I was entertained by a Saturday-morning conversation over coffee with a guest as we sat in the breakfast nook at the south end of my kitchen, sunlight illuminating the oval, walnut tabletop through parted, blue, Whig-Rose curtains on the double-hung window.

Although the distinguished gent, nearly 70 and “semi-retired,” had stayed with us before, I had never asked what he did or had done for a living. All I knew was that he wore an air of success and sophistication. I finally discovered why: He had been an executive at the ground level of a big New England retail chain, then a developer of many Southwestern shopping centers, two of which he still owns and leases because now is not the time to sell. When I asked him what types of chain stores he targeted as centerpieces of his developments, he identified one as Home Depot, which begged for the quick question. Had he ever built a Wal-Mart plaza? No. He didn’t agree with Wal-Mart’s business model and preferred not to harm existing downtown retail space. I found his response interesting. This from a developer, of all people, someone I would expect to embrace any big-box store willing to pony up. He had no trouble explaining his guiding principles.

“It’s no secret that Wal-Marts are bad for local economies,” he said matter-of-factly, “so I chose not to contribute. Plus, they’re very demanding on developers, don’t want to pay for anything. Communities don’t know what they’re getting into when they accept them. They soon find out they have to expand streets, add traffic lights, you name it, many expensive ‘hidden costs.’

“If you don’t believe me, take a cross-country ride on the Interstates and you’ll see it over and over again. I call it my three-exit theory. You pull off at the first exit and enter a town of cheap antique malls and tacky bar/restaurants. Wal-Mart’s right off the second exit and the parking lot is full, bustling with shoppers. The third exit is a ghost town. That’s what I call the Wal-Mart effect.”

The man’s daughter overheard our discussion from the adjacent dining room and joined in. An Air Force wife now living in the Caribbean, she’s been around and was quite familiar with the picture her father was painting. “It’s not hard to find,” she said. “You’ll find those three exits all over the country.”

A graduate of Northfield Mount Hermon School and wife of a Deerfield Academy grad, she knew downtown Greenfield of the late ’80s and thought it had perked up in the 20 years she had been away. She remarked favorably on the ongoing downtown facelift, even praised the increased number cars parked along Main Street (must have caught it on a good day). “Looks like they’re making progress,” she opined. “I noticed it right away. The improvements probably wouldn’t be happening if Wal-Mart had come to town.”

Which brought us to another subject. Her father was interested in Greenfield’s infamous Wal-Mart battle, one he was not familiar with before I mentioned it. “They were able to keep it out?” he asked. “Interesting. Tell me about it. How’d they accomplish that?” When I told him how Al Norman had gained local folk-hero status, then national spawlbuster fame for leading Greenfield’s anti-Wal-Mart charge around 1990, he said the community should be thankful. Norman had done a good deed. Maybe they ought to erect a statue. I just chuckled and told him there was a day when Norman was held in high regard locally, still is by many. But these days the man known as “Spawlbuster” is largely vilified following two decades of class warfare between those who say they need Wal-Mart and the antis they call elitist because they can afford to shop elsewhere.

The divisive line of attack didn’t surprise my genteel guest. He said the argument is old and threadbare, right out of the tattered Wal-Mart playbook. The game plan is simple: draw the battle lines, pit the haves against the have-nots and let democracy work its magic. It all comes down to a numbers game, and there are always more have-nots. They just have to be whipped into a frenzy, given slogans and encouraged to start the name-calling — a game plan that works to a T in hand-to-hand rhetorical combat.

What’s important to remember is that these observations were coming from a successful businessman, a definite “have” who cut his teeth in big-box retail, then branched off into big-box development. He even touched briefly on the genesis of the regional retail giant he helped to start; said the plan was to buy overruns, sell them cheap and promote what became a prosperous chain store as “local.” But the subject he addressed next was even more fascinating. He wanted to know about Greenfield’s growth potential. Having lived for many years in New England, where he still summers, he was familiar with the region and guessed that Greenfield’s population is stable. Was that right? Yes. In fact, Greenfield’s numbers have probably dropped a bit since the ’60s and ’70s, when industry was booming, good jobs plentiful. Well, he said, in that case Wal-Mart would be double trouble. Growing communities can support big-box development; stable populations cannot.

“It’s pretty simple if you do the math,” he explained. “Say the existing downtown retail space is 220,000 square feet, the size Wal-Mart always shoots for. If Wal-Mart comes in and builds a 220,000-square-foot store on the outskirts of town, the market cannot support both districts. The impact on downtowns is devastating; they die because Wal-Marts undersell them. Wal-Mart’s goal is to seize the market, and they’re very good at it; even bring in dentists and barbers and hair dressers, which doesn’t help towns much, either.”

The man said you can’t compare a town like Greenfield to his native city of Tuscon, Ariz., which had a population of 300,000 when he was a boy. The population today is more than a million and growing, already more than three times what it was 50 years ago, and thus able to support a big-box-retail boom. Greenfield has no potential to double or triple in size.

Conversations like the one we’ve discussed here make life interesting for innkeepers, who greet many interesting folks with wisdom to share. This particular discussion came out of the clear blue sky on a beautiful morning, and touched on a hot local issue. It developed quite by coincidence and I thought it worthy of sharing — just one more expert opinion to consider when shaping your own for the Greenfield big-box debate. And, again, remember that it came from an unlikely source, one with no ax to grind and years of experience, not to mention inside observation, on which to base his opinions.

I guess the point is that it never hurts to listen, something the pro-growth Penrick crowd apparently hasn’t learned. They’d rather shout down voices of reason and fight economic-impact studies. It reminds me of helpful advice a friend’s father never hesitated to impart. After witnessing a conversation he viewed as one-sided, he’d find the right time to inform his son that people who do all the talking learn nothing. Today that boy’s a man who knows when to talk and when to listen.

With more than a week to digest Greenfield’s June 8 biomass vote, I must admit to finding it encouraging on a couple of levels.

First, the people have spoken loud and clear. How else to describe a 3,300-700 mandate, one that would have likely been more overwhelming had neighboring towns voted? Second, this may be the beginning of the end for that reactionary old-Greenfield gang that seems to be pushing hardest for the project; not because it’s good for Greenfield or Franklin County, but because the good old boys identify their opposition as dangerous, tie-dyed progressives. Well, this time, they’re dead wrong. Most citizens who’ve spent any time objectively investigating biomass plants the size of the one proposed for Greenfield come away with reservations, and that’s exactly what was felt at the polls: citizens pumping their brakes. Whoa! they shouted, we don’t want this “clean-energy” con job jammed down our throats before we know more, which is exactly what the people with the most to gain feared. Time is their enemy.

It appears that the worm has turned in Greenfield. Voters are tired of being ignored by elected officials. A friend of mine — no liberal by any stretch; quite the contrary, a proud, card-carrying Republican — attended a biomass public hearing at Greenfield High School last year and came away angry and dismayed. He phoned me the next morning and said that, given what he had witnessed, the entire town board should have been removed by the mayor and replaced by special election. Why? “Because they’re elected to listen, and they were not listening, didn’t even pretend to be.” In fact, he characterized them as smug, rude and pig-headed, their minds made up before the meeting, in no mood to listen. Obviously, that’s just one man’s opinion, but I respect him, and respect goes a long way in my world.

It seems that nothing has changed with proponents following last week’s lopsided vote, which they now spin as “misleading” and “one-sided.” Their position is that only opponents marched to the polls, thus the landslide. Had those in favor spent as much time organizing support as the antis, they reason, the results would have been different. Yeah, they admit, the election drew a 35-percent turnout, a big number for an off-year election. They aren’t denying that. How can they? But they’re still trying their best to downplay the mandate as one generated by a committed opposition that makes up less than half the registered voters. What about the other 65 percent? That’s their battle cry — one that really irks the rapidly growing opposition. So, once again, it seems that the town is not listening; and if the powers that be continue to ignore and dismiss this vote, future voters will likely banish them to the sidelines.

This latest battle is an extension of the long, drawn-out big-box dispute, on many levels a culture war, with several of the same players on both sides working in full view and behind the scenes; but the difference is that many residents who were indifferent or even in favor of Wal-Mart are vehemently opposed to this biomass monstrosity targeted for northeastern Greenfield. At least that’s the impression I’ve gotten in my travels, and I’m not new around here. Far from it. Frankly, I was stunned by some of the people writing critical letters to the editor and sporting “Biomass? No Thanks!” and “Vote No on Questions 1, 2 and 3” lawn signs. It told me people were feeling insulted and ignored, like the state, then the town were sold a bill of goods by  some snake-oil salesman behind closed doors, then attempted to slip biomass through before it could be scrutinized. All for a buck. When, to their horror, the questions did start, Matt Wolfe and Pioneer Renewable Energy had all the quick answers and diversions that any salesmen worth their salt have up their sleeves.

The proposal to use Greenfield wastewater as a coolant wasn’t abandoned at the 11th hour because of any altruistic change of heart; it was tossed aside because the proponents had correctly read Greenfield’s political winds and hoped they could keep the voters home. Not only that but a statewide movement opposing biomass was gathering momentum. Finally, questions were being asked and the state government was getting nervous, not nearly as fidgety of the PRE people who were hoping to rake in a lot of dough before people were fully informed about their supposed “clean-energy” alternative, clean and green. Yeah, right! Sounds good … until you explore it, which, thankfully, many in Greenfield and the surrounding communities did. The more they learned, the more they fought. Then, for good reason, the state got nervous about supporting large-scale biomass, wasn’t so sure it wanted to line up behind it. Too many difficult questions to answer, the salient ones being: 1.) Is supplying biomass plants acceptable use of our forests? 2.) Is there enough fuel to make biomass feasible and sustainable for the long run? and 3.) Do we really want to belch more smoke into our atmosphere to make energy for some faraway place? More and more folks are answering those question the same way voters in Greenfield responded to Questions 1, 2 and 3: No way!

I suspect that last week’s vote was the beginning of the end for biomass in Greenfield. Maybe I’m wrong. We’ll see. But that’s my instinct, and I couldn’t be happier. Better days may well be ahead for Greenfield. The
signs of positive change are blooming downtown and elsewhere. Now what we need are agents of change who are willing to listen and learn while transitioning a stagnant town, one that knew glory days, into the 21st century. What we don’t need is an energy company trying to profit from a town’s economic woes.

In case you haven’t noticed, the Cambridge Wolfe is sporting new clothes, and he’s looking more and more like the emperor every freakin’ day.

Back on a pleasant Sunday in December, on vacation, I decided at the last minute to attend a biomass gathering that drew quite a crowd to Bernardston’s historic Unitarian Church. I was curious, wanted to meet the players, inconspicuously work the floor, so to speak, perhaps eat a cookie in passing, kill time before the Patriots game. To my delight, what I found was a colorful crowd, mostly rabble-rousers riled up by the proposed Greenfield plant. I enjoy people of their tie-dyed ilk.

The place was bustling, Falltown String Band providing a complementary touch, as I stood out of the way, leaning against a wall near the kitchen doorway. The woman standing next to me was sporting an anti-biomass pin. We, of course, got to talking. When I introduced myself, she recognized my name and thanked me for an anti-biomass column I had written, then launched into a diatribe about my place of employment, criticizing perceived biased coverage in favor of the proposed plant. I craftily avoided that discussion before she introduced me to a woman approaching from my other side. Yep, another rabid opponent of biomass, known to foes as the “supposed” clean-energy alternative. Yes indeed, antis do take issue with that clean-and-green biomass-friendly description. They agree it’s green in a money-making context, but insist it’s far from clean.

Anyway, when my newfound friend said she wanted my business card, I told her my wallet was in the truck and we went outside to get away from the commotion. At the truck, warm winter sun high in the sky, we resumed our conversation. She encouraged me to speak to John Organ, chief of the Division of Wildlife & Sport Fish Restoration at the United States Fish and Wildlife Service’s Northeast regional office in Hadley. “He lives in Buckland,” she told me, “seems to be a pretty nice guy and may have something to say that biomass supporters don’t want to see in print.”

That surprised me. USFWS administrators these days seem to trend more toward Reagan revolutionaries connected to George W. Bush and his sorry lot, certainly no friends of the environment. And although I don’t know if Organ fits that bill, I never did contact him. I chose instead to e-mail one of his underlings, my friend and longtime source John McDonald, a wildlife biologist from Organ’s District 5 office. Formerly our state Deer Project Leader, McDonald specializes in black bears and deer. I figured he’d be as good a source as any about the potential impact of biomass logging on forest habitats crucial to wildlife.

McDonald and other deer specialists I’ve spoken to have for years identified “old-growth forests” in western Franklin County as the No. 1 obstacle to building desired deer densities of 12 to 15 per square mile. Needed, they say, is responsible harvest of trees 80 and more years old along with small patchwork clear-cuts to stimulate forest regeneration and create browse for deer and other wildlife that depend on it for winter sustenance. So, the salient biomass questions seem to be: Will it be an impetus for forest management; and is there enough fuel to feed the pig over the long haul without overharvesting? Then, a couple more questions: How many plants would be too many; and wouldn’t too many eventually create a supply shortage necessitating incineration of other fuels, perhaps hard-to-dispose-of rubbish that would belch unhealthy smoke into our skies, no matter what the proponents say about filters and buffers? McDonald was not timid about responding, on the record.

Yes, he opined, there is enough fuel to feed the pig by responsible logging, but not if opponents are successful in pulling state forests out of the supply chain while convincing private landowners not to get involved with biomass harvesting. As for how many plants would be too many, McDonald wouldn’t venture a guess, just wrote: “It is essentially a math problem that anyone thinking of building a plant would figure out. They would know how much wood they need per day, per month, per year to produce their target output. There is pretty good information on forest inventory available, and then they would have to estimate how easy procurement would be within various hauling distances. Then, you might do some estimates with nearby competitors and recalculate.” McDonald thinks biomass harvest would be an ideal solution for landowners whose wood lots are dominated by low-value hard and soft woods. Such trees could be removed to make way for a more valuable, healthy forest while bringing a financial return to the landowner. Biomass would also provide a market during periodic wood surpluses produced by such natural occurrences as last winter’s ice storm, which left many local upland forests in ruin and need of cleanup; it would also be a remedy for plagues like the Asian long-horned beetle invasion that led to the removal of thousands of mature central Massachusetts hardwoods, many gracing quintessential New England roads. But the question remains: Would the supply last forever or would we soon exhaust it and succumb to irresponsible, greedy logging? It’s a difficult question to answer before long-range impact on the forests can be assessed, all the more reason to proceed conservatively at the start by limiting the number of plants. Biomass opponents’ worst fear is that the demand will exceed the supply, eventually forcing plants to burn refuse that’s difficult to dispose of, stuff like tires and hazardous construction waste that few people north of the Mason-Dixon Line want burned and released into the skies. Count me among them. Sorry, but I don’t trust politicians, plant administrators and investors to do what’s right for the environment. There are piles of records to support my skepticism.

McDonald has concerns about another component of the argument: the activists raising a ruckus to derail biomass energy production. ”What bothers me about the future is that folks want to keep taking parts of the resource base off the table, which might lead to irresponsible logging in the longer run,” he wrote. “If state forests are taken off the table for commercial logging, and local interest groups scare landowners from cutting trees, all bets are off. What could be a positive thing for forest health and wildlife species might then have negative consequences.” It’s a legitimate fear when you understand that the state owns the largest contiguous blocks of forest, thus foresters can do larger-scale operations there than on most private lands. But then again, according to McDonald, “That is the argument some folks on the other side use to oppose logging in state forests. They want to allow them to serve as reserves. So that becomes a value choice people need to make.”

From my perch high on a stately High Ridge beech, it seems there are better, more efficient ways to produce electricity than biomass, which seems like more of the same, not a step forward. Yes, I believe small-scale biomass energy production has a place in the big picture, but these large plants being proposed in western Massachusetts for the benefit of investors and eastern Massachusetts consumers are not for me. Given a choice, I’d prefer fewer smokestacks, not more. Everywhere. Not just in my backyard.

To me, this whole Greenfield biomass initiative smells like a project being pushed by disingenuous developers who attempted to slip it through quickly in a struggling town before residents understood the potential drawbacks. I saw the proponents speak and came away unimpressed. They answered the question they wanted to answer, cried foul on the ones they artfully ducked. Thankfully, cerebral Happy Valley activists were paying attention from the start, looked into the issue before the plant was built, and brought to light the promoters’ lies and half-truths.

My take is that the proposed Greenfield plant is a long way from its ground-breaking ceremony, regardless of what “Biomass Bill” and his most ardent supporters say. Just you wait and see. The opposition is vociferous, reaching deep into our gentle hilltowns, where the mindset is quite different than mainstream Greenfield’s. In fact, my observations tell me the countywide anti-biomass crowd is much stronger than the one opposing big-box development; and we all know how fast that Mackin-lot fiasco has borne fruit. It’ll be more of the same with biomass.

Trust me, those tie-dyeds will have a long time to snicker and dick
er. Why? Easy. Because they’re not just blowing smoke.

A little Buckland birdie gave me a call Sunday. He was responding to an unintentional call placed by my wife from our caller-ID directory. She hit the speed-dial, noticed it was the wrong number and hung up before anyone answered. It went through and left our number on the recipient’s caller-ID, so he called right back and I answered; Red Sox-Blue Jays game on the tube; refreshing pre-autumn breeze wafting through the parlor.

“Hi Hezzie,” I said. “Did the fellas ride you about your comments in my last column? I didn’t name you but I knew it would be no mystery to the boys at Fox Towne (Coffee Shop).”

He chuckled, comfortable in his skin.

“Don’t ever change, Bags, please,” he said. “I got a kick out of it. It’s no secret around here where I stand.”

The subject changed quickly, right to the previous day’s Kennedy funeral; what a powerful event it had been, the legions along the road, average people waving goodbye. I told him I had thrice seen young Teddy tell his tale of losing a leg and Sen. Kennedy telling him they were going to climb the hill together if it took them all day; that I could not control my emotions the first time or last, far too overpowering. He understood.

“The tears seem to come easier the older you get,” he confessed. “I don’t know why. They just do.”

Then it dawned on me: Hezzie had been a state man, an active Democrat; he must have met Teddy somewhere along the way.

“Funny you’d ask,” he said. “I spent yesterday afternoon searching for a signature of his that I saved from Mohawk Park. We kept the receipts around the office in a ledger for a couple of years. Then we’d throw them out. Well, that year I went through the ones we were discarding, pulled Kennedy’s out and took it home with me. I know it’s here somewhere. When I find it, I’m gonna frame it and hang it up.”

He couldn’t remember all the details of the weekend Kennedy visit but figured it was probably soon after Bobby had been assassinated. Teddy came into Mohawk Park in a camper, “like a Winnebago,” stayed for a couple days, “probably Friday and Saturday,” and had a tribe of kids with him, Bobby’s and his own.

“Maybe, even, Bobby and Ethel were there, too,” he said. “But I don’t believe so. I know their kids were. Bobby was probably gone and Ted had them.”

Teddy rented a cabin and spent a couple of days entertaining the kids around the confluence of the Cold and Deerfield rivers, swimming, picnicking; happy-go-lucky, pleasant to deal with.

“I wanted to give him a freebie but he wouldn’t hear of it,” Hezzie said, “insisted on paying, cash.”

At one point during the stay, the kids got a little frisky, throwing stones into the Deerfield River like kids do, and one of them hit the bath house.

“They were good kids, didn’t mean any harm,” Hezzie said. “But you know kids.”

Me? Yeah, I know. Used to be one.

Anyway, the startling sound of that stone hitting the building attracted everyone’s attention. Teddy didn’t overreact, order a timeout, get out the whipping stick, or even raise his voice. “No,” Hezzie recalled, “he just calmly said something like, ‘Boys, we must be more careful. What would we ever have done if that stone had broken a window?’”

End of story, indelible, Franklin folklore circa ’68.

Kennedy mystique.

I recently befriended an interesting octogenarian, I think 87, spry, a collector of coins, stamps and other stuff. His name is Harry. He considers me a good friend. I’ve had him to my home, helped him out with eBay, taken him for rides, stopping on whims to meet people in the hills of Conway and Ashfield while poking around old roads, probing cellar holes. He’s fun to be with, great company, lots to offer, loves local history, conversation.

I’ve known Harry maybe a year and avoid political discussion like the swine flu. The hints have been there from the start that we are not political soul mates. Far from it. So why go there?

The other night I called him to check if an order I placed on eBay had arrived in a timely fashion. It had. Then he delivered a dire warning to a trusted friend: our country is in very serious trouble, Obama must go. Our president is the agent for a communist takeover, has been planted from afar, serious stuff, could be the end of America as we know it; never again land of the free, home of the brave. Obama’s here to orchestrate a coup, dismantle free enterprise.

Just the other day Harry received a letter in the mail. There’s a movement afoot to impeach Obama. We must unite and get it done. Listen to Glenn Beck. He’s on every night at 5, the most watched man in the world; trusted, too. He knows what’s going on and is brave enough to expose it. Every night on TV. Tune in. Very serious. It’ll happen before we know what hit us. Then it’ll be too late.

Harry didn’t hesitate to to issue the warning; said because it’s on TV, it has to be true. You can’t just tell lies on television. It’s illegal. Beck knows what he’s talking about. He’s trying to save us.

Don’t get me wrong. Harry is a good man, a sweet yellow peach, salt of the earth. He means well, loves his country, has a big picture of the Virgin Mary in his apartment, and has been twisted by the right-wing propaganda machine. The stuff they’re saying should be illegal. That’s for sure. It isn’t. It’s pure manipulation based on lies. Very sad what America has become, what Reagan and the Bushes allowed Rupert Murdoch to do in the name of freedom of speech and the press, both inalienable rights, to build a corporate-media behemoth of misinformation.

I fear where it’s leading. I really do. Take a look at these gun-toting crackpots in the street, listen to the Tucson, Ariz., preacher praying for Obama’s death by the same brain cancer that took Teddy Kennedy, building a frothy flock along the way. They too want our president dead and aren’t afraid to say so publicly; would like him arrested and executed for murder of the unborn; call for it on mainstream radio talk.

It’s frightening. It’s serious. It must be stopped.

It’s interesting how column fodder sometimes arrives like sweet lilac scent delivered through the bay window by a subtle breeze-shift, no warning, this week a classic example.

There I was, sitting in my study, kicking off a new week, thinking about potential subjects, considering a weird Atlantic salmon development. Yes, it seems our regal, North Atlantic, anadromous fish are appearing where no one expects them — France’s Seine and New York’s Salmon rivers — while the well-heeled, half-century-old Connecticut River restoration program teeters on extinction, can’t buy a break. Go figure: target a river, no dice; ignore it, they come. Pack that in your bong and smoke it.

As I lean back relaxed, feet up, trying to get started, pondering an angle, the lede (yes, itching to procrastinate), I remember to make a quick insurance call to a friend. The receptionist hooks me up. I identify myself. He’s astonished: “Wow. I just sent you an e-mail. Read it. … Scary.”

I open my Inbox, it’s on top, a familiar subject: dire warning about “secret” Senate Bill SB-2099. If passed — surreptitiously, dark of night — gun owners will be forced to itemize weapons on their next tax return, pay 50 bucks for each. The implication is that, once itemized, weapons will be easier to confiscate when that inevitable day arrives. It’s a tired conspiracy theory perpetuated with zeal by the National Rifle Association. I tell my friend I’ve already seen it, am suspicious, so much so that I haven’t even Googled it. When it first came to my attention two weeks back, I dismissed it; figured, if real, I would have heard something, or soon would. My curiosity piqued, I hang up and Google it. Sure enough, a hoax, listed among urban legends on snopes.com, a Web site where I’ve found past e-mail cougar hoaxes. Even the NRA admits there’s no truth to the story. I’m not surprised. The whole thing reeked of fraud. I have fine-tuned my gray-haired nostrils for this type of stuff. This one didn’t pass the initial whiff test.

With that issue resolved, I go triumphantly to the kitchen to freshen my coffee. Once there, I head to the west parlor for papers that needed to come back to the study with me. As I pass through the threshold, the phone rings. The caller ID tells me it’s another West County acquaintance, this one a rare bird, rare indeed, a longstanding Buckland Democrat; a Yankee, no less, even rarer. He wants to know if I received his e-mail. Had I read the letter he sent to Wayne F. MacCallum, director of the state Division of Fisheries & Wildlife. Speaking on behalf of the Conway Sportsmen’s Club, he wrote to insist that dedicated funds generated by sales of hunting and fishing licenses continue to be spent only on related ventures. I tell him I glanced through it, not carefully, but would revisit. He promptly changes the subject, launches into a tirade aimed at the creeps we’ve all been seeing on TV displaying their guns at presidential appearances and widespread town-hall meetings about national health-care reform.

The good man is stirred up, fearful; you can sense it in his voice. He says he hopes these idiots don’t think they’re doing gun owners any favors. If anything, they’re hurting us all. He can’t imagine anyone justifying citizens standing outside of presidential events with loaded weapons strapped to their sides. He says they’re Ku Klux Klan and John Birch Republicans, very dangerous: “How can anyone defend this behavior? I’m almost ashamed to say that. I’ve been a gun owner and hunter my whole life, have never been for gun control, but this is absurd … insane.”

He probably knows he’s preaching to the choir. The subject has been dominant in my mind as well, fires me up every time I see those yahoos “packing heat” on the streets, holding up protest signs. My view is that 50 short years ago these bigots were burning crosses and marching in lynch mobs. Now they’re running the Republican Party, poisoning the media and acting frighteningly belligerent in the name of almighty God. Still, I’m surprised to hear a septuagenarian country boy from Buckland parroting my sentiments; he an avid hunter who cherishes his right to bear arms. There is hope, I think. These militia types are frightening everyone, not just me. Others know they’re providing red meat for the anti-gun, anti-hunting lobby; threatening everyone’s right to own firearms. I believe that. How can anyone with an IQ higher than their shoe size support these whackos’ confrontational behavior? They represent our Founding Fathers’ worst nightmare: rule by the rabble. It’s Madame Defarge breathing fire through automatic weapons, terrifying imagery.

Let us not deceive ourselves. This is not about health-care reform or taxes or gun rights; it’s about racism and intimidation, pure and simple; a combative reaction to a new electorate with the audacity to elect our first black president. The worst Americans among us cannot cope with it, feel like they’re losing their white-knuckled grip on the status quo, are backed into a corner, sort of like they were feeling in the Sixties. They won’t go down without a fight. It could get ugly.

I truly fear someone’s going to get killed. I was there during the Sixties, saw the Kennedys, Martin Luther King and Malcolm X assassinated, others gunned down in the streets, on campus, by law enforcement. It could happen again; has already with George Tiller, the abortion doctor murdered in a church, and the guard killed at the Holocaust Museum. It’s horrific stuff. The Republican politicians beating the drums to which Rush, O’Reilly, Beck and Hannity march in lockstep should be flogged. They’re calling liberals fascists, Nazis, communists, tyrants and worse. They know better. They’re propagandists, experts at blurring the -isms Joe the Plumber has never understood or been trained to philosophically compare. Look it up: fascism was not a liberal movement. It was a right-wing, reactionary response to the threat of communism, socialism and organized labor. Hitler didn’t hate Judaism; he hated the political Jews behind the Communist Manifesto, many others who were intellectually sympathetic to the proletariat, and, of course, those who led the Russian Revolution and struck fear into capitalist Europe. Out of this threat came nationalist movements that spawned Hitler, Franco and Mussolini, all experts at whipping mobs into a frothy lather. The rest is history.

The behavior of our right-wing demagogues today is inflammatory and disgusting. The wingnuts flaunting weapons around political events should be hauled off in paddy wagons, just like the peaceful, unarmed demonstrators who were whisked away from anywhere within a mile of our woeful previous “decider.” This cannot go on. It’s ridiculous, counter-productive for law-abiding citizens who love to hunt, shoot skeet or own guns for protection.

Lynch mobs don’t deserve guns no matter how much red, white and blue they wave; how loud they chant liberty and freedom. Don’t forget that the Confederate flag was also red, white and blue. Don’t confuse these “Birthers,” “Tea Partiers” or “Liberty Tree” nutbags with Patriots from our glorious past. They’re not Patriots. They’re bigots; Rebel brown shirts and Lone Star loons.

Why sugarcoat it? They’re dangerous.

I was listening to WEEI the morning after Ted Kennedy’s passing, sitting on the tailgate, dogs sniffing around through fresh-cut clover, right-wing bores taking their mean-spirited shots at the late senator, fouling otherwise refreshing air. Finally, it got to me. I thought to myself, “You, Dennis and Callahan, are not in the same stratosphere with Teddy, as men or human beings. You’re no more than shallow carnival barkers playing to the old Southie anti-bussing crowd, not a trace of depth to your opinions, no decency in your souls; babbling idiots.”

I returned home, parked in front of the carriage sheds, walked to the flag pole and lowered my flag to half-staff, something I have never before done. That’s what D&C did for me.

So, yeah, I guess I am political, after all … and, at the moment, quite proud of it.

Uh-oh, a friend was fact-checking my copy, testing the memory of a raw, 16-year-old observer who was then more interested in hitting baseballs than defining life.

The phone call came from Bethel, N.Y., Saturday night about 7:30, pregame show, Red Sox-Rangers, on the tube. Friend and dentist Mark Wisniewski was on his cell. He, wife Nora and daughter Bree were attending Woodstock 2009, the 40th reunion of the iconic “Summer of Love” concert. Seems they’d been trying all day to substantiate facts from the story I had published a few days earlier about attending the infamous 1969 concert as a twisted teen. It had been just the previous day that “Dr. Mark” had pulled into my driveway around 11 a.m., big cigar, upbeat as always, trying to entice me and my wife to join him for the ride. No such luck. I was working a rare Friday night and my wife was on her way to Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom for a family gathering. There would be no Woodstock reunion for me, stag or otherwise.

The caller ID showed who rang. I knew it had to be live from Bethel, probably a “you-don’t-know-what-you’re-missing” call, and it was, sort of. The good doctor estimated 20,000 in attendance, a far cry from the half-million in ’69. Country Joe and the Fish was playing in the background; good, but Big Brother and the Holding Company had been superb. The female vocalist hit the highest notes he could remember hearing, and Dr. Mark gets around, has been to a few gigs over the years; my kind of dentist, even when he’s poking and prodding below the gum-line.

Truth was my friend hadn’t called to critique the bands, though. No, he was vetting my story, had been asking around, trying to conceptualize the layout, having difficulty. He shouldn’t have been surprised. I had warned readers that I couldn’t remember every minute detail, just certain anecdotal events burned deep into my memory. Forty years is a huge gap to fill when trying to reconstruct scenes relying on the blurred memory of a teen with an unsophisticated eye for detail. I wasn’t at Woodstock as a writer or commentator. I was just traipsing about, a bit impaired, on a footloose lark; no one to tell me what to do or where I couldn’t go; autonomy I had only dreamt.

Anyway, after telling me how much he wished I had accompanied him, that he was having a blast but it would mean more to me, Dr. Mark jumped right into his probe, nowhere near as invasive as removing mercury amalgams. Maybe things had changed since ’69 but he hadn’t been able to find the bar I had written about, or the small center of town where it sat. He had asked many ’69 concert veterans and no one seemed to recall a bar. How far away was it, anyway? Did I recall? When I guessed a quarter- to half-mile, he was bemused. Something didn’t add up. I had described the bar as located among a little cluster of small homes. The only place that fit that description was three or four miles away. Oh yeah, and he hadn’t seen a pond anywhere, just a river far in the horizon behind the stage. No, it wasn’t a river behind the stage. It was a mud hole on the other side of town, not far off the road. That was confirmed a few days later, when I saw a photo on the bulletin board at Clarkdale Fruit Farm in West Deerfield; just as I remembered. Tom Clark remembered it, too. But, let’s not digress. Back to the interrogation.

Did I remember what direction I had traveled from the concert to town? Yes, that I could say for sure. The town was behind me and to the right. He explained that he had arrived in Bethel from that direction and again, unless the settlement had moved, the only cluster of homes he passed was nearly four miles from the concert. Although I couldn’t remember walking that far, it wasn’t impossible. A four-mile walk wouldn’t have been outrageous to me as a teen. I had hoofed it my whole life before receiving my first driver’s license some six weeks before Woodstock, so it’s conceivable it had been a four-mile trek. I just had no recollection of any extraordinary distance. I guess it wasn’t important in the bigger picture. Many people walked 20 miles just to get to Max Yasgur’s Farm after the highway had been closed. I felt fortunate.

Before hanging up, Dr. Mark repeated that he wished I had been there to help him scope out the place, investigate the scene of my teenage adventure. He loves that kind of activity. Me, too. I guess that’s why we’re friends. I suspected I hadn’t heard the last of him. Just a hunch, but I knew his discovery mission was ongoing. Sooner or later he’d figure things out; likely sooner. That’s him: persistent. Still, I was a little surprised when the phone rang in less than 15 minutes. I was just getting ready to hit the People’s Pint for a quick oatmeal stout and there he was, Dr. Mark on the caller ID. He had found a source who knew the bar. It was Hector’s.

Yes, of course, it immediately rang a bell. Hector’s: that was it. I Googled it a few days later and got several hits; had been mentioned often in recent blog posts and newspaper articles about this year’s Woodstock reunion. People camped and partied there over the weekend. The full name of the place is Jerry Hector’s Last Chance Saloon. A little hole-in-the-wall watering hole that could just as easily be located in backwoods Appalachia or rural Arkansas, it is now a national landmark. I guess to me, the 16-year-old rascal who once enjoyed temporary anarchy there — well, no law but friendly order — Hector’s will always be my “first-chance” saloon. Never before had I been served at a bar. No one was carded. Call it look-the-other-way bliss; flower-power mob rule; whatever. And I have to wonder: Could it have been Mrs. Jerry Hector herself who tried to shortchange that $20 bill I gave her for a whiskey-and-ginger?

Looking back, I admit I probably should have remembered a four-mile trek to town, even a bit farther to the pond where I had swam, slept and bundled … Sixties style. But that memory’s gone. I guess if the only thing I lost at that surreal event was my ability to recall distances covered afoot, I came away unscathed. Some lost far more, are still riding a bad trip home, their sanity baked into Bethel’s red clay.

Thankfully, I weathered the storm; lived to resurrect dormant memories, albeit flawed, and tell my tale.

My recollection of Woodstock has the clarity of a sepia-tone photo exposed too long to light; dull, faded foreground washed out and bleeding into the background, key details obscured. It’s akin to piecing together a dream. You remember what woke you and little else. After all, I was only a boy, just turned 16, on a lark; no eye for architecture or interiors, foggy recall even of the musical perfomances. I guess I most remember the downpours, the crowd and a few personal peaks, anthills on a mountain.

It was mid-August 1969 in Bethel, N.Y., a hole-in-the wall hamlet south of the Catskills that could easily have been somewhere in the Appalachians or Arkansas. There, on Max Yasgur’s Farm, an iconic, “Summer of Love” music festival attracted up to a half-million flower children who rocked the nation and put a bold exclamation point on the Sixties. That I remember well, not every little detail.

The first image that always appears when I think back to “being there” is my arrival at what should have been the festival’s entryway on the other side of a town center you could have missed by blinking. I recall a bar, maybe a package store, probably a gas station and five or six small modern homes, no more, maybe less. I was walking toward the concert in a swollen current of humanity that pulled me to a gate trampled flat with the attached, eight-foot, chain-link fence erected along the festival’s perimeter. It was obviously a free concert at that point, not a soul around to take a ticket if you had one. I did. Eighteen bucks, as I recall.

Standing side by side, perhaps 20 feet from those flattened symbols of law and order, along the edge of a road, I think dirt, were two New York State Troopers wearing Smokey Bear hats, arms folded across their chests, handguns holstered on their hips. They were big men, well over six feet, and they wore a timid expression unlike any I had ever witnessed on uniformed lawmen. The smell of pot and youthful bliss was overwhelming in the hot, muggy air as the throng milled aimlessly about like people at a country fair; festive, happy, totally free and uninhibited; a yell here, a hug there, no one directing traffic or ordering people about. Positioned right there within conversation spray of the cops was a thin, pony-tailed kid wearing shorts, sandals, an untucked T-shirt and the type of straw hat you’d see at a political rally. I think they call them white skimmers. Well, on this day, at this historic event, in front of those neutered cops, what would have been a red, white and blue band reading NIXON ’68 at the Republican Convention was replaced by a crude cotton strip with “LSD $1” written in red Magic Marker, front and back, bold and brazen, cops ignoring it and the buyers. I knew then that law had been suspended, Woodstock Nation ruled, the cops just along for a rain-drenched, three-day ride that could have turned ugly had Gov. Nelson A. Rockefeller sent in the National Guard as threatened on TV and radio. Some called it anarchy, others nirvana. Count me among the latter. It’s too bad cities and societies can’t be as harmonious and peaceful as the mob at that mud-splattered concert, one that changed me and the way I view the world forever; truly a difference-maker for an impressionable, rebellious, 16-year-old caught up in the movement, well aware of Vietnam protests, Chicago Seven, Eldridge Cleaver, assassinations.

My arrival at that “gate” to a kinder place is just one of the indelible images rooted deep in my memory. Another recurring scene is the one that unfolded well before Bethel while traveling the Interstate that had been closed because of the unexpected large turnout numbering in the hundreds of thousands. My Aunt Ricky, a nurse, had a dashboard medical pass that got us through the state-police roadblocks, helicopters whirling above, abandoned vehicles parked both sides of the road, three- and four-deep on the median strip. A young, tie-dyed army was marching peacefully to the festival, determined not to be deterred by authority. Some carried infants, other supplies in their backpacks, probably 10 or more miles to trudge. How could I ever forget that sight or the adrenaline rush that came with anticipation that I was about to experience something exciting and unique, surreal and historic?

We drove along slowly with that streaming pilgrimage all the way to Bethel, through a slim patch of woods, past a muddy swimming hole, and into the center of town, where my Uncle Ralph dropped us off; me, Cousin Cindy and two of her girlfriends, all a year older than me. We unloaded our supplies, lugged them past the cops and hallucinogen hawkers, and headed for Yasgur’s Farm.

It was Saturday morning and we couldn’t get closer than what seemed like a mile from stage. The crowd was immense, unlike anything I had ever experienced anywhere, even at the New York World’s Fair. We finally found a tight opening to squeeze into, laid down our blankets and coolers, and sat in awe of the spectacle. People were everywhere, music at the faraway base of the hill, rust-colored mud underfoot, strong smell of pot, cigarettes, urine and body odor spicing the wet air. Everyone seemed friendly, willing to share and chat, while others danced in another orbit, spaced out of their gourds. Yes, quite a sight for teenage eyes. I’ve seen it described as a 15- to 25-year-old crowd. I guess I was on the low end.

When the first hard rain soaked us, I became adventurous and walked to the bar in town, quite a novelty for a soon-to-be high school junior. Little did I know that would be the final time I saw my female companions. It was impossible to find them in the sea of humanity on that crowded hillside overlooking the music. I was on my own, sweet 16, traipsing with the flow, back and forth to town, to the bar, down to the swimming hole. I actually slept by that swollen pond the first night with someone kind enough to share a makeshift tent draped over a sturdy pine bough. What an adventure; wet and wild, lightning bolts dancing through black sky. I’m still proud that I held my own against more worldly guys five and 10 years older. Somehow I figured it out, found shelter from the storm; just a kid, certainly no milquetoast, hardly innocent.

I bumped into one person I recognized during my travels. His name was Robert Ferriter. He was from Conway. We passed near the flattened fence, I headed in, he out to town. Ferriter was a couple years ahead of me at Frontier. We greeted each other, shook hands, spoke for a moment about the multitude and continued in opposite directions. What a coincidence. All those people swarming around, and I found someone I knew. A miracle. You had to be there to understand.

I remember a shortage of food and drink, a serious shortage at that; way too many people to feed with the Interstate closed. Back then a six pack of Genesee Lager cost 95 cents. Not at Woodstock. Refrigerator trucks from a local distributor would pull into town throughout the day and the drivers would open the back doors and sell beer for 2 bucks a six, $8 a case; highway robbery, cash, going like hotcakes. Looking down the road from the trucks to the bar, homeowners across from the bar were selling water from outdoor spigots for 10 cents a Dixie Cup, a dollar a canteen. The lines were long; Main Street cashing in; the American way. I wonder how much those people raked in that weekend? Probably paid their mortgages.

On my first tavern stool, I ordered whiskey and ginger, kid’s stuff, and paid with a $20 bill, half a week’s pay on a tobacco farm back then. When the barmaid gave me change for a 10, I objected but she wouldn’t budge. Luckily, three dirty, denim-clad Hells Angels from New Jersey were sitting to my right. The one bumping elbows with me — bearded with long, scraggly black hair — told her it was a 20. He saw it. She didn’t argue, just went to the till, sprung the money drawer, pulled out a sawbuck and placed it on the bar in front of me; frontier justice. I offered to buy him a drink. He thanked me but declined. Since that day I have always had a soft spot for biker dudes. The guy didn’t know me from Adam but stuck up for me; had a conscience.

My first priority from the minute I arrived at Woodstock had been to see Jimi Hendrix perform, but his gig kept getting delayed. Little did I know my aunt was treating him for an overdose, heroin, I think; she working Dr. William “Rock Doc” Abruzzi’s triage tent, a busy place that weekend. Stubbornly determined to see Hendrix, I stuck around and caught the buzz circulating about him. It seemed everyone was waiting for Jimi, the Stratocaster master, and rumors were flying like gnats. Some even claimed he was dead. He wasn’t, finally appearing late, I think the final act. It was predawn Monday and the crowd had thinned, enabling close access to the stage. I wasn’t within spitting distance but not more than 100 yards away, either. It was pretty ripe down there. Fetid runoff had settled at the base of the hill behind the stage every time it rained, and the stench was awful; human and unhealthy. I heard Jimi play his defiant Star Spangled Banner and split. He was OK, not great; very disappointing. He’d had a tough night. Me, too. But I had to start thinking about getting home. I was pushing it, defiantly tardy.

When my Uncle had dropped us off, he said he’d pick us up at the same spot on Sunday at 10 a.m. I didn’t make it. Nope, nearly a day late. As I approached the designated spot around breakfast time, there he was standing by his car, searching, people passing on both sides. He had already taken the girls home and returned for me. When he spotted me, he yelled my name and warmly smiled. I was surprised. I expected rage. He was more understanding than I could have ever imagined, even seemed happy. But I still dreaded the trip home; figured it would be tense; silent and unpleasant. I was wrong. He was genuinely interested; wanted the whole rundown. Did I have a good time? Where had I been? Why hadn’t I gone to the medical tent to find my aunt? Did I remember the pick-up time? How could I stand the rainstorms, the lightning? Had I eaten anything? He was glad to see me, feared me lost. Truth is I was, in my own way. But we didn’t go there. Forbidden fruit.

A generation later, I remember sitting at my uncle’s funeral. It was at the Congregational Church in Charlemont. I was with my parents, maybe a sibling or two. During the service, my uncle’s friends — fellow teachers and coaches, skiing buddies — stood one by one to say a few words, pay tribute. I sat listening, restless to stand and tell my Woodstock tale; how I showed up a day late and he was there, seemingly unperturbed, amiable for the ride home. But I never rose from that hard wooden pew, never said a peep. There had always been family friction, none of it my doing, and honestly, I’ve never understood it, probably never will, but it silenced me; bad vibes in stifling holy air.

I do wish I had sung his praise, paid my respects. It still eats at me. I think I owed it to him. He deserved it. I resent the petty family dynamics that precluded it. Wrong, no matter how you spin it. I had no cock in that fight. I just wanted to share a poignant anecdote about a forgiving uncle who had let slide my youthful disobedience at a fascinating American event? He must have understood. Although a day late, I was years wiser. My uncle, the teacher, deserved my posthumous gratitude for being one of the few educators who ever taught me anything worth knowing.

Because of him, I was there, a young and grateful witness.

Now, I have spoken.

It’s getting to the point where I can’t take it. I shut off the TV, close the windows and scream. It bothers me that much listening to optimistic Republican talking heads confidently predicting a comeback like the one following Goldwater’s landslide defeat of 1964.

After that election, the likes of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan appeared finished, dead and buried, the country headed in a new direction, similar to today. But Nixon and Reagan and the Bushes didn’t lie dormant long. No, they came back with a vengence by reframing the Grand Old Party with Southern-racist, Christian-conservative “Dixiecrats” and anti-abortion Catholics who switched parties and swung elections for more than a generation. Those people went to the polls in droves for guns and God while the Flower people withdrew, alienated and disillusioned, their leaders dead or jailed.

Finally, the wheels came flying off the wagon, compliments of incompetent puppet George W. Bush, a.k.a Bush Light, probably our worst, least-qualified president ever. The dreadful, corrupt Bush years energized a youth movement the likes of which had not been experienced since the Sixties, and out of it came Obama.

Today’s revisionist talking heads would have you believe that people came to their senses after the turbulent Sixties, saw the light, so to speak, and figured it all out in the Seventies. We were headed in the wrong direction and they made a much-needed correction, changed course. At least that’s what they’d have you believe; and those who weren’t around for the Sixties take it hook, line and sinker, victims of boob-tube manipulation. But what these talking heads craftily neglect to mention are the two Kennedy assassinations in the span of five years, not to mention Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and others who were silenced. Those murders and nothing else is what brought Republicans back into power. Even with JFK gone after 1963, had Bobby survived to win the 1968 election, we would have never seen Nixon or Reagan in the White House. Few would disagree.

Were those assassinations pure coincidence? Fate?

Yeah, right! Very difficult to accept for anyone who reads and reasons.

Count me among them.