It happened at Logan as we crowded to board the Woburn Express the gray-haired bus driver with an aching back motioning for us to stow our own luggage into the compartment below I mean there were huge suitcases and golf clubs and duffel bags and strollers then something happened a strong but not-at-all young passenger pushed to the curbside and bending grabbed and shoved every item of luggage into the belly of the bus
after which we all climbed aboard the door hissed shut and we wheeled into the exit lane then down into the Sumner Tunnel and merged on the other side into I-93 rush-hour traffic for the last leg home all the time I’m thinking in a busload of pretty-much-all white frequent fliers the one stepping up was black and you may ask why do I have to mention black and white so I reply yes why indeed and what do you make of this?
At age seven I was thrilled by the Lone Ranger. We didn’t have a TV, but the family that rented above us did and invited me and my brothers up to watch on their black-and-white.
Years later, I looked forward to “Gunsmoke,” which my uncle would let us watch with him in the family room. Our hero was, of course, Marshall Matt Dillon, who kept the peace in Dodge City, along with his sidekick, Chester, Miss Kitty and Doc Adams.
Then came Wyatt Earp, Maverick, the Rifleman, Have Gun Will Travel and others. What all the characters had in common was they knew how to solve problems and settle disputes. They did this with their guns.
As did boys did across America, I imagined myself as a heroic keeper of the peace. Our parents didn’t allow us store-bought six-shooters, but we made our own versions out of wood. In my reverie, I was the quickest draw in town.
My fascination with Westerns was an early immersion in a culture wedded to guns. Guns represented power, and the destruction they caused was justified by the need to protect and establish order or to settle old scores.
If our heroes shot and killed other human beings, this was all right because they were clearly the bad guys. We enjoyed seeing their theatrical demise. “Bam, you’re dead,” one of us would yell. “You got me,” the other would respond, spinning and falling to the ground.
Over time, on TV and in movies, the weapons became more sophisticated. Colt 45s and Winchester rifles were followed by .44 Magnums and AR7s. Then came Glocks and M60 machine guns. Star Wars and Jurassic Park brought us Mauser pistols and SPAS-12 shotguns. Today, AK47s are the weapons of choice.
Beyond the arguments over gun proliferation and control in America, and whether our Constitution sanctions unfettered access, is the simple reality that we Americans are in love with our guns. We want them, we have them, and we use them— despite the horrendous suffering they inflict.
This is true on a national scale as well. Too often and too quickly we turn to our weapons—ever more sophisticated—in our cities and in the world. We choose war over defense, “death from above” over mediation and conflict resolution.
Accompanying our threats of violence to our perceived enemies is their dehumanization. Nowhere is this more evident than in the words and deeds of our current commander in chief and secretary of the War Department.
The president who labeled Somalians “garbage” and African nations “shithole countries,” has called Iranians “crazy bastards” and threatened to “bomb them back to the Stone Age.”
Hegseth has taunted Iranians as “barbaric savages” and called for “overwhelming violence of action against those who deserve no mercy.”
When you deny your opponents their humanity, it’s much easier to destroy them. You can shoot protesters in the street. You can blow up boats in international waters, summarily executing suspects. You can conduct a “precision” strike into another nation to arrest its leaders, killing 80 people in the process.
And you can start an unprovoked war, unleashing missiles, bombs and drones that you know will kill and wound not only our own soldiers, but thousands of civilians—including children—their suffering out of sight and out of mind.
After 250 years, will we ever understand the true consequences of our violent impulses, combined with our love of weapons? Will we ever learn to holster our six-shooters and commit ourselves to making peace? God help us.
Grampa Durell worked by touch and sight. A carpenter, he knew each wood’s hue and grain. He measured close so things would come out right.
To mark each piece, each board’s width and height, He used a fold-up, bass-wood rule; took pains To saw, fit, join, and sand by touch and sight.
His tools survive: hand drills that curl and bite Into the wood—chisels, squares and planes That seem today to fit my hands just right.
So, too, his gifts: tables, dressers, joints still tight, A pine doll cradle with a cherry stain, A great granddaughter’s now, for touch and sight.
In the Spanish-American War he missed the fight, Got dysentery and couldn’t avenge the Maine. But things have a way of turning out all right.
We keep his lieutenant’s sword, the blade still bright, But use his carpenter’s rule again and again, Reminding us to learn by touch and sight, Measuring well so all will come out right.
Note: I wrote this villanelle about Becky’s grandfather, a carpenter in Lowell. I knew him only through family stories and from handling his old tools “that seem today to fit my hands just right.” Villanelles are fun to write, but they ain’t easy. The most famous one is, perhaps, Dylan Thomas’ “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night.”
One of my favorites is Theodore Roethke’s “The Waking.” Look it up. It’s a wonderful exploration of consciousness and the interplay of feeling/thinking, motion/stillness, action/reflection, East/West, etc., full of wisdom.
Listening to Jimmy Tingle Saturday as he emceed the No Kings protest/rally on the Stoneham Common, I couldn’t help but think of a 30-year-old preacher in the white church rising up behind him. The year was 1850 and the preacher was the Rev. William Chalmers Whitcomb. On a cool morning in November, he stepped into the pulpit and preached a fiery sermon that called on parishioners to follow God’s law rather than the law of the land.
Then as now, the country was divided. Congress had just passed the Fugitive Slave Act, mandating the return of all former slaves to their owners. State governments, local law officers, and even citizens were called on to aid in its enforcement. The law imposed stiff penalties of imprisonment and fines for anyone sheltering fugitives.
The Rev. William Whitcomb
The Fugitive Slave Act tore apart families, towns, political parties and churches. The governor, most legislators and civic leaders supported it. Even Daniel Webster, the esteemed Massachusetts senator, now secretary of state, hailed the federal law as the best way to keep Southern states from bolting.
In Stoneham abolitionists had met with fierce opposition. The host of the first recorded meeting in town, attended by William Lloyd Garrison, was told his house would be burned down. In a fight after an abolitionist meeting at Town Hall, a 37-year-old man—husband and father of three—had been stabbed to death.
Although abolitionist sentiment was growing, by 1850 most ministers either remained silent or spoke in favor of the federal law. Not so the new minister in Stoneham.
“I make no apology” for speaking on this subject, Whitcomb told the people of Stoneham. He only regretted that he had not spoken out sooner.
He began by citing the Old Testament book of Deuteronomy, Chapter 23: 15-16: “Thou shalt not deliver unto his master the servant which is escaped from his master unto thee: He shall dwell with thee, even among you, in that place which he shall choose in one of thy gates, where it liketh him best: thou shalt not oppress him.”
In defiance of the federal law, Whitcomb called on his congregation to “Hide the outcast or help him on his journey to a safer place, even though you may risk personal security, property, and life.”
The Stoneham minister urged nonviolent action based on the principle of love. “Shed no blood,” he said. “Wield no weapons but those of truth and love. Use no arms but those God hath given you.”
Fast forward from the church across the street to March 28, 2026, as some two thousand citizens packed the Stoneham Common to protest the federal government’s policies and actions. It was the third national No Kings Day with massive demonstrations geared to stopping the rise of authoritarianism in the United States. Participants protested the war in Iran, the violence of ICE, interference in elections, the targeting of immigrants and LGBTQ+ and attacks on First Amendment rights.
Choirs sang, leaders rallied, a guitarist soloed, protestors chanted, while throughout Jimmy Tingle inspired and entertained the throng with his passion and wit. Pulling a harmonica from a pocket, he opened with a reedy version of the National Anthem. The harmonica reappeared later, when in closing, Tingle told the story of John Newton, the one-time slave trader who repented and became a leading abolitionist. He then played the hymn that Newton wrote, “Amazing Grace.”
I couldn’t help but think, as we left the Common, some to continue to the Boston Common for the 1 p.m. rally there, that Rev. Whitcomb would have been proud.
The gardener comes with a new red hose. He sets up the sprinklers under the pepper tree, waters the zinnias, lilies, iris, then rakes smooth the gravel in the path.
Perhaps he didn’t actually see it happen, I mean the opening of the stone. But how many of us have watched a seed open? Perhaps at the time he was touching the broken stem of a rose.
Encrypted passwords? Secret codes? Your keyboard exploding? No, these nonsensical clusters of the alphabet are the names of—you guessed it–prescription drugs in TV ads (I’ve scrambled the letters of their actual names, but you get the point).
Want to catch the evening news? But wait, isn’t it possible you have a rare disease or chronic impairment that can only be treated, or managed, with this amazing drug. So be sure to ask your doctor if ABACADABRA is right for you.
If you’re like me, you lunge for the remote—now where did I put it?—and press the mute button. Once you’ve done that, you can sit back and enjoy the show. Because without the sound, these ads are rather pleasant. You’ll see families riding bikes, fathers barbecuing, seniors playing tennis, lovers embracing. Beautiful people, beautiful lives.
Muting the sound also means you don’t have to listen to the side effects, often spoken hurriedly in a low voice. These may include–now don’t panic–nausea, headaches, heart palpitations, bleeding, disorientation, fainting, liver failure, heart failure—and so on, depending on the drug being pitched. Lord have mercy!
Did you know that the United States is one of only two countries in the world that allow direct-to-consumer marketing of prescription drugs on TV. When our cousin from Germany visited us recently, she was amazed. “That’s not allowed in Germany,” she said.
Since the 1980s, when Congress let the FDA loosen rules on direct consumer drug marketing, the airwaves have been saturated with ads. Drug companies must, however, present risks along with benefits.
Big Pharma, which used to only target doctors, now pitches its drugs directly to you. So what’s the harm in this?
First, Big Pharma is asking you to evaluate a complex medical substance and market it to your physician. I don’t know about you, but that’s not my job.
Second, the ads push costly brand names over more affordable generics.
Third, the billions drug companies pay to make and place these ads gets passed on to us in higher prices.
Fourth, the ads are driving us crazy.
How I long for an evening at home watching TV without being battered by drug ads. Ads for heart murmer, incontinence, diabetes, erectile dysfunction. The worst is the one featuring a bent carrot. That’s right, a carrot!
Like millions of other Americans—and people around the world—I’m convinced that TV drug ads are bad for our health. It’s time we asked Congress to stop them.
At the crosswalk a blind woman offers you her arm as you cross she says she has looked into heaven for you you cup your hand to your ear but all you hear is the turning of keys
She steps into a shop and you think I should have said something
You walk on promising yourself that next time you will know whether to use the polite or familiar that next time you will join the seniors doing tai chi in the park
that next time you will lift up the toddler in the doorway the one that won’t stop crying and sing him all the verses of the song you remember now for the first time
Note: art by Kenneth Patchen from the cover of Panels for the Walls of Heaven, Berkeley, 1946.
On the road to Concord, three Black men in a wagon make a daring escape
It had rained that day in Boston, and now, even though the moon was full, there was little light in the sky as three men left Cambridge and headed for Concord. No, it wasn’t the midnight ride of Paul Revere, but another of unusual significance. For riding in a dark wagon was a fugitive from justice and two conspirators, unwilling to let another human being be returned to slavery. It was Saturday, Feb. 15, 1851.
The morning had started out as any other. Shadrach Minkins, a waiter at the Cornhill Coffee Shop in Boston, had put on his apron and started work. What he didn’t know was that he would soon become a test case for the Fugitive Slave Act, a law enacted by Congress to keep Southern states from bolting. The story has been told beautifully by Gary Collison in his book, Shadrach Minkins: from Fugitive Slave to Citizen, from which I have drawn here.
Born into slavery in the port city of Norfolk, Virginia, Minkins had worked for various masters, having been sold three times. In the spring of 1850, around 30 years of age, he disappeared, escaping most likely as a stowaway on a merchant ship headed north. Arriving in Boston, he joined a community of some 2,500 free blacks and former slaves. Considered a haven for those seeking their own emancipation, Boston would soon become the focus of federal agents and bounty hunters.
David Hayden was a leader in Boston’s abolitionist community.
Mandating the return of all former slaves to their owners, the Fugitive Slave Act imposed stiff penalties of imprisonment and fines to anyone sheltering fugitive slaves. Further, state governments, local law officers, and even citizens were called on to aid in its enforcement.
If Minkins could be arrested in Boston, the hub of the abolitionist movement in the North, and returned to his owner, Southern states would see that Washington was protecting their interests, muting talk of succession. Even President Millard Fillmore and Secretary of State Daniel Webster had approved Minkins’ capture.
Enacted in September of 1850, the Fugitive Slave Act divided families, towns, political parties and churches. As most governors, legislators, and clergy fell in line with the law, New England abolitionists voiced their opposition. In Boston, the Vigilance Committee, made up of Black and white abolitionists, warned of arrests and planned counter measures.
Poster urging fugitive slaves in Boston to watch out for slave catchers.
Now, as Minkins waited tables in the restaurant, a federal marshal and eight officers took up positions outside the restaurant. After a considerable delay, waiting for the man who would identify their suspect, the marshal and one of his men entered the restaurant and ordered coffee. They were served by a “stout, copper-colored man,” no other than the fugitive they sought, writes Collison.
When Minkins took the marshal’s payment to get change, two officers grabbed him under the arms, rushed out a back door and dragged him into the Court House, a block away. They had been seen, however, and word quickly spread. Within minutes a crowd of abolitionists and onlookers filled Court Square. One of them was a former slave from Kentucky, Lewis Hayden, now a clothing merchant and owner of a boarding house on Beacon Hill.
For several years, Hayden had been owned by Henry Clay, the senator and future architect of the Fugitive Slave Act. After seeing his siblings, then his wife and child sold, Hayden had fled with his second wife and her son to Philadelphia, then on to Canada. In 1846 Hayden brought his family to Boston. Lewis and Harriet Hayden became leaders in the abolitionist community, and their home on Southac Street a station on the Underground Railroad.
As Shadrach Minkins awaited arraignment, abolitionists packed into the stairway and hallway outside the upstairs courtroom. After the judge arrived, federal officers presented evidence that the suspect was in fact a fugitive from Virginia and the property of a Norfolk businessman.
Meanwhile, the crowd inside and out became more agitated. Defense attorneys, including Richard Henry Dana, Jr., presented petitions for Minkins’ release. When they were denied, black activists led by Hayden forced their way into the courtroom, surrounded Minkins and carried him “by the collar and feet” out to the street. Then, mixing in with the crowd, Hayden and Minkins scurried off towards Charles Street.
Turning quickly into a side street, Hayden took Minkins to the widow Elizabeth Riley, who hid him in her attic. Returning after dark, Hayden then took Minkins across the bridge to Cambridge and the home of the Rev. A. J. Lovejoy. HHe knew, however, that the fugitive could not stay there for long.
Later that night, Hayden returned to the minister’s home. This time he came in a wagon drawn by two horses, one black and one white. The wagon was driven by John J. Smith, a barber and fellow abolitionist. Picking up Minkins, they headed west.
My guess is Hayden and Smith, dressed in oil-cloth and sou’esters, sat up front, while Minkins lay covered by a tarpaulin in the bed of the wagon. They may have traveled on the Concord Turnpike, which was the most direct route, but which had several steep hills. Or they may have taken the old route through Lexington along Battle Road to Concord. Perhaps the rain had stopped by then and the moon was penetrating the cloud cover with faint light. Given the muddy roads, it must have been slow going.
19th century map of downtown Concord.
About 3 a.m. Smith turned the horses onto Main Street in Concord. Proceeding through the sleeping town, they then angled left onto Sudbury Road and entered the yard of the blacksmith, Francis Bigelow. Hearing the wagon, Francis got out of bed and went to the door. Francis’ wife, Ann, who was unwell, may have looked out the upstairs window, for it was she who noted the color of the horses. Years later, Ann would tell the story to Edward Waldo Emerson, Harriet Robinson and others, accounts found in the Concord Free Public Library.
“Mr. Bigelow, hearing the carriage, opened his door, and let in the poor fugitive [and his escorts], though the penalty was a thousand dollars, and six months’ imprisonment, for ‘aiding and abetting’ a slave to escape. The blinds of the house were at once shut, and the windows darkened, to evade the notice of any passers-by.”
As Ann told it, the Bigelows then warmed the fugitive and brought him into their own bedroom, where Ann served breakfast, using the bureau for a table. Minkins, worn by anxiety and lack of sleep, could barely keep his eyes open. Meanwhile, the Brooks, sympathetic neighbors, arrived.
After Minkins had eaten and rested, Francis found him warm clothes, but had no hat his size. But Nathan Brooks did. He promptly left and returned with “a hat of his own with which to disguise himself—the hat of a law-abiding citizen!”
Before dawn, Francis Bigelow led Minkins to his own wagon outside, and the blacksmith and fugitive drove west again, this time to a safe house in Leominster. From Leominster, Minkins was transported to Fitchburg, where he boarded a train to Montreal.
Many years later, Ann Bigelow would retell the story of Minkin’s escape. Photo courtesty of the Concord Free Public Library
For Minkins the flight to Canada was a continuation of a life in exile. Separated from his family in Virginia, he joined a small community of former slaves in Montreal. He got a job as a waiter, saved his money and opened his own restaurant. Later, he set up a barbershop.
Over time, he married, and had four children. He never returned to the United States. He was the first runaway slave arrested in Boston under the Fugitive Slave Act, but not the last.
Meanwhile, Minkins’ rescuers returned to Boston. As Ann Bigelow recalled: “Mr. Hayden and Mr. Smith drove leisurely to Sudbury, stopped with friends there, went to church, and, after a good dinner, returned unmolested to Boston.”
Hayden did not, however, escape prosecution. One of several abolitionists charged with aiding and abetting Minkins’ escape, Hayden was acquitted after a jury—which included none other than Francis Bigelow himself—would not convict.
For years after, Lewis and Harriet Hayden continued their militant opposition to the Fugitive Slave Act, hiding and transporting fugitives and raising money. Lewis joined the black Masonic lodge created by Prince Hall, and later served in the state legislature. He also led a successful effort to integrate Boston schools and campaigned for women’s rights.
During the Civil War, Hayden helped to convince his friend, Governor John Andrew, to form a black regiment and actively recruited soldiers for the Massachusetts 54th.
Today, you can visit the Hayden home, a site on the Black Heritage Trail on Beacon Hill. And in Concord, you can still find the house on the Underground Railroad, where the Bigelows opened their doors to Shadrach Minkins and his escorts 172 years ago.
Note: This story first appeared in the magazine, Discover Concord, Summer 2024, as “A Midnight Stop on the Underground Railroad.”
One of my grandchildren’s favorite stories is The Rooster and the Coyote. The story comes from the Hopi people in Arizona, and it’s been passed down orally for centuries. In many Native American stories, the Coyote is a trickster, outsmarting others and causing trouble. But in the story of Coyote and Rooster, Coyote competes in a contest that reveals him as little more than foolish. In this fable I find wisdom for our time. Yes, even for us adults.
So here it is, as I remember it.
Coyote and Rooster were sitting by the fire one night on the mesa. As the long night wore on, first Coyote, then Rooster, began to sing. Each had a vibrant, clear voice, pleasing to listen to.
Coyote, however, was sure he was the better singer, and so he said to Rooster: “You have a good voice, my friend, but clearly my singing is better.”
Rooster, however, insisted that he had the stronger voice, and to illustrate, he let out a soaring refrain.
Then Coyote answered with a long, melodic trill.
Rooster, however, was not impressed. “Clearly the voice of an amateur,” he said, turning one eye on Coyote.
“All right,” said Coyote, “let’s have a contest. Each of us will sing, one after the other, until it becomes clear who has the most powerful voice.”
“Agreed,” said Rooster.
For the next few hours the night above the mesa was full of song. First one would sing, then the other. Back and forth, neither Coyote nor Rooster backing down.
But as the campfire burned down to embers, and the stars shifted in the sky, a faint light seeped onto the eastern horizon. By now, however, Coyote’s and Rooster’s throats had become sore and scratchy.
Coyote could only make weak yipp-yapping sounds. And Rooster, whose voice once soared on the wind, could only make raspy, screeching sounds.
Still, Coyote and Rooster would not let up. Finally, although exhausted, Rooster let out a loud, desperate cry.
Just then, on the ridge to the east, the sun began to rise. Rooster held himself up, weak but proud. “Did you see that?” he said.
“Clearly,” Coyote conceded, “your voice is indeed powerful.”
Ever after this, Rooster has strutted around with great pride, the way roosters are known to do. And no matter what Coyote says, he is certain that he is the one who brings the sun into the world.
After I’ve finished telling this story to my grandchildren, I sometimes ask: do you know anyone like the Rooster and the Coyote?
Ben Jacques Stories 