When Bostonians head out to “the Cape,” they tend to clamber aboard MA 3, turn south, and put a brick on the accelerator. On a summer day, there may be a certain virtue in getting well down the South Shore as quickly as physics allow, but there are more congenial alternatives. MA 3A links Boston and the Cape, but as a local road offering exposure to many of the small towns that dot the South Shore. As payment for time spent in those settled areas that sometimes dominate, MA 3A also treats the traveler to woodland, marsh, river, and harbor views that are a pleasing alternative to hurtling south on its highway counterpart. Since this route collects coastal towns the way P T. Barnum collected oddities, there’s an almost continuous opportunity to slip into the center of the many villages passed, to visit local beaches, and to walk the shore as you will.
This route begins in the center of Hingham by the broad expanse of Hingham Harbor. Before setting out, you might want to first spend a little time at World’s End, just to the north of the town center, on nearby Martins Lane. The World’s End reservation provides a delightful place to walk amid natural surroundings designed by Frederick Law Olmsted and enjoy spectacular views across Hingham Bay to Boston Harbor (see the author’s Weekend Walks on the New England Coast).
IN THEIR OWN WORDS, WHY PROTESTERS ARE OCCUPYING WALL STREET
As we gather together in solidarity to express a feeling of mass injustice, we must not lose sight of what brought us together. We write so that all people who feel wronged by the corporate forces of the world can know that we are your allies.
As one people, united, we acknowledge the reality: that the future of the human race requires the cooperation of its members; that our system must protect our rights, and upon corruption of that system, it is up to the individuals to protect their own rights, and those of their neighbors; that a democratic government derives its just power from the people, but corporations do not seek consent to extract wealth from the people and the Earth; and that no true democracy is attainable when the process is determined by economic power. We come to you at a time when corporations, which place profit over people, self-interest over justice, and oppression over equality, run our governments. We have peaceably assembled here, as is our right, to let these facts be known.
It is hard to go on holding the telephone next to my ear. The tone of my mother’s voice upsets me so. However, her fiercely independent, authoritarian self gives way as she tells me she cannot manage her paperwork any more. I am dealing with mine none too well at this point, but I dismiss that from my mind. I am trying to make arrangements to go and see how her dementia is impacting on her everyday life. “So you want to come and stay in my house?” she says, in a superior manner that reminds me of Hyacinth Bucket and implies that we are not related in any way. Although I may be poised on my white charger and wearing my familiar suit of armour, there is a new me in there; the hugely irritated, put down, and short-fused me.
Dealing with my mother’s depression and her overt hostility was what unknowingly drove me to train as a psychotherapist. Now she is seventy-nine, and for the first time requires real assistance. Part of me childishly still wants her to need me on some level. She had certainly never needed my presence in the past except to offload her huge disappointment with life.She saw her life as a great tragedy. She pretended her first husband of five years never existed, even though he was my father. He was unmentionable. Her main story featured around her becoming a widow nineteen years earlier from her second marriage, which she espoused as true love and devotion, but regrettably childless. Thus, she gave her depression legitimacy, an explanation, a story. Now, even at her great age, she was still hoping to meet a man who would take all her troubles away. The fantasy of finding a wonderful man occupied much of her thinking. This was what she wanted, and I was of no interest. She bemoaned endlessly her sense of isolation and defended against it by withdrawing from life even more. Her medical history was peppered with numerous visits to the doctors, who would repeatedly prescribe antidepressants. Sometimes, she would go as far as getting the prescription, but she would never take them for more than a day, saying the side-effects were too strong.
When the Gothic style came from Germany to Italy, it experienced a complete national transformation. That which had specifically marked the German Gothic – the extreme development of the joist system resulting in a ubiquitous tendency towards heights – was utterly ignored by the Italian master builders and simply not accepted; century-old building traditions were rooted too deeply for that. At first, the conditions of the Romanesque vault construction were mostly retained. That which was adopted from Gothic construction methods was actually little more than an external contribution to modernity. It is therefore hardly possible to speak of an Italian Gothic style as a closed system. The Mediterranean disposition with its natural feel for wide, medium height rooms and horizontal building mass structure remained unimpressed by the upward striving vaults; it altogether rejected the towers in which the German Gothic had found its aesthetic paragon. The Italians were all the more interested in all things decorative that the Gothic offered them. With childlike joy for the variety, delicacy and flexibility of these objects, they let their imagination run free. The new wealth of forms resulted in such splendid decorative creations as the façade of Siena Cathedral