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The principal characters—the adolescent boy, Fiskadoro, and his clarinet teacher, Mr. Cheung—grope toward an understanding of the culture that preceded them while they live amongst its artifacts.


The centerpiece is a harrowing account of the ordeal of Mr. All of it.

Consequently, Love Me Do is one of the great near forgotten pop-culture documents, a kind of deadpan new journalism and a masterpiece of astute, forensically well-observed reportage. About the Beatles, yes, but more so about celebrity, and the media, and the kaleidoscope of tiny ruptures created each time our world suddenly changes. I Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe, As a calm darkens among water-lights.

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The pungent oranges and bright, green wings Seem things in some procession of the dead, Winding across wide water, without sound. The day is like wide water, without sound, Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet Over the seas, to silent Palestine, Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

II Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams? Shall she not find in comforts of the sun, In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else In any balm or beauty of the earth, Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The bough of summer and the winter branch.

These are the measures destined for her soul. III Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth. No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind He moved among us, as a muttering king, Magnificent, would move among his hinds, Until our blood, commingling, virginal, With heaven, brought such requital to desire The very hinds discerned it, in a star. Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be The blood of paradise?

This was the first of many, many acts of kindness from this minister of God, and she has remained a bright star in my memory. Today I get to see Elizabeth again, to meet her kind and caring congregation, and to share the joy of the Lord with them. And what a blessing! I have been hoping with much anticipation, that I might see many dear friends again, and this odyssey is delivering, deja vu, in spades!

This is another hard, pound-it-out day. There is a fully paved emergency lane all along US1, but this journey does not make for one of my favorites. I arrive at the Wilde Pines Campground by p. I had stopped earlier at the Blue Moose for a bowl of chowder, so I roll in and am quickly lost to the most contented sleep. While I was working on my journal entries last evening, Jack Wilde stopped by to chat.

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Jack is the owner and operator of Wilde Pines Campground. He commented that had he known I was coming through southbound, he would have given me directions to his place—to get me here much more quickly and with less hassle—by coming down the old Aroostook railtrail, thus avoiding most all the US1 hike. For indeed the sun has set every new pine bough tip ablaze with pure white light, like the little strings of white luminaries we all choose to grace our Christmas scenes. Seems as though no matter what we create, Ma Nature has already been there and done a much better job!

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The trail zigs and zags along the ridges and by the little-used secondary county roads. I no sooner get the old jitney up to normal operating temperature than I get lost. Heading down Foster Road and in a short while I pass this grand, impressive farm, owned by guess who? Oh yes, the Fosters! What a grand photo op, and the day has turned perfect with bright sunshine, puff-cloud skies and just the gentlest breeze to boost me along.

In just awhile a truck pulls alongside and stops. He lives on the narrow little road that leads to Wilde Pines. Then while writing my book, Ten Million Steps, I took another stab at it.

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In the foreword for my book, written by Larry Luxenberg, author of Walking the Appalachian Trail, he laments as to this dilemma. I had a fine time at the Brookside Motel and Restaurant, just as I had anticipated. And what really made it special was, I was able to contact Torrey Sylvester last evening, and he has invited me for breakfast this morning. Torrey lives just a short drive away in Houlton. I first met Torrey in Key West, Florida, of all places.

He had flown down with Dick Anderson to be present to welcome Scott River Otter Galloway as he finished his southbound hike this past January, and Torrey and I have since become good friends. But to the dismay of Dick Anderson, the new president of this fledgling organization who lives in Maine, nothing at all was happening in Maine, that is, until Torrey Sylvester came along.

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You see, Torrey has a cousin that owns Mars Hill Mountain. Now Mars Hill Mountain is no ordinary mountain, no-siree! For upon the summit of this mountain does the sun first strike the good old US of A most all the days of the year. And from this summit was the first 50 star US flag flown! Oh yes, Torrey Sylvester! Thanks for breakfast, Torrey. Oh, and please thank your cousin Marie Pierce and her husband Wendell for letting me hike over their mountain one more time. I have decided to spend a night at Shin Pond Village.

I make the turn onto the gravel two-track leading to Mount Chase. Numerous turns, none shown on the map, all end up being a wild goose chase no pun intended , petering out in jumbles of boulders and brush part way up the mountain. I remember passing an old cabin tucked away in the woods on the way in, and with evening nigh I head there to prepare my evening meal and to rest before giving the mountain one more try in the morning. I arrive to find the cabin door unbolted. I enter the large main lodge room. I find the main room clean and inviting and I move right in. Thank you, merciful Lord!

I take the first road to my right this morning not expecting much, and sure enough after a few hundred yards it ends in a gravel pit. As the two-track skirts the base of Mount Chase I try every side trail that leads up the mountain. I finally find one that looks promising as it keeps going up and up through the rocks and dense growth, but I am encountering many old and recent blowdowns, and progress slows to a pitifully agonizing pace.

But the trace of trail keeps going ever upward to finally gain one of the secondary spurs leading to Mount Chase.

Here the path turns to little more than a game trail and as it winds along, first up and then down, I am starting to have second thoughts about this whole ordeal. I become very concerned now as I enter another small drainage and the trail branches into a thicket of close-standing saplings. Well now, what a stroke of luck, and am I ever relieved! To the left the trail seems to descend, and to the right it appears to go up, so I head to the right.