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The Bruce Freeman Rail Trail will officially open this Saturday! I don’t know about you, but I didn’t think I’d live to see the day. We finally have a local bike trail! Of course, this stretch, 6.8 miles from Lowell to Westford, is only Phase 1, and it took 25 years from the original vision of Chelmsford state Rep Bruce Freeman, now deceased, to the ribbon-cutting ceremony this Saturday. In the Boston Globe today, you can read about the original vision as well as the obstacles (mostly funding) that have slowed the trail’s progress. On Saturday, you can join the hardworking, dedicated Friends of the Bruce Freeman Trail at 10 am at the Chelmsford Old Town Hall to celebrate this long-awaited occasion. Here’s the offical announcement from Friends’ President Richard Williamson:

On Saturday, August 29, after more than 24 years of planning, working, and waiting, the 6.8-mile section of the Bruce Freeman Rail Trail from Cross Point Towers in Lowell to Route 225 in Westford will officially open! This is the first completed section of the 25-mile rail trail that is planned to extend southward through Acton, Concord and Sudbury into Framingham. The MassHighway ribbon-cutting ceremony will begin at 10:00 am at Old Town Hall in Chelmsford Center, followed by a gala celebration sponsored by the Friends of the Bruce Freeman Rail Trail on the Chelmsford Town Common with music, balloons, and refreshments.

The 6.8 miles of trail will be open, with activities suitable for children and adults scheduled from the ribbon cutting to 2:00 pm. Join the activities by using any non-motorized form of transportation, and enjoy this new trail. A barbeque with hot dogs, hamburgers, and soft drinks, for $1 each, will be available at Agway on Maple Road in Chelmsford from 11:00 am until 2:00 pm

Rain or shine, folks! Hope to see you there!

I was planning to head downtown bright and early tomorrow morning to check out the Lowell Farmers’ market, but I’m glad I checked the City Manager’s blog where I found out that it runs from 2:00-6:00 on Fridays. That will be too late for me, so I guess I’ll be stopping at Parlee Farms later in the day. The Manager also posted a helpful link on finding farmers’ markets elsewhere in the area. I haven’t had a really good peach yet this year, so I’m on a mission!

Friends went to Boarding House Park last night to see the Wallflowers. It was a stellar night for an outdoor concert, and the opening act, Wild Light, a New Hampshire foursome were engaging and likeable. Jakob Dylan could learn something from their easygoing manner as, according to our friends, he “seemed incapable of any positive repartee with the audience.” For example, he commented that Lowell seemed “a little rough.” He said he could see that the city was trying to improve, but apparently his delicate sensibilities were offended while going out to dinner. (Where could he have gone – the restaurant wasn’t mentioned). So, fine, he didn’t see a lot to like about Lowell; he’s entitled to his opinion, but other negative comments were forthcoming – a reprimand to one of his tech crew doing something offstage, scoffing at someone in the audience for taking flash photographs (“are you making a coffee-table book?”). It all added up to an impression for our friends that “he doesn’t have very good manners.” (I guess the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree!) That said, they reported that the music was great – the drummer was fun to watch and they all exhibited great musicianship.

After weeks of out-of-state family reunions (both sides) and two destination weddings, I was relieved to get home late last night in time to participate in the last day of the Folk Festival. I love live music, ethnic food, and all kinds of people rambling about, so the setting was perfect. Even the torrential downpour at the end was refreshing—a dramatic ending that has become as much a tradition as the steamy hot weather and the fantastic food. (Past festivals I remember doing the polka on St. John’s Street or frantically grabbing last-minute Greek and Laotian food deals as the skies opened up.) Despite current economic woes and cranky politics as usual, there are lots of things to like about our fair Mill City, and the annual Folk Festival is one of them. Hope you got to enjoy it too.

After posting about the Globe’s top 100 New England books last week, I have a few quibbles with their choices. First of all, I think the books should be about New England or at least have some connection with New England beyond the fact that the writer went to college here. I just read “Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson, which I liked a lot, but it is set out west and the only connection with New England is that the author went to Pembroke College in Providence and taught at UMASS-Amherst. The same with Julia Glass who wrote Three Junes, which is a lesser book and the only connection with NE is that Glass was born in Boston. I defend the inclusion of Kerouac, because On the Road is rooted in Lowell, it is the starting point of his journey. The same is true of Richard Henry Dana’s Two Years Before the Mast which while being set entirely on a sailing ship is steeped in the New England sensibilities of the author, so that the people he meets and places he goes are all seen through a uniquely New England sense of the world. Some books that should have been included:
1) Come Spring by Ben Ames Williams – sure no one reads Williams anymore, but the book is so old New England.
2) Carry on Mr. Bowditch by Jean Lee Latham. If I were Salem, MA, I would be strenuously objecting to the the omission of this title from the Globe’s list. Not only is it a fascinating and inspiring, and well-told tale, of a young boy who overcomes hardship to achieve success, but it is a wonderful snapshot of Salem, back in the days when her sailing ships roamed the world, bringing back exotic treasures from around the globe. A visit to the Peabody-Essex museum in Salem lets you view a portrait of Bowditch and also see intricate ivory carvings as well as a “late Qing Dynasty merchant’s house.” Salem may be more known for the witch trials but back in the day it was a proud and prosperous seaport.
3) Lost on a Mountain in Maine by Donn Fendler. This is a simple, but compelling true story, told by Fendler, about his experience of walking off the path on a day hike up Mt Katahdin, Maine’s highest mountain. He was 12 at the time, quickly became lost in the fog that rolled in and spent 9 days out in the wilderness. It reminds me a bit of the classic, My Side of the Mountain.
4) Why would they leave off Country of the Pointed Firs, by Sarah Orne Jewett? This is a classic, capturing the sensibility of the early 1900’s in coastal Maine.
5) If one is including less literary authors, such as Richard Russo and Stephen King (not really a fan), then why not Eleanor Lipman’s The Inn at Lake Devine?

More omissions keep occuring to me. In short, I feel that the list was hastily assembled without much thought going into what categorizes a book as from or of New England.

I heard on the radio this morning that since May 1, we have had only three full days of sunshine as if you haven’t noticed. Notwithstanding damp basements and ruined vegetable gardens, one positive aspect of all this rain is that when the sun finally returns, it will be well appreciated—a joyful event. I know, because we recently returned from five full days of sun and hot weather (high 80s) in North Carolina, and it was well worth the expense of the plane ride. Our joy was also enhanced by the fact that we spent the entire time visiting with family and doing fun-in-the-sun stuff such as swimming, jet skiing, tubing, and kneeboarding (similar to wakeboarding only on your knees) on a huge lake about an hour from Charlotte. As true New Englanders, in addition to being sturdy enough to deal with all kinds of finicky weather, we know enough to appreciate the gift of a warm summer breeze and blinding sunshine when it happens. Here’s a few takebacks from our North Carolina trip: When people call me ma’am I feel old, the lakes are black-water dark because of muddy bottoms, poisonous snakes swim in those lakes, and according to my kids “people are so nice here—especially our cousins.” And while it’s no secret that sun deprivation can cause depression, now that I’m back and feeling sunny, I’m counting on finally having those rays closer to home…

I love lists, especially book lists, so enjoyed the Globe’s top 100 books about New England or written by NE authors. You can check off the ones you’ve read and rate them; I have only read 35 of the 100, but just squeaked in by finishing Moby Dick last weekend (more on this once I’ve recovered). I also just started Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson, but I love it and am half-way through, so maybe I could make my score 36. For local authors, we have On the Road, of course, and Massachusetts by Nancy Zaroulis of Chelmsford.

To commemorate her 69th birthday, actress/vocalist Julie Andrews made a special appearance at Manhattan’s Radio City Music Hall to benefit the AARP where she performed a new version of “My Favorite Things” from the legendary film The Sound of Music.  Thanks to an email from my sister-in-law, below are the updated lyrics:

Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting,
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favorite things.
Cadillacs and cataracts, and hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favorite things.
When the pipes leak, When the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don’t feel so bad.

Hot tea and crumpets and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes and heating pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favorite things.
Back pains, confused brains, and no need for sinnin’,
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin’,
And we won’t mention our short, shrunken frames,
When we remember our favorite things.
When the joints ache, When the hips break,
When the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I’ve had,
And then I don’t feel so bad.

Being of a certain age, I grew up with Michael Jackson. I remember dancing with my cousin to the Jackson 5 for hours (ABC, it’s easy as 1,2,3) while choreographing our own elaborate steps and twirls. Michael, in particular, caught my imagination from the start.  I watched with the world as his music evolved and his sense of self morphed into something alien that made me sad. Days after his death, I’m still trying to make sense of what his music and persona meant to me. In Sunday’s Boston Globe, Wesley Morris wrote an article about Jackson that resonates, not only because it acknowledges his great musical talent and explains the allure he held for folks of all colors and nationalities, but because it attempts to understand why Michael Jackson was not good enough for himself—just the way he was created—with dark skin, round nose and nappy hair. Morris attempts to explain the struggle some African Americans have being okay with their blackness, and as a white female, I admit it’s not something I’ve experienced personally. But I do know about gender struggles—such as being okay with throwing like a girl, being emotional, or physically weaker than many men. I have experienced my own version of trying to accept myself as good enough as a woman in a post-feminist world that expects super-career-moms who handle jobs, childcare, community service, and managing the home without breaking a sweat. The unrealistic expectations are difficult enough; the fact that they thrive within an historical and cultural context that exalts manhood makes it worse. So yes, Morris hits a chord with me on many levels when he writes: “They – we – could see well past the bleached skin and unnatural Caucasian features. We could see his blues.” Finally, I understand better my empathy for Michael’s madness. On a more pleasant note, this link on Dick’s blog allowed me to revisit why I love dancing to Michael Jackson’s music and why watching him sing and move is still joyful—a gift he leaves us all. May he rest in peace.

For sometime I’ve felt that some of the best novelists writing in English are Indians. Just as the Irish dominated English literature in the early part of the 20th century, with Yeats, Joyce and Shaw, I feel that Indian writers are using the English language to advance literature, to make the novel their own. Much of our contemporary fiction seems interior, airless; the art of telling a good story seems sometimes to be lost in this country. However, in India, writers like Vikram Seth, seem to honor the tradition and imitate the great novels of the Victorian age. His great book, “A Suitable Boy” explored and exhausted the limits of traditional fiction. The heartbreaking fiction of Rohinton Mistry, Arundhati Roy and Rupa Bajwa deal with the pressure of events and circumstances on people’s lives, rather like early 20th century American fiction. Now, Aravind Adiga has raised the bar with a groundbreaking, disturbing work, “The White Tiger.” Rightly compared to Richard Wright’s “Native Son,” Adiga’s book is more humorous but no less bitter. It is also suspenseful and gripping. At first I didn’t like his decision to write the book as a letter of confession, but that narrative device quickly diminishes in importance as the story is told. Once I read a few chapters, I couldn’t put it down. It rings with moral authority but is also just a good story. Thanks to India, the novel lives!