WELCOME TO MAINE, THE WAY LIFE SHOULD BE. Written on the cardboard box filled with Spencer apples from Newport, Maine, was this intriguing description: “Taste like apple crisp with ice cream inside.” How could we pass that up? Finally I spotted a woman pulling two children in a red wagon, heading towards a large pumpkin patch at the side of the farm stand. Watching them carefully inspect each pumpkin, brought back memories of my own children – the yearly ritual of spreading newspapers on a table, scooping the pulp and seeds from two pumpkins, and carving a jack-o-lantern face on each. It’s nice to know that some things do not change. Tomorrow we will drive through New Hampshire and arrive in Vermont. We have logged over 7,000 miles so far. ...P. L. Morningstar

Bright Spots on a Rainy Day

The morning starts with a light mist in the air and only gets worse as the day wears on. It proved to be the worst travel day that we have had on the whole trip. Very dark with low visibility, and constant heavy rain… sometimes so heavy that the windshield wipers had difficulty handling it. A bolt of lightning off in the distance. We had hoped to get closer to the U.S. border but ended the driving early and turned into a Fredericton Comfort Inn for the night. Despite the dreary day, it started with the welcome news that Al Gore and the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change were the joint winners of the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize. This brought big smiles to the morning. The second bright spot of the day was this announcement about a Canadian TV program: “Little Mosque on the Prairie, the CBC-TV comedy about a Muslim community in a fictional prairie town, is the recipient of a prestigious humanitarian award previously won by Nobel peace laureate Desmond Tutu and former U.S. president Jimmy Carter. The show will be presented with the Search for Common Ground Award by the human-rights organization of the same name on Nov. 6 in New York. The Search for Common Ground Award aims to recognize individuals and organizations that find common ground between those in conflict.” Terrific! The third bright spot is the fact that this McDonald’s Lighthouse is miles away from Peggy's Cove.

Peggy's Cove

On this trip we are discovering that it is really about people… I should say “Real People.” The scenery is great, especially for a photographer, but photos of lighthouses and quaint fishing villages fail to tell the real story. At Peggy’s Cove I watched as a tour bus offloaded its passengers in front of a posh hotel/restaurant overlooking the cove. Like a hoard of ants at a picnic, they descended upon the granite outcropping with digital cameras held out front to frame a shot of the famous Peggys Point Lighthouse. They buy postcards and visit the gift shops. I had to wonder how much they learn about the 40 to 50 people who actually live in Peggy’s Cove.

It is not a criticism, for I am as guilty of being a “tourist” as any of the bus passengers. I photographed the lighthouse, the boats and weathered sheds from every angle. Then a man came down a gravel pathway from a house on the ridge. He pushed a young child in a plastic stroller shaped like a yellow car. We smiled, exchanged greetings, then Bob said, “Excuse me, can I ask you a question?” The man chuckled a little, “Sure, I’m used to it.” Bob asked for suggestions about a good place that served seafood. He pointed to the restaurant on the hill where the tour bus was parked, “I live here, but I haven’t eaten up there yet, so I can’t tell you how good it is.” He didn’t say so, but I wondered if the prices were a little too high for him, or if there was some resentment about the place from locals. He named a few other places, “Not sure if they are open now. Is this Wednesday? This time of year the restaurants are closed different days of the week. There aren’t enough people around here to staff all the restaurants in the summer, let alone now. I got fish and chips at the Finer Diner once, and they were pretty good.”

As we stood in the fading light of day, we learned that he is a lobster fisherman, he pointed to his boat tied up at the government dock. He said that the lobster season for this region doesn’t start until the last weekend in November. “We fish through the winter until May,” he says. He worked out in British Columbia for a couple of years, fished and hand logged. His sister still lives in Prince Rupert, the same area of northern British Columbia that we are from. His son sits quietly in the stroller as we talk, but when we turn to go, he calls “Bye,” and his dad wishes us a good journey. I wish I had taken a photo of this father and son… it would represent Peggy’s Cove far better than all the lighthouse and picturesque docks.

I later learned online that Peggys Cove has been declared a preservation area to preserve its rugged beauty. And the regional municipality and provincial government passed “The Peggys Cove Commission Act” in 1962, prohibiting development in and around the surrounding village, and it restricts development within Peggys Cove. Similarly there are restrictions on who can and cannot live in the community to prevent inflation of property values for year-round residents. It is nice to know that the value of a community is recognized in more than dollars and cents.
...P. L. Morningstar

One Spoon

“One spoon is all you get,” we are told as we sit down at the wooden table covered in wrinkled cotton sheeting. Our server dressed in 18th Century scullery maid clothing lays a large silver spoon for each of us on folded cotton napkins that are mended and patched. She shows us how to use the tip of the spoon’s handle to scoop sugar out of a pewter dish for our tea. In historic time this is the summer of 1744 (the last peaceful year before a six-week siege and defeat by the British) and we are eating at the Grandchamps Tavern in the French fortress town of Louisbourg. Everything is served in pewter dishes. There is a fire in the fireplace but no lighting other than the sunlight that streams through wavy glass windowpanes. In real time a blustery autumn wind blows outside, making the hot split pea soup I choose taste even better. The main course is either roasted chicken breast in a mushroom sauce, or fillet of cod. Both come served with a vegetable… buttered carrots. Bread Pudding for dessert. We share the long table with others and manage with our one spoon each.

Yes, we played tourist today and I usually don’t like recreated villages. But the Fortress of Louisbourg is a winner in every way. It has not been commercialized and we are amazed at the authenticity of everything. Here is a living history lesson that is as fun as it is educational. The folks who play the roles of soldiers and townspeople become those people, speaking in the first person… and they obviously love their jobs. Some have worked here for over 25-years. The original fortress town was built and held by the French during two periods; from 1720 to 1745, and from 1748 to 1758. British sappers and miners finally blew up the Louisbourg fortifications in 1760. The inhabitants were deported to France. In 1961 the Government of Canada decided to reconstruct one-fifth of the original Louisbourg. Cape Breton was experiencing an economical downturn from the collapse of two of its industries, coal mining and steel production. Construction of the fortress put unemployed men to work, and helped to start a tourist industry.

The walled gardens still bloom with flowers and cabbages, a rooster crows, brown and white sheep munch on grass behind fenced enclosures, and smoke rises out of stone chimneys. In the kitchens meat roasts on rotating spits at the open fireplace, and onionskins sit in a basket ready for dying cloth. In the fortress a soldier tells us how three men are assigned to each bed. Each soldier has a twenty-four hour shift, then two days off. Often they work a second job (unloading ships, or fishing) for extra money. Along with the history lesson on French and British (with New Englanders) hostilities, I learned some interesting trivia about life in the 18th Century. Did you know that there were no right and left shoes until the twentieth century? Prior to that each shoe was exactly the same, and in the case of wooden shoes, hollowed out to fit your individual foot. And did you know that French soldiers carried a sword but were not permitted to use them? They were only a symbol of authority, such as a policeman’s badge. They carried a musket too. This they could use.
... P. L. Morningstar

Quick Notes

We are soon heading south to New England. We are particularly interested in visiting with folks in Vermont. Which brings up Orion Magazine. It had a great article in the May/June 2007 issue entitled "Burgers a la Thomas Jefferson". Its about Tod Murphy and the Farmers Diner. From the article:

"Murphy, forty-one, and his wife, Pam Van Deursen, left a retail coffee business in New York in 1997 to teach themselves how to run their two-hundred-acre sheep farm in Washington, Vermont. Raised by farming grandparents in Connecticut, Murphy was profoundly influenced by Wallace Stegner and, later, Wendell Berry. Some observers have suggested that he is carrying on Berry's work, linking husbandry and yeoman farming to true citizenship and a vibrant democracy."

Read the article, its very good. We will try to visit the Farmers Diner and Tod Murphy. While you are at it, read "Land, Farmer, Community: A Sacred Trust" for a new view of farming that needs to be understood and "Horse Power" for an old view of farming that needs to be appreciated. Both are in the September/October issue of Orion that is now online. Better yet, go to Orion and read everything.

... Bob

Blessed Unrest

Late this evening we finished a long day of driving the fabled Cabot Trail around Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Unfortunately it was a dark, cold, rainy day with constant wind. Very few photo opportunities and very few people to talk with - not much to write about and little to add to our quest. On checking our travel blog I discovered a comment from Jane Ann Jefferies of Los Angeles. She put me on to Paul Hawkens' work entitled "Blessed Unrest: How The Largest Movement In The World Came Into Being and Why No One Saw It Coming." Great title. That led to his website which contains an excellent video and links to "Wiser Earth", yet another website advocating social justice and environmental action at the individual and community level, something we are repeatedly rediscovering in the small communities as we work our way across Canada. We find that folks have an innate sense of rightness and they are tired of waiting for governments or political parties or corporations to get around to doing the right thing whether it's getting done with unjust wars or stopping environmental degradation, or denying basic healthcare to the masses of people in need, or outsourcing responsibility for the things we consume. Discovering Hawkens is discovering that we are not alone in our own modest findings, and further endorsement of his philosophy by people like David Suzuki, Terry Tempest Williams, Barry Lopez, Jane Goodall, and Stewart Brand makes for a very nice ending to this day.
...Bob

WiFi Variations

It's good to be back on line again after several days of frustrated attempts to check email and post new work on the blog. We are learning that there is major variability in the WiFi services advertised at campgrounds, ranging from incredibly fast to not really there. Then there is the one from hell, the one that sometimes works, then fades - and the explanations from the campground managers can be so wonderfully creative. For the first part of our journey we were blessed with great connections everywhere we stayed. It made us just a little overconfident, a little too trusting in the the "WiFi Hotspot" logo. After long days of driving we are often in too late and too tired to go elsewhere and lately we have had a run of internet misadventures. The "it starts o.k. then fades to nothing" experience has dominated the last several days. Fortunately we have arrived at a great campground today on Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. It has excellent internet service and a manager who knows what he's doing. So we are now catching up and apologize for the absence. . ..Bob

St. Croix Cove Lighthouse

The Peaceable Kingdom

Saturday in Anapolis Royal – the last Farmer’s Market of the year, and everyone was there. Probably all 550 of them. They all seemed to know one another, giving a hug, sharing tidbits of information, “Jane has added some new things to her display. Go take a look.” It is a real community get-together. There were more artisans and tradesmen than farmers present, but there were still bags of apples, stacks of pumpkins, rubber-banded stalks of fresh dill, rows of glass jars filled with corn relish, chow chow, sweet mustard, jams and jellies. Fresh baked bread, buns, pastries and pies, and cartons of free-range eggs. A table of handmade teddy bears and bunny rabbits caught Bob’s attention, especially since a rather unlikely looking guy was tending the table. Bob asked, “Are these yours?” “Well, sort of,” he said, “My wife makes them.” He then proceeded to show Bob how they were all jointed, and the bunny’s ears were given their shape by inserting florist wire. The photo I took of him shows a half smile that is mirrored by the Teddy’s own smiles.

New camera in hand, we set out to get photos that I had missed when my camera went belly up on Thursday. A church door was open as we passed and we decided to stop inside for a peek. A couple of older ladies were inside arranging a harvest display of corn stalks, and pumpkins, and tiny crabapples. We asked if they were getting it ready for Thanksgiving Day church service, and they said yes… they do all the decorating for Easter, Christmas, and Thanksgiving. They were particularly excited because "Bishop Sue is coming to give the service." Bishop Sue turns out to be the Right Reverend Susan Elizabeth Moxley. “If you are around tomorrow, please come… especially if you can sing. We’ll put you in the choir.” Calls for a Happy Thanksgiving followed us as we left the white steepled Anglican Church.

We came to a major junction in the road where there was another church, the Saint George and Saint Andrew United Church. Standing in front were four people, two women and two men, holding signs out in front of them. Bob said, “Oh I hope this is what I think it is.” It was. These were peace activists who have been doing this every Saturday morning. There were only four today because this is the Thanksgiving weekend. Usually there are more. As we stood talking with them, cars went by honking their horns in support, people waved, and passersby would signal thumbs up. I will remember this sunny fall day in Annapolis Royal, and these four bright, passionate people with their signs, calling for an end to war. And oh yes, I will remember the homemade pumpkin pie I bought at the Farmer’s Market – the one we devoured the minute we got back to the trailer. Happy Thanksgiving in Canada.
...P. L. Morningstar

My Camera Died

I was in the middle of a photo shoot in a village that had something picturesque to photograph on every street… a photographer’s dream come true. Annapolis Royal has a long history. It is one of the oldest European settlements in North America, having been founded by a small group of French explorers fifteen years before the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock. This village of 550 people somehow managed to escape “progress” and “growth.” The streets are lined with well preserved Victorian houses built for sea captains during the heyday of sailing ships and the shipbuilding industry. I asked a local storeowner how they managed to save all the historic houses and buildings from the wrecking ball. He said, “Poverty is the friend of history.” Well said. We later learned that Annapolis Royal was selected “The World’s Most Livable Small Community” (population 20,000 and under category) in 2004 in international competition endorsed by the United Nations. Like I said, a photographer’s dream. That was when my camera died. One minute I was framing and clicking street scenes, and the next minute I was holding a lifeless piece of electronics in my hand… nothing worked. We took the battery out; put it back in; next the memory chip; we pressed buttons, dials… nothing. We continued along Saint George Street, looking at gorgeous houses, each one more beautiful than the last. We visited the Annapolis Royal Historic Gardens and Acadian House. The images are etched in my memory, but without the use of my camera I felt like part of my anatomy had been amputated. What to do? Repair or a new camera was in order.

Today is Friday… of Canada’s long Thanksgiving weekend… something had to be done today or I would be without a camera until at least Tuesday. Unthinkable. Bob went on line and located a camera shop in nearby Digby, and a couple of stores in Halifax, a two-hour drive away. We went to the little town of Digby first, and while they tried to be helpful, checking the batteries, etc., it was obviously beyond their expertise. One suggestion was for me to buy a Kodak disposable camera! “You can get very good pictures with one,” they said. Sure. But they also gave us the name and address of a camera repair shop in Halifax. Off we went, first fortifying ourselves with some Tim Horton’s coffee.

David Orrell at the Camera Repair Centre Ltd. on Hunter Street was a real find. He is the authorized service centre for Canon and Pentax, but he took the time to do a diagnostic assessment of my Nikon (at no charge)… and the prognosis was not good. There was nothing that could be readily seen or remedied. “Probably something electronic. Will have to be sent to a Nikon authorized repair center and that will take time,” which led to the discussion of who sells Nikon cameras in Halifax. David made suggestions about which Nikon cameras would be a good choice, and then got on the phone and called the stores to see what they had in stock. With two customers waiting, he wrote down the address and gave Bob directions on how to get to the Carsand-Mosher Photographic Store in the Bayers Lake Shopping Centre.

At Carsand-Mosher, the manager Andrew Lloy did a thorough diagnostic assessment of my camera with the same outcome - no hope - he helped sort out the camera choices, downloaded the images from my now unusable memory card onto a disc, and filled out an equipment repair order for my old camera with the notation, “Will not power up.” So my Nikon D100 is off to Toronto for surgery, and a new Nikon D80 sits next to me at the ready. It is smaller, and even better than my old one. And we have met a lot of good people along the way.

Maritime Prayer Flags

It is a relief not to be in a hurry – not needing to get to the next place. Bob still sleeps. It is after 9 a.m. Atlantic Time. At the speed that we have lost hours, it is not surprising that our internal clock is not in sync with the local time… not jet lag exactly, but still it takes its toll.

As we drove through farmlands yesterday, I wondered if Wednesday was “washday,” for everywhere I looked I saw the family wash hanging out to dry on clotheslines. Clotheslines – those lines that reach out from houses, or stretch between trees and support posts, where diapers and towels, dresses and dungarees, nightgowns and toddler’s rompers, boxer shorts and panties, all flutter in the Maritime breeze like Tibetan prayer flags. In some ways I see them as exactly that. Sun and wind costs nothing; and oh the fresh, sweet smell of clothes dried outside. .....P. L. Morningstar

The Cove

This evening we are at The Cove, a campground on the edge of the Bay of Fundy. It is located in the small village of Parker's Cove, Nova Scotia. This is a working fishing community. There is a commercial fishing wharf only a few yards away and a lobster boat working the waters just offshore of the campground. The sounds from the wharf and the engine offshore are cut by the cries of the gulls and together make a kind of music common to all coasts where people still work the sea for a living. Toward evening a fog developed and then just as quickly dissipated, just in time for a blazing sunset over the Bay. We will happily use this place for the next few days as a base to explore this region of Nova Scotia. Tomorrow we will start by going to Annapolis Royal, but this evening we drove down the coast and stopped at the small coves, places with crumbling wharfs and ramshackle buildings and old men and old dogs. Comfortable places where people smile and wave as you drive by. Nobody seems to be in a hurry. As we head back to the campground we see a small convenience store that was advertised at the campground. We don't really need anything but we stop anyway and go in. We are the only customers so we have the chance to talk with the woman behind the counter. She seems shy at first, then she tells us about the area and some of the things that we should see. We head on back as the fog goes and we just catch the sunset.

Bob

Lunch Stop at Sackville

Today we stopped for lunch in Sackville, New Brunswick. This was not exactly by chance. Yes, it was lunchtime, and it was a convenient exit off the Trans-Canada, but Morningstar had been reading excerpts from "Welcome home: Travels in smalltown Canada" by Stuart McLean for the last few days and the most recent section was on Sackville. So when lunchtime and Sackville coincided, we were pretty much compelled to see how Sackville had fared since Stuart McLean's last visit.

The short answer is that it has fared very well indeed. The general sense about the town is that it is prospering. In his book, McLean gives a fairly grim picture of failing industries and a population needing to find jobs elsewhere. But in the intervening years the old foundry has been replaced by a regional call-center as the primary employer and there are signs of new construction and a sense that community pride is improving.

After lunch we stopped by the Planning Office and were welcomed by Ron Corbett. Ron is now a consultant to the Planning Office. Ron gave us a brief synopsis on the community and its economic status. Very helpful. And it turns out that he had met Stuart McLean on his visits to Sackville.

Probably the most important single fact of Sackville is Mount Allison University. The town and the campus seem to be interwoven and despite any traditional "Town verses Gown" issues there appears to be at least a genuine appreciation of the mutual benefits of this relationship.

Mount Allison was founded in 1839. With a nod to both the past and the present, their website notes that it was the first university in the British Empire to grant a Bachelors Degree to a woman and Mount Allison was one of the first universities in the country to introduce a completely wireless campus. Although there were many beautiful homes in Sackville, we were particularly impressed with the 1836 Georgian house that is the residence of the University President.

More about this great small town later. The lunch was well worth the detour off the Trans-Canada.

1836 Georgian House