Back in high school, I remember hearing the Young Americans for Freedom and other Goldwater supporters claiming that African-Americans would flock to their side.
Talk about blind faith! Just who were they talking to? Where were they spending their time?
I could see ways that wasn’t grounded in any reality.
No wonder I started backing away.
It was a sensation I also felt as the Vietnam war began building up.
Or as a homemade sign on the Antioch College campus boldly warned: Help Goldwater and LBJ nuke Vietnam.
At the time, all eyes and ears were cast on the conservative’s sword-and-bomb rattling. The president, we were assured, was more reasonable and reasoned. And then, once elected by a landslide, LBJ, to our horror, ramped up the American involvement. Remember the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution? As we learned later, it wasn’t grounded in any reality.
The promise, of course, was One More Year. Talk about blind faith! Just who were they talking to? Where were they spending their time?
Are we, as a people, ready for some uncomfortable true statements? We need to get grounded in reality rather than unsupported ideology. Just who are we talking to? And where are we spending our time? Let’s run some numbers, for starters.
Some years ago, as I recall, a New York Times op-ed piece mentioned that America’s reliance on volunteer service in public affairs shifted after World War I. We started turning more and more to paid workers – the ones we now call professionals.
Maybe some of it had to do with the shift from a rural and small-town society to big city life. And some of it, no doubt, as a matter of working inflexible hours in factories. Nowadays I’d add the shrinkage of local ownership, with executives who were expected to participate in public service, and the necessity of two-income families to make ends meet in the face of lower pay levels.
It’s a complicated issue, one that can lead to long discussion – maybe even some wailing.
I see it most directly in my Quaker circles, which function on an expectation that everyone in the faith community will offer service to the whole. That is, serve on a committee. I’m among those who are arguing that model needs to change to adapt to current conditions. Of course, it’s a matter many other groups – secular and religious – are facing. But it’s refreshing to read others who are thinking along similar lines. For one presentation, click here.
In early postings about creating a suitable bibliography reflecting the hippie era, your comments suggested some of the best works are in the realm of non-fiction, in contrast to Tom Wolfe’s demand for the big novel. Yes, as we discussed, there are some good novels, the bulk of them proving that small is beautiful, in contrast to Wolfe’s standard.
My reflections the other day on Patti Smith’s memoir, Just Kids (2010), added the underground artistic scene in New York to the list and has me thinking just how different the hippie centers could be. Most of them, as I see it, eventually wound up around college campuses.
Some recent overviews of Joan Didion’s life work have brought her 1968 collection of essays, Slouching Towards Bethlehem, to mind. Without going into criticism that she concentrated on the scandalous rather than the broader scene, what is stirred in my revisiting her essays is how localized and fleeting the hippie outbreak could be as it developed.
Quite simply, what fit one neighborhood or time didn’t necessarily fit others.
Haight-Ashbury, after all, soon morphed into back-to-the-earth networks or even rural communes, along with other situations, leaving its name to linger as a legend.
I mention this simply as a reminder of how far we are from a clear understanding of this remarkable history, much less its continuing – and pervasive – streams of action.
As for the big novel? Maybe it’s still waiting to happen.
In their early days, New England towns built enclosures like this to constrain livestock that had been captured on the lam and impounded. These days such sites are altogether nostalgic.
One of the more curious twists in recent American history is the impact of Rupert Murdoch, the Australian press baron who became an American citizen to keep control of his then fledgling television network.
Politically conservative, he’s nevertheless lowered the social standards of mass media. So much for values. He introduced dirty words to television and thus made them more acceptable in otherwise polite public discussion. His tabloid newspaper journalism, meanwhile, focused on celebrities and scandal in ways that have eroded serious political debate and public policy. That’s even without getting into his influence in Hollywood.
Put simply, we’re a less polite society than we were before his appearance. Or should we just say, cruder? That’s even before we get into the Fox News role as the Republican Party mouthpiece. Or all of the Murdoch-related phone-hacking uproar in Britain.
Now we might wonder how he’s reacting in private to the Donald’s emergence as the GOP presidential race leader. Someone from another television network, free from the Fox connection, all the same rising and then riding on the confrontational entertainment celebrity approach to political argument Murdoch’s nurtured.
Still, Murdoch’s far from the faceless corporate existence we see elsewhere. He’s passionate about print journalism, for one thing, and has been willing to take risks. But when people complain about “the media,” he’s still part of the mix, the one that almost always carries negative connotations. And, for the record, let’s point out it’s really corporate media, focused on big profits, rather than liberal.
I was enjoying a leisurely trip back through Vermont, taking many breaks with my camera. All was well until approaching the New Hampshire line, I stopped to capture pictures of a Mennonite church – one of a few in New England – and was about to walk a block or two to take shots of a long covered bridge across the Ottauquechee River. Alas, my camera stopped working.
I assumed the battery simply ran out of juice, though back home I remembered (too late) sometimes you just need to remove it and put it back in – have no idea why that works, but it did on my old Kodak. Well, I’m still getting acquainted with my new Olympus from Christmas.
There would no doubt have also been additional shots of the “quintessential Vermont” general store, a bed and breakfast, and other quaint buildings clustered around the green – this was Taftsville, after all, which turns out to be a neighborhood in the iconic town of Woodstock.
The 189-foot-long span built in 1836 along what’s now U.S. 4 was severely damaged by the remains of Hurricane Irene in late August 2011 and for several years was left dangling precariously from a middle pier. (It’s listed as a Multiple King post and arch design, by the way.) Now, including a fresh coat of red paint, it looks dazzling. Alas, you’ll have to take my word for it.
More missed photo ops took place an hour later, when I stopped for lunch in Lebanon, New Hampshire – not down by the busy interchange along the Connecticut River but up on the hill, around the old green. It’s one of those New England towns that has an opera house as part of city hall, and this one has an actual opera season each summer. This year’s bill includes not just Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio and Bernstein’s West Side Story but also Aaron Copland’s rarely performed Tender Land. What I saw and heard of that, by spying through a crack in double doors from the lobby, was gorgeous. Well, again you’ll have to take my word for it. You would have seen the exterior of the hall from the common.
Finally, much closer to home, as I was stuck in a construction delay at the Lee traffic circle, I looked out my car window and saw three fawns grazing placidly at roadside. If my camera were working, it would have been a classic shot. They’re such small, fragile critters with such big pointy ears!
Well, even with the missed opportunities, I am happy with what I got that day. Now, to plan ahead to scheduling them for this blogging!
Many of these Red Barn postings have illustrated the historic seacoast region of New Hampshire where I live. While our downtown is 16 or 17 miles inland from the Atlantic, the tides roll in all the way up to the waterfalls and mill dam at the heart of our city, and then roll out, usually twice a day. In fact, Dover was an active seaport until floods and silting took their toll early in the 20th century.
Situated on the Cocheco River, as well as the Bellamy and a stretch of the Salmon Falls, Dover was once a major textiles manufacturer and railroad center. It’s part of a cluster of small cities and adjacent towns, each with its own character, that drain into the Piscataqua River before it, in turn, pours into the ocean.
In contrast, downstream on the full Piscataqua, Portsmouth boasts of an active port – one with iconic red tugboats, oceanic freighters, and active passenger cruises around the harbor, its islands, and coastal sights – stretches familiar to us from both the shoreline and ventures out on water. On the Maine side of the river, the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard builds and repairs nuclear submarines.
Upstream, however, has remained far more mysterious. Since it’s hard to glimpse much of the waterway from public roads, we’ve long wondered how the route would appear. Long ago I discovered how different a shoreline fits together when viewed from a boat rather than the lands around it. This is, after all, a major part of where we live.
The MV Heritage in Portsmouth Harbor.
At last, hearing of the Inland River Fall Foliage Cruise offered each September and October aboard the 49-passenger MV Heritage, my wife and I got a chance to see for ourselves. Depending on the timing of high tide, its daily two-and-a-half hour trip ventures from downtown Portsmouth to downtown Dover 11 or 12 miles upriver or, as an alternative, into Great Bay, itself a remarkable estuary.
It was an eye-opener. Once we left the familiar, picturesque Colonial-era Portsmouth Harbor, we began passing all of New Hampshire’s industrial waterfront, which includes three electrical power plants, the world’s largest lobster operation, an oceanic underwater cable producer, oil tank farms, and the like – each with major docking facilities for oceanic freighters or other vessels. I hadn’t envisioned the extent of this activity. Nor had we anticipated the width of the passageway, in many places approaching three-quarters of a mile. Not what most folks would call beautiful, but it was impressive, even if we were grateful Aristotle Onassis failed in his attempt to put an oil refinery a bit upstream.
Clouds and a sharp breeze arrived quickly after we left the dock and started passing industrial waterfront.
Once we’d passed the mouth to Great Bay, we were surprised by how much of Dover itself sits on the Piscataqua – and how much very expensive waterfront housing with expensive docks to match have been built there, mostly, as we were told, in the past two decades, now that the river’s been cleaned up from its earlier industrial pollution. In fact, looking at this and at the Maine side of the river gave the impression of passing high-profile lake shores with their ever more imposing year-round mansions. To be frank, we were a bit stunned by the wealth we were witnessing – where are these people in our otherwise modest city and what’s their source of income? Theirs is a different world, we’d say.
That’s not to say there weren’t stretches of colorful foliage or fascinating wildlife. In addition to a host of herons, gulls, and cormorants (we most loved the ones who stood atop mooring buoys marked “private,” as if the birds defiantly owned them), we viewed a soaring osprey and then a bald eagle in flight, an impressive hawk high in a pine overlooking the river, and a seal or two – all close to home.
The Pisacataqua originates at the fork of the Salmon Falls and Cocheco River, which we then followed as it narrowed on its way to downtown Dover.
What a contrast!
At one broad pool, we were told that tall-mast ships turned around here before reaching the mills by being poled by hand on high tide or pulled by oxen the final few miles. And, at the upper narrows, we appreciated a friend’s work with the Army Corps of Engineers in dredging power-plant tar from the river to reopen the passage. (That could be another posting in its own right.)
We passed the marina at the edge of downtown and circled, to retrace our journey.
The final passage into downtown Dover narrows and twists. Here it is at high tide.
Why is it, the return always seems to go faster than the first part, outward?
On our drive home after debarking, we stayed close to the rivers. Surprising how discrete the lanes to the big houses! You’d never, ever, suspect they were there if you hadn’t taken the cruise. Makes us wonder how much more is hidden just out of view.
As another bronze plaque nearby proclaims, this is the 1818 home of the oldest Freewill Baptist congregation in America. Situated near the conjunction of Alton, New Durham, and Farmington, the site has a breathtaking view of New Hampshire’s White Mountains.
Sometimes a detail from a specialized strand of knowledge opens up an insight on a broader field. In this case, it springs from my awareness of Quaker history and the naming of children.
One of the pivotal figures in the schisms within the Society of Friends in the first half of the 1800s was a wealthy English banker and evangelist who traveled widely through the United States from 1837 to 1840. Joseph John Gurney (1788-1847) was so popular that “Joseph Johns” became a synonym for potluck dishes in parts of the American South, and many infant boys were named Gurney in his honor. He was even invited by Henry Clay, the Speaker of the House, to use the Capitol’s Legislation Hall to address members of Congress. In the end, a large branch of American Quakers came to be known as Gurneyites.
All that came to my mind while scanning a list of Speakers of the House and wondering if any had become president. (As noted earlier, one had – James K. Polk, who defeated Clay in that election.)
But the name of another Speaker caught my eye: Joseph Gurney Cannon, a Republican from Illinois who led the House of Representatives from 1903 to 1911.
Could there be link to the English evangelist?
As it turns out, yes.
Although Cannon’s biography has him born a Quaker in 1836 in Guilford County, North Carolina, (home of my Hodgson ancestry for many generations), I find no Cannons in the genealogical minutes. His mother, on the other hand, came from an established Friends family, which would have provided Quaker contact but not membership. In fact, her marrying a non-Friend meant losing her own membership in 1828, though she could still attend worship. Joe moved with his family to Indiana in 1840, eventually married in a Methodist service, joined a Masonic lodge, and died a Methodist in 1926. It’s a common story, actually.
What’s more interesting is the argument that “Uncle Joe” was the most dominant Speaker in the history of the House, as well as being its second longest. Time magazine’s first issue (March 3, 1923) featured his portrait on the cover, for good reason. Cannon was the longest-serving Republican in the House, totaling 40 years in office.
So much for the image of meek Quakers, no matter how tenuous the connection. Not just outspoken and pugnacious, Cannon was apparently tyrannical, leading to a crisis not unlike the one facing Congress at the moment. He was stripped of much of his ironfisted control in something resembling a coup by progressive Republicans aligned with Democrats. Sound familiar?
Cannon’s history also plays into another line of mine. He was followed as Speaker by Champ Clark of Missouri, who was somehow closely affiliated in business dealings with one of my mother’s ancestors.
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