Thinking about Montreal

Montreal is a hip town, where even a house band in the local brew pub sounds cool while singing, “A Few of My Favorite Things” in French. Although it is a wonderful city in the summer, it is more appropriate to explore Vieux Montreal with a chill in the air and a bracing wind. It puts us in the moment; I am aware of my surroundings and the warmth each building potentially provides. I made my way to a local brew pub, where the beer was rated as excellent and the ambiance was inviting.

Sitting near the bar at a high-top table, I watch people enjoy the evening, good beer, and interesting food. Between my poor French and the loud background noise, I could only understand about ten percent of the conversations around me, but I can deduce what is going on. Two young men at the table next to me discuss their frustration at work; while a couple behind me are on a date, peppering each other a series of questions.

It is the second week in November and the late fall is making its impact felt as a light and persistent rain changes over to snow shortly after sundown. With sunset at 4:30 in the afternoon, a 7:30 dinner feels like a late-night supper. I enjoyed my light dinner and the drafted beer so much, a few nights later I cajoled Kevan into accepting a Saturday dinner invitation at the Bistro-Brasserie Les Soeurs Grises. I had a pint of the Appât-Si-Noir before we had dinner and duck carpaccio as an appetizer. As we chatted, I noted the television behind the bar each had different hockey games. People would occasionally steal a glance to keep themselves updated on the games that mattered.

When I returned to the hotel after dinner, I rode the elevator with two guys, dressed in complete fan attire, who just came from the Canadiens game. I asked about the game, and they recounted with great detail the exploits and highlights of the game. I mentioned I had been to the game Thursday night and I spent the rest of the elevator ride recounting my experiences.

It has been fourteen years since I attended my last baseball game at Olympic stadium. Yet, there is a deep imprint the Expos has left on the city. Youppi, the team mascot transferred to the Canadiens and you can by a costume at the team store. Also available are Expos T-shirts, jerseys and baseball cards. One might even imagine that the team never left, and was never having trouble drawing any fans to the games.

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Old Guy Hockey

While waiting for colleagues in a hotel lobby in Montreal, I overheard a man and woman conversing with his aunt and cousin. They discussed being snowbirds in Florida and lamented that they could not drive down two years prior because of a major house expense, specifically finding a major crack in the foundation. They decided it was better, and more financially prudent, not to go Florida that year. Peter rationalized that while they would not be able to escape the snow and cold, he could rejoin his hockey team in an over 65-year-old league. He told the three women gathered around him that he had forgotten how much he enjoyed playing hockey, and the following year, he declined going south again so that he could play yet another hockey season. He was looking forward to doing the same again this coming year.

When the four were saying their goodbyes, and I was still waiting for colleagues, I volunteered to take the photograph so that I could have a chance to meet the senior hockey player. Peter told me he was 71 and had two teammates in their 80s. After we took photos I asked if he would mine a photo with me so that I could send my buddy a photo. The love of hockey gave us a mechanism through which we could meet, have a chat, shake hands, share photos and stories, and have a photo taken we could share with our own community. It was a way for us to overcome our initial reluctance, very prevalent in adult males, to talk to each other and make friends – even if only temporarily. His cousin told me that I had made his day; of course, he made mine as well. A story to share with my friends at a game in the future.

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A Rainy Florida Evening

We were riding in the back of the minivan together. A chance to have a little chat, to ask her questions, to show that I think about her and care. It is short ride from the restaurant to their house. Before we pull out of the parking lot, she turns her back to me at a 45-degree angle, puts her earphones in, and stares out the window. There will be no conversation this evening. I will not force the situation; I know she feel awkward talking to her uncle and I understand how that feels. Nevertheless, as I watch the back of her head, with the occasional flashes of her face reflected in the window when we pass beneath streetlights, she continues to look passively at the never-ending rows of strip malls, and an 11-year-old cuts me to the quick. 

Random

The smallest things can make me contemplate the randomness of life while I am walking. I espied a black walnut, stuck between the branches and the trunk of a small sapling. I think about the odds of a walnut dropping from a tree above, in a way that would be just right so that it would get caught on a rather small tree. Given how many trees there are in Pennsylvania, it is probably not so odd that this type of thing would happen at some point. But I wonder about the odds of me seeing this; of it happening so close to a trail where people might observe the phenomenon. I always wonder why so few deer while walking; and, I never see any foxes. A difference of ten minutes, earlier or later, might change what animals, people or other things I might see and experience during my walks. Often it is just random what we observe, and who we meet, in life. Of course, someone might have placed that walnut in the tree too. Then, it is not random.

Wanted to ride your bicycle?

Walking on the trail, a rather large man, seemingly too big for his modest sized bicycle, approached.  He was wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt and used a rolled up bandana as a headband. I caught his eye as we neared one another and, since he was wearing earbuds, I gave him a polite nod rather than verbalizing a greeting. He returned a two-finger salute to me. Although the salute was unique, generally it was the kind of encounter that is usually quickly forgotten. Until, when I am sure he thought I was out of earshot, he startled me with an emphatic, "Hey!" After a slight pause, continuing to warble,  slightly off-key, "Another one down, another one bites the dust."

Frackville, PA

Holy Ascension Russian Orthodox Church, Frackville, PA

Anthracite coal was once a dominant source of employment and life in Frackville, is a small borough in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania. Arriving into town from the interstate, on Lehigh Avenue, the primary thoroughfare through town, the only thing that appears to shine is the domes of the Holy Ascension Russian Orthodox Church, constructed in 1915, can be seen far in the distance. Otherwise, the commercial buildings, are seemingly covered in a thin layer of coal dust and grime. Driving requires a navigating a series of potholes that one fears could do real damage to a vehicle. 

Sidewalk on Lehigh Avenue

Water town at the industrial park

Deindustrialization, along with the disappearance of coal mining jobs, has not been kind to Frackville. On the edge of town, an empty industrial park sits idle. The Schuylkill Mall, also on the edge of town, adjacent to the interstate, had just been demolished, even though signs still thanked patrons for shopping. I walked through the business district of Frackville on a Thursday morning in August. Several people were out mowing their lawn before the heat of the day sets in and washing hung from clothesline along residential streets. But commercial activity in the town was limited to a service stations and small restaurant. Chinese restaurants and pizza place would offer services later. Lehigh Avenue as a hole, however, was a series of abandoned building blocks, architecture redolent of better times in need of repair, with cracked sidewalks sprouting weeds and grass. In one abandoned building a campaign sign from two years prior reads, “Veterans for Trump.” I walked by the library, tempted to wander in, to find it there were heavy fans attempting to dry the carpets. The doors of the library propped open by bound volumes of National Geographic magazines. 

St, Michael's Ukrainian Orthodox Church

The grim economic fate of the borough obscures the history and background of the community. The local churches reflect the immigrant population of the century ago, with several Orthodox congregations dotting the neighborhoods. Walking in the residential streets, one can find a mixture of well-maintained domiciles, with gardens and well-apportioned homes, with a smattering of dilapidated dwellings punctuating the few square blocks that surround the commercial district. On the other hand, brick factories, warehouses, and fraternal buildings sit empty, awaiting a new usage and return to better times. 

More photographs from Frackville.

Breakfast and Children

After the complimentary breakfast at the hotel, I was waiting for the elevator when a woman about my age came carrying a full tray of food. I offered her to enter first and asked, because she had her hands full, to push the button for her floor. She thanked me. After the door closed she stared at the control panel on the elevator and said, “I was just thinking my son is probably old enough to get his own breakfast,” I smiled, nodded my head and offered that I heard my mom’s voice in my head with saying that I should be getting her breakfast. This is not actual true, she’d would never make this request of me, but it makes for good small talk. The woman laughed and added that her son was going to be legally able to drink next week. I suspect that he was old enough to get his own breakfast.