Category Archives: Memoirs — fact and fiction

Memoirs -- fact and fiction, Writings

My first Thanksgiving. 1950

My cousin Maura Manley passed away on Friday. She was seven years younger than me, but the first of our adult cousins to go.

About the same time, this post popped up on Facebook. And a picture of my mother in a hospital bed in Florida. She and I spent her last Thanksgiving together, although I had to eat alone in the cafeteria and she had the institutional fare in her room. Still, we spent the day together. One of our last.

I got to spend time with Maura this summer, when she was happy, healthy, and reveling in all the family gathered for a reunion in Pennsylvania. There were a lot of us.

I’m posting this here because, well, because it keeps family from disappearing, as a time when family is starting to do just that.

In the picture above: Yes, I’m the one who looks like a butterball turkey on my grandfather’s lap. Eight months old. My older brother, Jim, is to the right. He was an old hand at this Thanksgiving thing, a veteran. You can tell by how jaded he looks.

Our folks, Bob and Pat, are at left. At right, my dad’s siblings Don and Mary Lou. Clearly hadn’t met their forever partners yet, but soon. All three of the kids were married for life. They did that in those days. Don and Janet had five sons. Mary Lou and Bill had six daughters and two sons. Jim and I ended up with six more brothers and a sister.

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Memoirs -- fact and fiction, San Miguel de Allende, Writings

Take a gander at these birds

PENNSYLVANIA — A gaggle of geese threads its way slowly up the Clarion River, paddling against a lazy and shallow, but persistent, mid-summer current. There are 10 geese, all mature. Long, elegant black necks, white wings. No fuzzy goslings.

They zig and zag, snatching bugs from the air and small fish from the river. Between the feasting and the faffing and the current, their progress is slow.

One by one, they follow the leader into the leeward side of a small rock outcropping. In the calm, they gather strength for the arduous upstream paddle ahead. Deeper, faster water awaits the geese.

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Memoirs -- fact and fiction, Rants and raves, San Miguel de Allende, Writings

It is Liberation Day in my head

I’m done with “push” content from newspapers, substacks, pods and podcasters, bloggers, social media platforms, conspiracy boosters, angry MAGAs, fundraisers, revolutionists, ah-has and ma-ha’s, political shamans, alarmists, talking heads, Chicken Littles, grim reapers, Beltway pundits, scribblers, cartoonists, and diatribe specialists.

Or as another noted crank once put it, I’ve had it up to here with “Bagism, Shagism, Dragism, Madism, Ragism, Tagism, This-ism, that-ism, is-m, is-m, is-m.”

All I am saying is don’t give push a chance. 

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Memoirs -- fact and fiction, San Miguel de Allende

Luck runs out for Lucky Lady Too but not for globe-hopping pilot, Bob Gannon

It was such a relief last week to learn that my old friend Bob Gannon crashed his 56-year-old Cessna 182 just outside of Las Vegas.

Of course, he walked away from the crash. The plane wasn’t called Lucky Lady Too for nothing.

Let me interject that I am simply relieved to know that Bob is still alive. And flying. I confess that I periodically check the news for recent Bob Gannon and Lady Too exploits — or an obituary. I haven’t found either in years.

Both to my distress and relief.

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Memoirs -- fact and fiction, photography, Scotland - West Highland Way, Writings

Q: What’s a Highlands hike like? A: It’s a Longfellow

Sorry for the Dad Joke. It just came to me in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Turns out, the Cosmos is as corny as I am.

“Hey, shiny new Artificial Intelligence program: Write me a poem about walking through the Scottish Highlands and do it in the style of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.”

OK, I didn’t do this. I may still do this — but I didn’t.

Not yet.

Recently, I re-read Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha” for the first time since my childhood.

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Memoirs -- fact and fiction, photography, Reviews, San Miguel de Allende, Scotland - West Highland Way

Lessons learned while slow-walking the West Highland Way

A long hike is never really over.

We finished walking Scotland’s West Highland Way on September 18. It is still very much on my mind and I suspect it will be hanging around.

There were lessons learned. Both about myself and the trail. 

That’s really what it is mostly about in the end, isn’t it? Nobody walks – let’s call it 100 miles – and walks away not knowing something new about themselves.

Even if it is only whether or not you love toe socks.

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Memoirs -- fact and fiction, photography, San Miguel de Allende, Scotland - West Highland Way, Writings

Hiking the West Highland Way: Day 5, the cinematic splendor of it all

My hiking companions Brian Connors, Susan Shors, Kim Scholefield, and my beloved Rose Alcantara set off to discover their own infinite possibilities this morning.

If Van Morrison had taken the walk with me today from Inverernan to Crainlarich, he’d surely want to write a song about it. He’s not a Scot, sure, but I think he’d get it in his Celtic heart. Titles like “A Sense of Wonder,” “Into the Mystic,” “In the Garden,” and even “Cyprus Avenue” were in rotation in my head as I walked beside the River Falloch.

This was a gentle one — thank God, after yesterday — no rock piles to climb, few inclines to surmount, no risk to life and limb.

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Memoirs -- fact and fiction, photography, San Miguel de Allende, Scotland - West Highland Way, Writings

Hiking the West Highland Way: On Day 3, a bit more than a stroll beside the loch

I would like to report that the chubby red squirrel navigated its way up the pine tree to the fifth level of branches with no assistance from me whatsoever.

You may be amazed to learn — as I was to see — that Red carried a small pinecone in its jaws while performing this feat.

Look, I know squirrels do this sort of thing very well without me. But it just seemed so important to me at the moment.

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Memoirs -- fact and fiction, San Miguel de Allende, Scotland - West Highland Way, Writings

Hiking the West Highland Way: On Day 2, isn’t it eye-conic?

After waking up around 8 a.m., leisurely packing, and enjoying a nice breakfast, it occurs to me that our strategy for hiking the West Highland Way here in Scotland is a good one.

Instead of chewing up the entire 96 miles in 6 or 7 days, we are taking ten. This means later starts most days, a leisurely pace, side trips to curiosities, and an early arrival at our destination. Best of all, time to recover from the previous day’s exertions. Oh, yes, and a wee bit more pub time after we cross the finish line.

Take today for example. We set out to cover the nearly eight miles between Drymen and Balmaha. It is mostly a leisurely uphill stroll through farmland, fallow fields, forests, and fern breaks — until you reach Conic Hill.

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Memoirs -- fact and fiction, photography, San Miguel de Allende, Scotland - West Highland Way

Hiking the West Highland Way: We canned the ‘Outlander’ kilts for lack of abs

It looks like I won’t be wearing a kilt as we hike the West Highland Way.

It’s not that my heart was set up on it. The whole idea started as a bit of a joke. I think Susan suggested that her husband, Brian, wear one because he has nice legs and would look good in one. He good-naturedly went along with the idea.

Rose said my legs were OK, too, and maybe I should wear one. I went hot and cold on the idea.

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