Deportation Traffic Court

I went to the shiny new Federal courthouse in Tucson and found the courtroom for the special deportation program "Operation Streamline". I went with Diane Dowgiert, minister of the Unitarain Universalist congregation in Tucson. Without her, I probably would not have actually gotten there and done it, and I'm usually pretty good at getting to things on my own. It was that intimidating! I had accidentally brought my little camera, which I had to leave at the checkpoint. They let us keep our phones and did not make us take off our shoes.

We found the courtroom, where people involved in the proceedings were being held not only in all the places to sit in the "business" section of the courtroom, but also in the benches normally used for the public, over on the left of the room. They asked us to sit way over on the right, leaving the large middle section empty. Public defenders were also everywhere.

The translator went through the rows of prisoners passing out headphones so they could hear the translation of the proceedings. I noticed he used hand sanitizer afterwards, but I guess anyone would after handing out forty or so headphones to a bundh of strangers.

It became clear as people were called forward to participate in court proceedings that they were manacled with chains around their waists, and shackled. A few had orange prison t-shirts. Most were in the nondescript, faded clothes that seem typical of Hispanic working people. Almost all of them were men.

Everything was well organized and civil. There had been a sorting out of cases, so the great bulk of them were people who had accepted plea deals for some prison time with deportation afterward. (I learned that first-time offenders of being in the country illegally are convicted of a misdemeanor and deported, but that any subsequent occurrence of being in the country illegally is a felony. These were all felony cases.)

A few cases that were going to go to trial or be dismissed were handled at the beginning of the session. The rest was a litany of accepting plea deals through the translator. I wondered if everyone had understood their options. I wondered if all the public defenders spoke good enough Spanish. I wondered what conditions were like in detention. It looked and sounded respectful, but so much took place before anyone appeared in open court. Is this okay? I'm thinking probably not.

It was chilling to realize the size of the flow of deportations from this one place. This court meets three times a week. I heard that Tucson has the largest volume of deportations in the country. Surely there is a better way.

Crossing Borders

People have been crossing the border and ending up in Tucson for years. Once, before the Gadsden Purchase, there was no border. Then for a long time, it was very casual, with people going back and forth for business and family visits and thinking little of it.

There came a time when people fleeing violence in the South began to arrive here seeking shelter. The wheels of bureaucracy turned slowly, slowly, as these political refugees petitioned for asylum. For some, the ones from Nicaragua and some of the ones from El Salvador, their politics were not right. Along the border, a system of sanctuary churches quietly called itself into being. It was an interfaith effort, involving Catholics, Presbyterians, and Unitarian Universalists that I know of, and the memory of this forms the oldest layer of organizing around illegal border crossing in this area. When I visited the Unitarian Universalist Church here in Tucson, I saw the oddly placed sign outside the minister's office and heard the story that it covered the hole the FBI had made when they broke in and went through the files to find out where the political refugees were being hidden.

Now, people fleeing economic catastrophe in the South have been coming, and continue to come. When there is no other way to make sure the children have food, people cross in all the various ways available to them. I don't know how the connection works for sure, but I think it's not a coincidence that this latest wave of migration began with the signing of the North American Fair Trade Act (NAFTA). It has affected some parts of our economy more than others, and although the claim is that undocumented migrants are merely taking jobs that "legal" Americans won't do, the truth is that they will work for much lower wages and tolerate much more difficult working conditions. If not for undocumented people afraid to make a fuss, some industries -- vegetable harvesting, meat processing -- might have to offer decent wages and working conditions. The situation is far from simple.

The Desert and the Wall

Today I joined with a community college group for a very quick tour of a few important aspects of the border expereince just South of Tucson. Our first stop was in Green Valley at the home of one of the founders of the Samaritans, a group that walks the desert trails to provide humanitarian assistance to people who are walking from the border towards Tucson. The people they help are undocumented, and the basis for the help is that it is never illegal to keep people from dying, even though it is illegal to provide help in making their way into the country. So they walk a fine line, with jugs of water, socks, shoes, and first aid supplies in their packs.

Walking where migrants have been walking, where migrants might be concealing themselves nearby, this is a very moving experience, even though we were not out very long. Even on this late October day, it was warm out there. Even though it was not particularly hilly or rough, the land was a bosque,studded with cactus and prickly shrub-like trees. Migrants travel at night to reduce the chance of detection, and I kept thinking of how it might be to dodge through that underbrush.

The spot we were touring was carefully selected -- it had been near a pick-up spot, so there were signs that people had been waiting there. Not recently, but the signs were clear. Items of clothing, backpacks, water bottles, strewn by the side of the trail. I thought of the people who had walked at least two days to reach that spot from the border -- of their determination, of their desperation to find some way to survive by taking this tremendous risk.

We got back in the bus and rode to Nogales. A border runs through it. We stayed on the Arizona side and looked at the wall. It used to be a solid metal wall with lots of art painted on it. This summer, they built a new, improved, wall, of metal posts just far enough apart that you can sort of see through it. The perception of one town with a fence down the middle is even clearer -- we could see Nogales, Sonora, right there, going about its business. We chatted with a young Border Patrol agent who told us about the tunnel they had filled in just under where we were standing. We had lunch in the park and heard the story of someone who had crossed illegally twice and decided to return twice. In that context, the story was especially moving.

Those are the things I need to report. Probably the pictures tell the story.

Occupy Tucson

It's not really on my agenda for this trip, but I did happen to run across the encampment of "Occupy Tucson" this morning while out walking. It was really too early (just before 8 AM) to visit with anyone, although some folks were up and stirring. Everything was in good order, and the occupiers seemed to be blending in with the downtown homeless crowd pretty well. A police officer was mediating a dispute between an occupier and a homeless guy about the homeless guy's behavior (I did not find out what it was). A group of police with bicycles and a Segway were gathered in the shade across the street, but they seemed pretty mellow.
Last week's local independent weekly newspaper had a story about negotiations over tickets that were supposedly going to be written for folks who camped overnight, but I guess that was resolved. Everyone here seems grateful that Tucson is not Phoenix. They apparently don't lead with pepper spray!

If someone can tell me where to get a cup of coffee in downtown Tucson, I'd be grateful!

Getting Started in Tucson

I can't say enough about the kind hospitality at Borderlinks, whose mission is to help people understand the border here. Five years ago, I spent a week with them, mostly on a trip in which we visited the little town of Altar, where a small border crossing was at that time the focal point for informal crossings at dispersed locations; then in Mexico, to a shelter where people planning to cross could find a meal and a place to sleep and a shower -- also a talking-to about just how dangerous the crossing could be. We went to Nogales, Mexico, and staysd with families in the barrio, visited a maquiladora factory, and went shopping for groceries (not to buy, but to see quality, selection, and price).

We met people in Nogales who were working with people who had been returned across the border, saw the wall from the Mexico side, and experienced the crossing through the high-security checkpoint at Nogales. We camped out in the desert and walked some of the paths used by migrants. I learned a lot. Then I went back to New Hampshire, where most undocumented people have other kinds of stories. Still, this was an eye-opener. I had much greater appreciation for undocumented people in my community.

Now that I am in the Denver area, I wanted to come back and see what has changed, to reconnect, and to make some new connections. When I contacted Borderlinks, I got a quick reply and lots of suggestions about how to make those connections, as well as an invitation to take a day trip (tomorrow) to hit the high (low?) spots of the border crossing experience, just the thing for finding out what has changed. I suspect the amazing Arisona desert will be the same. What they tell me in Denver is that this would be the likely area for people who have been deported from there to try to return.

I can think of no better way to introduce Unitarian Universalists to the reality of the border situation, not only in Arizona, but everywhere in the United States, than a delegation with Borderlinks
To organize a trip for your group to the Arizona border, you should be in touch with Borderlinks, www.borderlinks.org, 620 South 6th Avenue, Tucson AZ, 85701-2302.
Their phone number is 520-628-8263.

The people in the photo are Susanna McKibben, Executive Director Fernanda Morillon, Elsbeth Pollack, Nancy Cordova, and Development Director Scott NIcholson.

A Quick Adventure

Now that I am in Colorado, where it's noticeable how many people are Hispanic, I'm ready to see what a UU minister might do about issues around migrants.

I went to a meeting for clergy sponsored by the American Friends Service Committee here and found that there's a lot already going on. One of the challenges will be to find ways to fit in. There's the once-a-month vigil at the detention center in Aurora. There are occasional opportunities to visit detainees. There are sometimes chances to stand with people at their deportation hearings. Someone from my congregation goes regularly to Tucson, AZ, with socks, belts, and shoelaces, for people who have been released from detention and don't have those things. I learned that people being deported from the Denver area go through El Paso, a much more dangerous area for people being returned.

Five years ago, I went to Tucson myself for a human rights trip to the desert where people walk into the United States and various places associated with that desert walk -- especially Nogales, MX, where it was perfectly clear why some people choose the risky desert crossing. Hundreds of people still die each year.

This fall, I want to update my understanding of the border, so I'm going to take a quick visit again to Tucson. I'll be staying with Borderlinks, the group who organized the trip I went on the last time. The adventure starts Wednesday and ends Saturday, so we'll see what happens!

A Place to Set Out From

So here I have it, a place to set out from. The boxes are unpacked, the things stashed more or less where they belong, the routines of the day are established, and this afternoon, I set out cheerfully to drive up into the foothills for a little hike. I followed the directions up a highway with a state route number to a certain town to find a certain road, turn here turn there, and before I knew it, there I was a the Lazy J Ranch Jefferson County park.

This is a park with a very modest three and a half mile loop trail with very small elevation changes, just what I was needing. I can climb the two flights of stairs to my apartment with only a little huffing and puffing at the top, but this trailhead was two thousand feet higher than the Mile High City and environs.

Then I came home.

This was not the same as my trip to Montana, which was almost a continuation of the original road trip to get here. My apartment was not yet really my home. But now that I have set out to work and shop a bunch of times and come back, especially now that i have set out for a hike in the mountains, I must be home when I return.

Today I also bought some things to use for real cooking. If it's home, I don't need all these plastic containers of things to eat. I can fix food for myself. We'll see.

Maybe that's another level of being home.

A Day in the Park

Melody likes to go to the park, the "blue" park, especially, the one with the purple slide. She likes it best when there are just the right number of other kids there, so she's not all alone and not having to shove her way through the crowd. So we've been going there. But yesterday, we went to the other park, Glacier National Park, to see where her Dad is working.

Mike is working on the project to restore the Going-to-the-Sun Road, which was originally built in the 1930's and is now showing signs of wanting to slide off the mountainside. His part is to replace the stone guardrails just the way they were when they were new. Underneath, there's lots of concrete and other new-tech stuff, but on top, the appearance of old. Apparently they number the rocks when they take them off, but it's still not completely straightforward to put them back.

We went to see her Dad for lunch, which was great fun, and then up to Logan Pass, on the Continental Divide, where snow and glacier lilies grace the awesome panorama of wild, rocky peaks. Melody's favorite was the display basket full of little plush birds that make authentic bird calls when squeezed. On the way down, we stopped for a photo op by the river.

Fun in the Sun

The Flathead Valley is working its magic -- time has slowed down, tasks all look optional, in short, I am on vacation. Being a baby, Lilah is always on vacation and yet always busy. She's sporting shades to get ready for her first-ever dip in the pool. The water was a little chilly, but not so cold that it wasn't intriguing.

Melody and I went to the town pool yesterday. She is as yet a non-swimmer, so I spent an hour and a half hanging out in the kiddie end, doing kiddie pool things, having lots of fun. We got cold, so we went for ice cream... maybe not such a great idea for people who are cold, but that was fun, too. We found a Glacier Park poster she liked, one with lots of animals, and a very cuddly plush black bear. We grandparents are supposed to spoil them, right?

Mike said he saw a bear at lunchtime while he was at work up on the Going-to-the-Sun Road. The bear was far enough away. How much wildlife to most people see at work? Ministry does not provide great opportunities. I did see a bunny in the parking lot at Columbine UU. (And I won't mention the skunks and 'possums around the trash cans behind churches after meetings)

My Kalispell colleague and I may be able to get together, though she reports she is "in camp" this week. I like the sound of that! And I may be able to see my colleague in Bozeman as I pass through on the way back to Colorado. The tendrils of work reach out to draw me back even as I am basking in being away!

Strawberries and Cherries in the Flathead

Mike's garden was overrun with strawberries this year. He has frozen them, given them away, eaten quantities of them, and most of all he has made strawberry jam. Thos are pints and quarts in the picture! Their season has just about run its course, with blueberries and red raspberries beginning to appear in the garden. But the big news is that down toward the other end of Flathead Lake, the Flathead cherries are ripe. I haven't yet made the pie that the bag of Montmerencys promises, but we have gorged ourselves silly on Bings and Rainiers. And not a zucchini in sight!

Vacationing, we ignore the news, except for the local weather, which has been very pleasant. It's cloudy and cool today, but has been sunny and comfortably warm so far. And word has reached me that the Denver area has been having a heat wave since I left...

Melody, age 4, is tan and strong from outdoor fun all summer. She has become fearful of riding her two-wheeler with the training wheels, though, which is disappointing to her bike-riding granny. Oh, well, we'll get there. She's still young for balancing and riding on two wheels.

Lila, Melody's cousin, age 9 months, is doing what her dad calls a "commando crawl". Belly to the ground, working from the feet more than the knees, she draws herself forward mostly by arm strength. She alternates this crawl with a roll to get where she's going.

Grandma is having a good week.

Heading for Montana

The heat wave was going to get serious in the Denver area, so I left town just in time last Thursday, heading straight north on I-25, right through Denver and out the other side, bound first for Wyoming. This was new territory for me. Turned out to be majestic rolling grassland, a lovely green from the rainy spring and early summer. And very sparse human habitation. Even only a few cattle in view. I did pass one place with bison -- that was fun. And by late afternoon, I was in sight of tall mountains. I stopped in Buffalo, Wyoming, where I-90 meets I-25.

There, I discovered the reason why it had been hard to get a room for the night. Not the large volume of holiday travel at the confluence of interstate highways, no. They were having a national Basque festival that weekend and I was going to miss it! Herding the sheep through the streets, selling wool and Basque things, playing pelota, dancing, making music, speaking Basque. The only signs of the coming weekend's festivities were the old-time shepherd's wagons parked here and there, Basque flags lining Main Street, and notices in shop windows. I sighed and headed North again.

I traveled all day, heading mostly West on I-90 through Montana, following the Yellowstone River and then picking up the Clark Fork on the other side of the Continental Divied. The scenery is so majestic and vast that it does not seem wrong to view it at 75 miles an hour. Mouuntains to the South, Mountains to the North, and the rivers threading their way through them.

Now I am in the Flathead valley, settling in with part of that vast magnificence.

At home again

My things did catch up with me. I unpacked them and put most of them away, so now it looks as if I live in this new place. There's still a lot of more random than usual material scattered over the surfaces, but the outlines of a place where I might live are there underneath. That's my "grandmother corner" in the photo. I took the last load of packing material down to the recycling dumpster this morning on my way to go on vacation in Montana. That's what home is for, right? to have a place to leave and come back to?

One of the Columbine folk I spoke with told the story of moving to Littleton and feeling very content. Her husband had said he knew she was happy because the pictures had gone up on the walls. My pictures are up. They more or less placed themselves on the walls, and I installed them where they told me they wanted to be. I think this is a good sign.

In my neighborhood there are a Nepalese/Indian restaurant-- not as good as MoMo's in Manchester, NH, but good-- and a Vietnamese restaurant, also good, reminding me of one I liked in Vernon, Connecticut, a long time ago. Still, it's very busy with lots of commerce and lots of traffic. My apartment complex has some of us post-family folk, but mostly is occupied by younger adults. I did make a conscious choice to be in this sort of complex. The alternative was a lovely senior citizens building where I would have been one of the younger residents, and I'm so not ready for that!

My living-on-the-third-floor fitness plan is starting to pay off already, though there are moments when I wish I didn't have to make that one more trip up or down the stairs (no elevator).

I'm glad I stayed for the Board meeting before heading out on vacation. I learned a lot about how this congregation is working and what some of its issues are, and I believe I had a couple of helpful suggestions. Someone remarked that what I am doing is "oozing" into being there. My first chance to lead worship is August 21, but I will be making smaller appearances in many different ways before then. And my official ceremonial momsnt of beinb welcomed will be on September 18.

Waiting for the Truck

It's not late. They said they would come the 15th or the 16th, and it looks like they'll be here tomorrow (the 16th). I had declared these few days a time of spiritual reflection, and indeed, I have done some of that. But I confess, while my space with no furniture is lovely for meditation and yoga, even for reading when it's not dark, I find myself missing the internet and the radio.

I confess, yesterday I got in the car and drove around so I could listen to the news. I sat in the coffee shop and read the Washington Post online. And right now, I'm typing into Blogger while listening to "On Point" on the computer. Addicted? Well, maybe. If I can't do without this stuff for a few days, do I have a problem? And of course, it must mean something about my state of mind that I want to listen to a Boston-based program...

I heard from Chris LeGore last night that she had gotten home to Maine. We both affirm it was a great road trip, even with the high incidence of accidents on I-80. I'll be back on the road next Thursday for my trip to Montana, and I'll be missing Chris' company.

Today, something is keeping Blogger from uploading my photo. (I even turned off the radio to see if that would help!) I do want to share this empty space with you. Oh, well!

Empty Space Again

So here I am, in the empty space at the other end of this journey, camping out on the cushy carpet in my new digs.

The church is one mile away, along busy streets that don't really welcome walking or even cycling. But there's plenty of walking and cycling terrain nearby. I did have one more adventure with the fancy expensive bike rack before the trip was done, by the way -- when I went to release the back wheel from its little strappy holder, I couldn't release the ratchet. Trying to loosen it, I only tightened it. Lift this, poke that, to no avail. The nice man at the bike shop showed me how to do it, so now I can both put the bike ON the rack and take it OFF. (There's the small matter of schlepping it down from and up to the third floor each time, and we'll see how that goes! Fortunately, it's light.)

I did laundry in the machines that are right there behind folding doors in the kitchen. What a treat! And I stashed the clothes I brought in the walk-in closet. Despite the fact that the tub is large and lovely I hung up the shower curtain so I don't have to soak EVERY time. The plants are enjoying the balcony.

I've been sighted by folks at church, so I'm already a bit more aware of what's going on here. There's a Board meeting next Thursday, which I plan to attend, then I'm off to Montana for a week of actual, official, vacation.

Arrived!

We drove from Fort Morgan to Littleton without incident, passing stockyards enough to make us wonder about eating steak, doing a very modest amount of downtown traffic, managing to find the right exit, total uneventfulness!

Between us, Chris and I managed to lift the things from the car to the apartment. We divided the stairs -- she took the lower flight, and I took the upper one. And reminded each other that at our advanced ages we should take it easy. Then it was time for lunch!

I left Chris at her friends' in Boulder and successfully found my way back (now I can go dancing in Boulder...).

The movers should be here in a few days. In the meantime, I have my little camp. Right now the internet is at Panera's or at the office, so I'm a little dicombobulated. There are photos, but you can't see them until I get them out of the camera. Chris thought the contrast between old and new apartments was just hilarious. Me, too.

I'm glad to have a few days to contemplate the arrangement of the things on the truck in this new space. It will be good. I can have breakfast with a view of a little mountain. More soon.

Crossing the Plains

It was hot and muggy as we started the day in Omaha, but there were these happy make-your-own waffles in the breakfast room. The plants almost died the second day out, but they are feeling a little better. And now we are in Fort Morgan, just northeast of Denver, ready to complete our trip tomorrow.

Today we saw the residue of the worst accident yet, two tractor-trailer trucks and a car-plus-camper twisted into a blackened pile together. We did not learn who died and who survived, but it was sobering to pass by the wreckage. For a few minutes after, everyone drove a little slower. We drove a little slower the whole rest of the day. When accidents happen at speeds of 75 mph plus, it seems there's always something that bursts into flame. The distances are vast, the scenery is hypnotic, and people just drive faster than their minds can go.

Our scenic stop today was the Union Pacific freight yard at North Platte (a town origianlly known as "Hell on Wheels"). We skipped Buffalo Bill's ranch, which is the main tourist attraction in town, wending our way to the new, impressive visitors' tower overlooking the yard. Two humps sort cars for making up new trains going to different destinations. Techniques borrowed from Nascar speed up the servicing of engines as the trains come in and go out. It takes about 10 minutes to fuel a train these days.

But it was what we saw while driving that made our day. The plains are magnificent. After a day in Iowa yesterday and today in Nebraska, their vastness and majesty started to speak to us. Everywhere you look, you look to a far horizon. As we came through Eastern Colorado, a thunderstorm loomed in front of us, then passed mostly to the South, and we could watch its path, lightning bolts shooting out and all. It's not the aesthetic of the East, this vastness and greenness. In the East, we turn to the ocean for vastness. Here is is on land. A wonder.

Tomorrow, I pick up the keys to my apartment, assuming all goes as planned, and move the things from the car into my new home. It will be sparse fo r a few days until the truck arrives... how will it be? I'll see.

Amana and Accidents

With the change in time zones, we found ourselves ready for the road at an early hour. We crossed the Mississippi at Rock Island-Moline-Davenport-Bettendorf, where our intentions to visit the island at Rock Island were foiled by a closed exit off the highway. We went over the bridge and looked back from the grounds of the Isle of Capri casino barge. People were parking there to get on a bus to watch the John Deere Classic golf tournament. It was too hot, we thought, to be playing or watching golf. It was good to be in a car with air conditioning.

The highlight of the day was our visit to the Amana colonies, once an experiment in communal living based on the inspiration of Christian Metz, a seer of late 18th, early 19th century Germany. His Community of True Inspiraton lasted about 100 years, established first near Buffalo, NY, and then in several villages named Amana this and Amana that in Eastern Iowa. The Religious Society of True Inspiration still survives with about 350 members, though the community was dissolved into a corporation in 1932.

We had another German-style meal this day, including a glass of Iowa wine, and wished for the excellent historical museums of New England as we figured out how to thread our way among the various exhibits. There was a museum gift shop with a short film, so we watched that -- informative. But the best part was talking with Emily, the gift shop proprietress and introducer of the film. She was part of the religious society of True Inspiration, and spoke with first hand knowledge of the way life was in the Colonies. When we went to see the common kitchen in Middle Amana, we learned a great deal more from a widow whose name we did not learn, also a Church member, but a convert in her earlier years to the Church. She had learned about the ways of the community when it practiced communal living from her older neighbor, who had owned the building to which the kitchen was attached.

These Colonies had common kitchens serving ten or so families. The women worked in the kitchens and in the kitchen gardens, while the men attended to the other enterprises of the Colony (you may have heard of Amana appliances?). There were old kitchen implements, photos of the gardens, and much more in the little brick building attached to a house. Food was taken in silence, with 15 minutes allowed for each meal, no dawdling!

Our last stop was at the Church museum. One of the meetinghouses has been taken over to be used as an exhibit. There we met another elderly woman with a wealth of story about the Amana Colonies. Harriet regaled us with tales of religious practice, being careful to emphasize how normal and similar to regular Lutherans their independent community is.

It was later than we meant it to be by the time we headed West again. Our way was plagued with road construction and punctuated with accidents. We saw one car upside down in the bushes by the side of the road, a charred trailer still in flames after the rest of its accident had been cleaned up, and a semi that had laid itself and its trailer over on the side across three lanes of traffic... it occurred to us that if we are going to be driving many, many, miles a day, we are likely to see more accidents than in normal life. It was not greatly comforting. Still, we are looking forward to tomorrow's drive with renewed determination to drive safely.

Into the Heartland

Last night, the internet connection was too feeble for The Open Road, but we had had a good day's travel. We left our motel near Astabula, Ohio, and turned back onto 90 West, crossing Ohio without incident. As we neared Indiana, we turned off onto Route 20 to drive through farming country, looking for the Amish community there. Their commercial center is in Shipshewana. What we saw in the surrounding countryside was a patchwork of Amish-looking places alternating with places that looked as if cars and electricity had been added to establishments otherwise similar to the Amish ones. There were a number of very prosperous looking farms with no wires running to them and no vehicles in view along one road, but that was the exception. We had a hearty midday meal of German style food at a restaurant in Shipshewana and drove on. It was a good, but not altogether satisfying visit.

We skirted Chicago successfully, just a little ahead of rush hour, and made our way to another nearly nonexistent place with a motel in Western Illinois. Fortunately, we had leftovers from lunch and did not need to explore the area for a restaurant.

Chautauqua then Ohio

We started the day in Utica with a tour of old downtown to get to the UU Church building on Higby street. The building is looking good (the trees have grown since I worked there) and the sign is freshly painted. Just as I was wondering if I was arriving at the right intersection on Genessee Street, there was one of the UU directional signs to show the way. I wish them well!

So we hit the Thruway, headed for Buffalo. It's is full of construction, needed and normal for the season, but a bit of a challenge, slipping along next to Jersey barriers here, waiting for lane drop merges there, bumping over scraped surface in one section, gliding on the finished product in another.

Beyond Buffalo, we were headed for Chautauqua, to visit with my friend and colleague Alson and see the magical summer community that is the Chautauqua Institute. We had a lovely lunch, then a lovely stroll through the village and the amazingly fancy historic hotel, along the lake, and back to the UU House. We sat on the terrace in back of the UU House until the Chautauqua Fellowship's Finance Committee started showing up for their meeting. They said we were welcome to stay, but the "meeting energy" was palpable even as the first two or three of them gathered, and none of us was wanting any of that just now. This summer fellowship does a really good job, introducing many Chautauquans to Unitarian Universalism with their open-air Sunday services at the Hall of Philosophy.

The Chautauqua Symphony was rehearsing for their evening concert of music by Russian composers. At the start of our stroll, we heard a movement of piano concerto. Then as we finished, some of a Rachmaninoff symphony. Such a rich cultural environment!

Then back into the car. It felt good to have stretched our legs a little. After a rather strange experience finding fuel in a little country town, we found ourselves on I-90 again, back in the festival of road improvement and heading for Cleveland. We stopped short of Cleveland in a Place of Motels. The Holiday Inn Express looked like the right choice, with a pool for release from all that sitting. We had a kind of down-home dinner at a local restaurant suggested by the desk clerk. The local white wine went well with a plate of ribs.

We're looking toward another Place of Motels on the other side of Chicago for our stop tomorrow.

We Start Out

It was a combination of the poetic and the mundane -- the misty morning sunshine on the harbor and the last few things needing to be packed; the birdsong, the general early morning peacefulness and the details of getting the bike onto its new rack; the series of last looks around Belfast -- blooming gardens, people getting started on the day, trash ready to be collected, uneven pavement. On balance, though, the poetic won out. It was a lovely day, even a lovely day for leaving town "forever."

Jay was easily able to solve the problem of getting the old bike onto the new, expensive bike rack (there really was a technical problem, Jacqui, it wasn't just us!). Chris was able to play with her grandson a little before we got on the road. We dropped off her car at a friend's near the airport in Portland so she could drive home after she got off the plane on the return trip, and then the trip was on!

I had the sense all day of leaving behind famliar destinations connected by these familiar highways. I have been traveling the roads of New England and upstate New York for much of my adult life. Something quite new is about to happen with this adventure of living in the West.

I drove as far a Lowell, MA. Then Chris took over for the rest of the drive to Utica, NY. I would have felt like a slacker if I hadn't been so tired from all that getting ready for the movers, all the work of prying so many things out of their accustomed places and into different ones. She drove through a fierce rainstorm with area of lightning and thunder while I tried to find the radio station with the detailed weather forecast. We spent a pleasant evening with old friends of hers and fell into our very basic, comfortable enough rented beds.

Utica is the farthest west I have ever lived. I was here as an interim minister in 2000-2001, the year I was ordained, graduated, and accepted into preliminary fellowship, the year I was called to Manchester, NH. Little did I know that the interim ministry would be calling me back and sending me even farther west!

So onward!

Empty Space

Yesterday my apartment went from looking like a storage area of boxes to being an empty space. Jim and Troy from Allied Van Lines came in a really, really, enormous truck to pack up my things. They built a sculpture wall in the truck, tying everything in with great precision so nothing moved. The truck was too big to navigate the tiny streets of beautiful downtown Belfast. Jim managed to ease it onto the side of Spring Street to load up the contents of #38, but Troy had to lug my books over the path from church rather than have the truck pull around the corner to Miller Street. The truck had to be backed out of Spring Street to leave town-- around the Post Office and out Route 3, heading for another pickup in Portland.

I was so intent on the whole process that I forgot to take a picture! You'll just have to imagine the ginormous orange truck with the extra long sleep-in cab trying to tiptoe through the 19th-century streets.

I stayed overnight with Jacqui both Monday and Tuesday. Chris and I will start out thie morning. Oh yes, and the bicycle story has another chapter: Jacqui and I couldn't put my dear old bike on the fancy new bike rack. Are we missing something? Or is the bike so old that its fork isn't the right size to fit the little bar that's supposed to hold it upright on the car? It's in the car now, on the way to Chris and Jay's house, where more eyes and hands can address this puzzle. Did I just buy an expensive bike rack for my as-yet unpurchased new bike?

The night before, I went to my last Scottish dancing class. I was too worn out from lugging stuff up and down stairs to actually dance, so I took pictures. One or two of them were okay. Since it was the 4th of July, there was a special program at our usual venue, the American Legion hall, so we danced on the stage at the Maskers.

July 4, 2011

I'm sitting in the living room of my apartment in Belfast, Maine, getting ready to move on from what has been a very rewarding interim ministry with the UU congregation here. The movers are coming tomorrow. Then, the next day begins a trip to Colorado, where I'll start another interim with the Columbine contregation in Littleton, just outside Denver. Chris from this congregation has old college friends in Colorado, so she said she'd share the drive with me. What a blessing!

The packing is almost complete. I keep resisting the temptation to put one more thing in the car. It's pretty full, but I'm determined not to present the classic picture moving -- loaded to the gunwales and no way to see out the rear view mirror. I bought a much too expensive Yakima bike rack so my ancient bike can travel in style (and not destroy the plastic parts on the back of the Subaru). Even though its cost would go a significant way to buying a new bike, I'd still want a rack to carry the new one, right? And I just this minute figured out what to do to keep from having to balance my grandmother's big old basket on the back seat -- yes! it can be packed safely and taken by the movers! Only a few challenges remain. Most can be solved by the church yard sale, Goodwill, or the dump!

Fortunately, it's misty and gray this morning, perfect for working, limited temptation to stroll by the bay -- Iguess that's a good thing...