By Guy Trammell Jr.
Louis P.H. (Patrick Henry) was the colored servant of Maj. Gen. John A. Logan, a United States senator and friend of President Ulysses S. Grant. Logan assisted Louis in becoming chief messenger for the assistant attorney general and riding with President Grant in his second inauguration.
Boston’s airport, named for Gen. Logan, is where I arrive for incredible fellowship with our growing Common Ground family, along with adventures in South Berwick history and culture.
Thinking of travel…I would love to revisit Semarang, Indonesia, where I started school and enjoyed freshly harvested rice and some of the nine types of bananas each day. And my favorite place to eat, hands down, is New Orleans, with its rich creole and southern cuisine.
However, I also would like to revisit a location from my college years, as my class prepared for a St. Croix, Virgin Isles trip, discussing island hopping by plane and boat, tropical beaches, fields of mouthwatering pineapple and mango groves. It was the making of an incredible adventure!
Near the end of the term, I was informed that only fifth-year students were included on the trip, eliminating Guy (oh no!). I was crushed! Then my advisor sent me to a place I knew nothing of: Vancouver Island, British Columbia, North America’s largest island.
A beach resort hosted nine of us as we watched magnificent killer whales jumping offshore, explored caves, enjoyed ocean swims, tracked wildlife, hiked snow-covered mountains, crossed spectacular lakes, and even saw glaciers and the aurora borealis. And yes, we did attend classes.
Everyone there was white, my longest period ever of not interacting with anyone Black.
From 1932 to 1936, Tuskegee Airmen Commander Benjamin O. Davis, Jr., the only Black attending West Point military academy, was never spoken to and lived in an isolated room. During cafeteria meals, the cadet officers never gave him permission to sit. In humiliation, he stood at attention in front of the entire academy to eat his meals. Also, no schoolmates attended his West Point chapel wedding to Agatha Scott.
Of course I experienced no discrimination on the island. I thoroughly enjoyed being there. My cabin mate and another young man who ate with us were close friends. Also, one of the young ladies and I walked the two miles together weekly to attend a quaint little storybook church. Outside of television, she said, I was the first Black person she ever met.
I later learned that from 1851 to 1864, James Douglas, a Black man from Guyana, was the second governor of Vancouver Island. In 1858, the Hudson Bay Co. relinquished the mainland, and Douglas became the first governor of the newly established British Columbia.
And by the way, Louis’ full name was Louis P.H. Davis, grandfather to Benjamin O. Davis. Jr.
By Amy Miller
My midwife told me to put up pictures of my favorite places to be so that while I was in labor I could immerse myself in these spaces and good feelings. I had a photo of myself treading water in the Caribbean and another of me building a snowman on the kind of day when winter is a Currier and Ives lithograph.
No surprise, it didn’t work. I forgot the photos were even there. But these scenes were and are my dream world. Floating, swimming or snorkeling in warm turquoise waters, the world’s as well as my turmoils are left on shore. And drying off in the sun afterward is as good as a full body massage. And when I am stomping through a forest of snow, sun peering through the trees and reflecting off the ground cover, the world is as enchanted as a Disney movie. Drinking a toddy in a nearby pub afterwards is a gentle reentry to the confines of indoor spaces.
But if I had to name my favorite place in the world besides home, it would be New York City, far from either snow country or the isles of the West Indies. New York City, though, is in fact my other home, my original home. I love living in Maine, and the town of South Berwick has a community with heart, soul and a tiny ski hill. Not to mention the best swim spot around and a downtown worth saving. I have never looked back.
Still, New York City is where i grew up and it has always been a home away from home to me, even after I was gone for four decades. Had I wanted to go there for a dinner, a day, or a week, I had a home in my parents’ apartment. Even after they left the bustle of 68th Street for the quiet of Sutton Place, Manhattan’s streets were mine.
To visitors, the City can be a cold and concrete world. But when you grow up there, it’s different.The doormen in your building, the manager at your favorite diner, and the pharmacist at the nearby drug store give you community. And the rest of the city gives you the world.
Trips to Radio City, or Rockefeller Center or the U.N. are for holidays, field trips or visiting guests. The Met, MoMA and Lincoln Center are periodic pleasures. They are not what home is about. Home is the man in 17B with the classical music playing and the woman in 14C with the yappy yorkshire terrier. Home is waiting in the hallway by the elevator with dinner guests who are leaving.
Sometimes, I admit, the labyrinth of streets gives me welcome anonymity. I ride the buses or take the subway, and often I just walk and walk. And that’s the way it is for the average New Yorker, who as a result has a carbon footprint about a third as large as the average American.
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