life (and death) in a small town

Two weeks ago a woman was brutally murdered in my hometown. She was beaten about the face, then slit across the throat and wrists before being left to bleed to death in her apartment.

Details of the murder, as well as the name of the suspect were rapidly made public by that indispensable tool of communication, the small town gossip mill. It must have been churning madly that day, as I heard about the deed before even getting out of bed. The murder was discovered just before sunrise.

The victim, who incidentally graduated with my father, was killed in her apartment building that was once my mother’s elementary school—a drive of less than two minutes from my parents’ front door. Her alleged murderer, her son, was in my sister’s high school class. He was later apprehended in a housing complex to which my other sister delivers the daily newspaper.

I later heard a rumor that the account had made the national news. It may have featured in the thin marquee running beneath a commentator’s head during campaign analysis on CNN. But Anderson Cooper could not have run the stories that were circulating for the next several days. Townsfolk mused over the dead woman’s failed marriage, relationships, and son who “wasn’t quite right.” My parents and siblings recalled the killer’s childhood involvement in my father’s t-ball team and my sister’s wrestling team. Everybody remembered his stint in the juvenile detention center. Even the handling of the report and ensuing investigation were under town discussion. Nobody could get enough of the accounts of the authorities asking the victim’s mother after her whereabouts before actually investigating the scene, where her dead body was reported to have been left. Nor could they be sated with one telling of the tale of the suspect’s girlfriend, throwing his bloodstained clothing in her complex’s dumpster just after the murder and then telling folk at the corner convenience store the next day how the victim deserved her fate. An interesting note: she has still not been tied to the event by the police.

I couldn’t escape, no matter where I went that day. Upon walking into a shop for a haircut, I was greeted not with a wide smile and hearty, “how are you?” but with more speculation. The grocery store aisles were lined with murmurs that evening and the phone line was buzzing with more details when I arrived at home.

Two weeks, and the upheaval has settled. Mostly. The townsfolk have moved on to other topics of conversation, but the family of the victim and her killer may never heal.

*chatter, chatter*

Merry Chris-- er, Happy Easter from Frozen Central Pennsylvania.

Holy Saturday greeted us with 5 inches of snow. As I type, I'm shielding my eyes from the glare through the windows, fearing snow blindness by proxy.

If I were Jesus, I DEFINITELY would not have been interested in waking up to rock-hard ground and snow cover as far as the eye could see. Everybody would have to wait 'til Spring for their salvation, thankyouverymuch.

However, how better to spend a day snowed-in than to be curled up with a good book and a baking project? Can't you just smell those cinnamon rolls?

collect the whole set!

The Catholic Church has recently “released” a new set of mortal sins—those that not only endanger one’s relationship with God, but basically destroy it. They join their brothers, the original seven deadlies of lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride.

While the original seven relate to sins of an individual, personal nature, these have to do with sinful actions and behaviors that reach into the social sphere, affecting the communities in which we live as well as the world at large. They include pollution, genetic modification, human experimentation, social injustice, poverty, obscene wealth, and drug use.

Although the media has exaggerated the novelty of these transgressions the Church has just “made public,” socially responsible people (Catholic and otherwise) have known their evil for ages. Even the Church’s social teachings regarding stewardship of the earth and love of neighbor have made these offenses quite plain.

This does make for an interesting confessional situation, however. Three ‘Our Fathers’ and two ‘Hail Marys’ may do for cheating on your taxes, but what kind of penance would suit contributing to climate change, cancer research, or supporting a sweatshop full of Indonesian children?

I’m all for living responsibly, and I think this is an important step. Perhaps we will begin to think more about how our daily lives can build up or tear down the world we don’t see. But it will continue to be difficult in this age of globalization and middlemen. How much can we know about the products we support and the conveniences we rely on? How many people will think twice about biting into a genetically altered seedless watermelon or anything made with U.S.-grown soybeans? Even my new hikers (the makers of which provide a portion of their profits to environmental programs and promote socially responsible business practices) surprised me. I opened the 100% post-consumer-materials box, labeled with eight ways it’s environmentally friendly, to discover shoes made in China.

Now, if only the Church would pick up on that ‘original blessing’ thing.

worn out

I need a new pair of shoes.  My trusty travelin' shoes are about to bite the dust.  I broke them in wandering the Berkshire Hills of Western Massachusetts, and they've been reliably waterproof, odorproof, and comfortable ever since.  Until now.

After carrying me to the West Coast, and then across the Atlantic; tramping through Southern Spain, France, to the German Alps, and back to Spain; strolling the halls and gardens of the Alhambra to slogging through corrals; hiking in and out of olive groves to climbing the mountains of the Serrania the seams are giving way and the Gore-Tex has given up the ghost.  My wonderful Merrell Passages are struggling to survive in the face of tired adhesive and New England winter.

The search is on for a new pair of kicks that can match the green wonders I must now give up.  I've already begun scouring adventure outfitters, shoe outlets, and online retailers for a pair of light-weight hikers that fit like a glove and hold up to anything.

I offer a challenge:  send me ideas for a new shoe.  All I ask is for something firm and supportive, yet flexible enough to fit my foot like skin.  Something waterproof but highly breathable that can stand up to long wear without smelling like carrion.  Something light, but strong.  Something that can carry me wherever my circumstances take me without complaint.

Bonus points to suggestions below $100.

Ah, goodbye, my lovelies.

the attack of the brown earth rat!

So I was looking up my chinese zodiac sign (as the New Year is in a week) and discovered an interesting little something about myself.
Roosters (1981) are:

• Hard-working
• Shrewd
• Bold
• Boastful
• Correct

Ok, I can handle those. I'd like to believe I'm hard-working and shrewd. I suppose I can be a little boastful at times. And I am DEFINITELY correct. Shut up.

Good career choices for us include:

• Restaurant owner
• Publicist
• World traveler

Hmm. Perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something.

Some famous Roosters from the past are:

• Confucius
• Catherine the Great
• Amelia Earhart
• Rudyard Kipling
• Groucho Marx

OMG I was once Groucho Marx for Hallowe'en!

What do you think? Check it out: http://gochina.about.com/od/chinesenewyear/p/ChineseZodiac.htm

upon reflection

On completing my sojourn in Spain, I’ve decided to take some time to look back on my experiences and take down for my own future reference some of the things I’ve learned.

• I can travel with shampoo… or short hair.
• Sometimes, (1) organic and (2) sustainable mean only (1) containing carbon, and (2) able to be upheld or defended.
• One needn’t sand too much rust off of a piece of metal before one can successfully slather paint over it.
• The bus is definitely the way to go in Spain. The train is good, but more expensive than Amtrak.
• The Serranía de Ronda is one of the most impressive places I’ve ever seen.
• There are a lot of Americans out there.
• Good leather work gloves are indispensable on Southern Spanish farms.
• Good leather work gloves are hard to come by in Southern Spain.
• Puedo hablar Español a los Españoles, pero no puedo entenderlo cuando lo me hablan.
• LandRovers are badass.
• And I want one.
• Olive trees are badass.
• And I do not want one.
  
• Hace frio in Andalucía roughly translates to 'What a lovely night to sleep under the stars!'
• Real, folky Flamenco is an otherworldly experience.
• Two weeks in the middle of nowhere can last an eternity.
• Two weeks in the middle of nowhere can be over before you know it.
• Two weeks is a long time to do the same thing.
• Two weeks is not enough time to try all the things that need to be done on a farm.
• Tapas are a great way to fill up on the cheap. Especially when they come free with drinks!
• I will never drive across France again unless I’m with a French person. And we know exactly where we are going.
• It's nice to be home.

PS - More pictures are up from my visit to The Alhambra.

beantown

On Wednesday morning, I walked out of my hostel in Madrid, entered the Metro, and did not stop moving until I arrived, on foot, at the doorstep of the Farm’s house-program in Medford, Massachusetts, nearly 18 hours later.

My friends and former co-workers there generously allowed me to stay the night, inviting me to stay another two days and leave with them on Friday. It was a surprise to walk in the door and run into so many past community members. Several I left at the Farm, and some I wasn’t sure I’d ever see again, but there they were, warmly greeting me with smiles, hugs, and questions about my trip. Had it really been three months? The familiar faces and immediate comfort bridged the three-month gap too well. I need to get back out there!

So, being in Boston for a couple days more than originally planned, I decided to go out and see a bit more of the city. I spent midday Thursday wandering around Harvard, checking out bookshops and sporting goods stores (because I need more crap to lug around in my duffel bag), then headed into town to wander the Boston Common and the Freedom Trail. Before leaving the house I downloaded an audio-tour to my mp3 player (will the wonders of technology never cease?) and equipped with this, I started the popular 2-mile amble through the city. The Freedom trail is basically a red brick path running down the middle of sidewalks, connecting sixteen historical sites in the city. It starts in the Common (originally set aside for the grazing of cattle in the city’s first days), winds through the city’s old North End, and winds up at the Bunker Hill monument, near the Charlestown Harbor where the USS Constitution is moored. Many of the sites are old original buildings, surrounded (or built over) by modern structures of concrete and glass. The trail leads directly past or through some of the sites, with plaques set up by the Parks Commission to impart significance. A fun side note pointed out by my audio-guide: an important spring, just off the trail, is commemorated by a bronze sign on the wall of a building down an alleyway. According to the guide, it was this spring that provided a good deal of the town’s drinking water in its infancy, and without it, the city may well have developed on the other bank of the Charles River. Today, the spring has dried to nothing more than a trickle, which is, ironically, piped directly into the sewer system.

Today, the folks here invited me to go to the Boston Living Center with them. Groups of residents here go into the city for volunteer projects every week and this week’s project was this community center for people living with HIV/AIDS. We left in the morning and spent the day preparing a large dining room for a lunch that is served daily to members of the center. It was great way to fill my time, catch up with acquaintances from the Farm, and meet new people who were also volunteering their time to the Center. The place operates every day and offers free services, such as community meals, informative programs, social activities, and massage to its members. Its volunteer program is an integral part of keeping its costs low and its programs available. On reflection, it just seemed strange but appropriate that I was back in a kitchen, helping to feed a multitude while “just passing through” Boston for a few days.

And tonight, I’m hitting the road again. Ever further West I go, where I stop: I don’t know.

But I have some ideas. Wink!