Friday, April 28, 2017


Photo:  Wally Witmer

Dogfish Bar & Grill.


Photo:  Wally Witmer

A new friend we met, dinner at the bar of Central Provisions, told us where we could go next to worship.

Photo:  Wally Witmer

A bar called Grace, converted from an old church.

Needless to say, our prayers were answered...

(Amazing Grace.)


No, The Press Hotel in Portland, Maine.

A journalist theme because it is the former headquarters of the Portland Press Herald.

Or, as this gem of a hotel puts it... Beyond Words.


Photo:  Wally Witmer

So my new friend and fellow road warrior Wally Witmer likes to travel with a drone, which he uses to produce amazing aerial photography.

The photo above is of the Bush family summer compound on Walker's Point in Kennebunkport.

The photo below is of us getting nailed by the cops.

Apparently, Walker's Point is a no fly zone.

(Too late!)

Photo:  Wally Witmer


Walker's Point, Kennebunkport a substitute CoW.

A Tahoe.

Lots of space, smooth driving, and (of course) leather club seats.

Thursday, April 27, 2017



Dinner at Row 34, maybe the freshest oysters on the half shell I ever ate.  (And the warm buttered lobster roll, no slouch either.)

Then, as recommended by our native-born server...

Earth Eagle, a hole-in-the-alley bar, full of local color and craftsmen beer, including...

Alesmith, brewed with chocolate nibs and expresso beans, served in a snifter.



A long day's driving from Washington DC with stops at the Padre Pio Foundation in Cromwell, Connecticut, and Mark Twain's House in Hartford, culminates with a visit to Jack Kerouac's gravesite in Lowell, Massachusetts, where he was born in 1922.

Kerouac drank himself to an early death, in 1969.

A first edition I bought in 1989

His 1957 novel On The Road glorified the "Beats" and inspired a generation.  

It continues to inspire.  

Lowell memorialized its local hero with a park at 75 Bridge Street.

Final paragraph from On the Road

A cold, damp and very grey day in Lowell.


Samuel Clemens built this gothic castle on Farmington Avenue in Hartford, Connecticut, and moved into it in 1871.

At that time, Hartford was a hub for writers and publishers.

Now Hartford is known as insurance company central.

On this day it is austere and gloomy.

Sam Clemens spent his happiest years in what he considered the perfect home, constructed to his own specifications.

But it also provided much heartbreak when his favorite daughter, Susy, died in this house at the age of 24 from spinal meningitis.

Sam was away at the time, in Britain, after taking a worldwide lecture tour to rebuild the family finances after a bad investment led to bankruptcy.

Such was Sam's grief from Susy's death (he blamed himself, for being away), he would never sleep another night in this house, and instead relocated to New York City.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017


As far as I know, the closest my father ever got to spirituality, or spiritual enlightenment, was his connection to Padre Pio, now Saint Pio, a Catholic mystic who suffered stigmata continuously for half-a-century and was known for his power of prayer to heal those in need.  

My dad’s unique attachment to Pio came to him late in life, around the age of seventy, and it may explain why he seemed at greater peace within himself the last fifteen years of his life.  
As an artist, one of my father’s creative passions was portraiture, for which he developed his own expressionist style, often unappreciated by unsuspecting subjects.  

Commuting between homes in London and Monaco, my dad produced art in both venues and was never happier than when at work in his studio.  (If he taught me one thing—and he taught me many—it was this:  Take the time to cultivate a talent that exists within you not least because it will provide serenity in old age.

During their many years in Monaco, my parents made friends with Luigi, the sweet-natured custodian of their apartment building.   

Luigi suffered a variety of nervous ailments, including claustrophobia, and every so often needed to convalesce in a sanatorium.  His anxieties led to a heart condition, which eventually required surgery (I’m guessing an angioplasty).  Fearing the worst, Luigi asked my father to paint a small portrait for him of someone called Padre Pio.

My father replied, "Of course, Luigi.  But I've never heard of Padre Pio and I've no idea what he looks like.  I’ll do it if you bring me his photograph."

This was easy for Luigi as he, like many Italians, are deeply religious and carried prayer cards featuring Pio.

As I mentioned much earlier, my father was born in the Bronx into an Ashkenazi Jewish family that immigrated to America from Poland/Russia in 1913, probably to escape religious oppression.

My father did not grow up in a religious environment; certainly, none of the traditions of his heritage were handed down to him, or to me (though I seem to have inherited his family’s anarchistic leaning, which suits me fine.)

Luigi presented my father with a photograph of Pio and explained that pilgrims traveled from all parts of the world to visit the Italian town of San Giovanni Rotondo, where Pio had lived in a monastery until his death in 1968.  (Pio existed in a small, sparse dormitory-like room in which he battled the devil most nights, emerging bruised and bloodied most mornings—this in addition to the blood that constantly streamed from both palms.)  

Even in death, Luigi continued, Padre Pio possessed magical healing powers. 

For decades The Vatican suspected Pio of perpetuating his wounds himself and sent investigators to expose such fakery.  But they could never prove Pio’s stigmata a fraud, and, indeed, Paul John Paul II canonized Pio to sainthood in 2002.

So my father painted a portrait of Padre Pio and gifted it to Luigi a few days before the Italian’s risky heart surgery.  

Overjoyed, Luigi prayed to Pio’s likeness, entered the hospital with confidence and bounced back from surgery with new vigor and, in addition, no longer felt the nervous disorders which had plagued him for many years. 

Luigi felt cured, and he credited Padre Pio—my dad’s portrait of Pio—for his recovery.

My father was oddly taken by Padre Pio’s image (he couldn't get it out of his mind) and soon began painting additional portraits of the Catholic mystic.

In the early hours one night, while in Monaco, my father awoke feeling unwell.  He wandered into the dark living room and noticed an unframed portrait of Pio, not yet dry, propped against the wall, barely illuminated by harbor lights in the distance.  Feeling deathly ill at this point, my father sat down by the painting and prayed—perhaps for the first time of his life!  

Much later that morning, after conducting tests, a doctor told my father that an ulcer in his stomach was bleeding so profusely he was amazed my dad had survived the night. 

Soon after that experience, my brother-in-law, then in his early 30s, discovered a lump on his neck and was diagnosed with a particularly aggressive tongue cancer.  The prognosis was bad.  Doctors did not expect him to live longer than six months.

On hearing this terrible news, my father painted a portrait of Padre Pio and mailed it to my brother-in-law.  A surgeon removed the base of his tongue and radiation therapy commenced.  My brother-in-law prayed to his Padre Pio portrait.  

He made a miraculous recovery, leaving his physicians astounded and bewildered.  And over twenty years later, he remains in complete remission.  

Other such recoveries took place when my father gifted those in need with a padre Pio portrait.  

Word got around.  

A French-Canadian priest devoted to Padre Pio learned of my father's portraits and one day arrived unannounced at my father’s Monaco art studio to see for himself what was going on.

The priest claimed to feel Pio's presence in my father’s studio.  And he suggested that Pio was using my father to continue his intercessionist healing through prayer.  Moreover, this priest expressed a desire to organize an exhibition of my father's Pio portraits at a church in Fontvieille (part of Monaco) but, after some planning, my father demurred, preferring not to market or promote the special blessings these paintings seemed to possess.

Another artist tried to trick my father out of his collection of Pio portraits by taking them away under the guise of professionally photographing them.  A cursory background check showed the person to be a conman.  When told he could not have access to the Pio portraits after all, the man’s demeanor turned menacing.  

Another devil exposed (and dispatched.)

I possess one such icon, in my opinion one of the finest of Pio painted by my father. 

Sometimes in this small painting Pio is bruised and bloodied, and sometimes he is not.  

And so today, in Cromwell, Connecticut, I visited the Padre Pio Foundation of America and, in my father's memory, donated one of his Pio portraits. 


Washington, D.C. to Portsmouth, NH, 488 miles.