Morning newspapers are made to look like they are reported and printed simultaneously and at midnight. “Laughs before a live studio audience” are helped with applause signs. Even quality broadcast news is not all, or mostly, “live.” HuffingtonPost.com a few months ago compiled some published statements of an actor and called it his blog. When critics called that a deception, staff removed the essay. Hey, these were comments on record, and apparently no skimping on context: He meant what he said then and later.

If I were to post comments about my vacation, one of whose highlights was the Fourth of July in national birthplace Boston, yet with today’s date, you’d be confused. Fortunately, my WordPress and other blogging services allow you to predate or postdate entries.

This series comprises daily essays — not that everything that happened was equally noteworthy to my wife and me, nor should each day be of interest to you — published in my desire to not forget that we found value in adventures big and small, and that we eventually may put the misadventures in perspective.

If you think that my Independence Day blog was written after the Pops and fireworks yet before midnight 7/4, fine. I did take notes during the show and later on the subway to the hotel. But I wrote them up a few hours ago today. Whenever today is. -30-

(We purchased a temporary membership in the World Club due to more than eight hours in layovers going and coming. Add up what we would have run up in magazine purchases and terminal restaurants, and it would have been close. This was wonderful. She read, and I worked on my notes that comprise the Boston Blotter.)

Northwest Airlines got us back to Arkansas close to our original reservations, unlike what is posted on June 25. In boarding the flight out of Boston’s Logan airport, we learned neither of our carry-ons of could be carried on this type of plane; they would not fit in the overhead. They were fine on the Northwest jets coming up. I took both suitcases up front, showed the flight attendant my boarding pass and itinerary so she write the necessary info on the baggage claim ticket.

Flight attendant, examining my papers: “Sir, what’s the abbreviation for ‘Northwest Arkansas Regional’?”

It’s on several of the documents I show her. -30-

What do you do on a national holiday while on vacation? It’s a long time to sis-boom-bah, and it’s our last day. We took a subway train to the Shops at Prudential Center and checked out Levenger. It began to rain. We ate sushi and noodle soup, having liked it the previous Friday, at Zen. She walked to the hotel to begin to pack. I walked through the Granary Burial Ground then Boston Common (she had done this while I was in the conference of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.)

On Monday the Third, my wife and I saw the full dress rehearsal, including Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. All were tiny on the Hatch Shell, though we stood just outside a fence outlining the Esplanade but two giant screens displayed the stars, including conductor Keith Lockhart. So we knew what to expect the next night.

(Both performances were free, but to journey, then stand in a thick crowd to watch TV and to applaud machines proved that we moderns are desperate. For culture? No, this is the expert Boston Pops Orchestra. Which also meant it had a local sportscaster deliver patriotic speech excerpts then Dr. and Mrs. Phil to introduce numbers. The McGraws’ connection to music, Boston and even to Aerosmith was slim, probably none. We moderns are just desperate to get out of our houses, even if that means watching TV elsewhere. Even linen-level restaurants mount screens for sports and news in their bars.)

But the fireworks were live and easily seen.

What we didn’t know, just off the MIT campus, was whether the other songs were recorded. Monday’s was in real time, with some three-minute breaks for stage work or obviously commercials (silent to us, thankfully). But we thought that the 90-minute run time mean the next half-hour was for the firecrackers.

Tuesday’s began at 8:30 and ended just after 10:30, with pyro show going til 11. Occasionally over the loudspeakers we heard commentary from local TV people — only an hour was broadcast coast-to-coast — and at times silence. But at other times we heard the Pops. I think those intermittent pieces were recorded, to keep the audience entertained. (Again there we go, braving teeming holiday traffic to hear a big stereo.)

One cut caught me. It had vocals, well sung but certainly not the originals, a medley: “(Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” of the Rolling Stones, “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night (you insist Hoyt Axton, I retort Devo’s “Satisfaction” rules), “Proud Mary” with a female vocalist a la Tina Turner (CCR too swampy?) and closing with “YMCA” of disco’s Village People. No other four songs ever should be performed successively without expecting either fan riots or mass gagging, much less in one medley. Yet the audience applauded the amplifiers. The performers couldn’t see us so why cheer? The real stars were relaxing in their living rooms, placing roses in vases on the ATMs set up next to the entertainment center cabinets.

The fireworks were to be live.

The “1812 Overture” stays fresh, even two evenings in a row, both for the splendidness of the Pop’s precision but also for the Yankee audience’s raucous cheers of this fanfare celebrating the French Revolution penned by a gay Russian. The biggest cheers came during the sing-along, to Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America.” All the other American tunes, and the hoi polloi went nuts over the one about whose composer I just was reading a criticism.

Aerosmith hits followed in the Pops program. The rockers got screams; the Sousa “Stars and Stripes Forever” finale got cheers. There is a difference.

My wife is the pyro nut. I like fireworks better in person than on TV (which was the selling point of CBS running the Pops on the Fourth), but in my imagination always sees hundred-dollar bills burning. Although paper lasts longer than most ‘crackers. Yet I join her for every community display. All pipe in their music; pyrotechnicians need stopwatch precision.

Nothing, however, was as wonderful as this. The explosions were appropriate, majestic, grouped and timed. They were extensive, no skimping as often seems obvious back home. The accompaniment was a mix of Pops recordings and original artists. The orchestra had “76 Trombones,” and the singles celebrated the season: Hearing the Lovin’ Spoonful on “Summer in the City” made everyone smile.

New, for us, was hearing in this context Sheryl Crow on “Soak Up the Sun.” James Blunt’s love song “You’re Beautiful” was broadened by context to coast to coast. While I wished for Bruce Springsteen on “Born in the USA,” the sacrifice was worth it to avoid Lee Greenwood’s plastic patriotism, neither on the loop.

The fireworks swelled and ebbed. As we heard the opening of Neil Diamond’s “America,” we saw a clearly defined flaring, booming, smoky climax. The song worked, though of a contemporary songwriter, not old Sousa.

Diamond. Ain’t he one, like Berlin? But, dude, he’s just old, plays casinos now. Love that America. -30-

Leavitt’s windows made it seem like a mere guys’ novelty shop, but on entering it was obvious. This was (since 1883) a tobacconist, but with smoking bans, much fresher smelling. How sad. But well worth an hour, with shaving items, traditional game sets and quirky antiques. This was a man’s place (sorry, no evident Web site), quirky and classy and masculine without being laden with testosterone. In short, no sporting gear, except decades-old black-and-white group shots of one Harvard team or another on the walls.

About 4 we turned a corner and found Cafe of India (warning, audio), just in time for an early dinner — we soon would need to get to the Boston Esplanade for the open dress rehearsal of the Boston Pops Orchestra’s Fourth of July outdoor concert.

After our Vegetarian Dinner for Two, we walked around Harvard Yard to see some of the campus’ oldest buildings. Then I grabbed a couple of coffees at the Harvard Coop to take on the train.

I liked Cambridge, but my wife was surprised at it being dirtier and with more street people than she expected. -30-

I grabbed My Beloved Wife (MBW, not to be confused with BMW, one of which she once owned as a single gal) immediately on adjournment so we could take a subway train to the Kennedy Presidential Library.

Excellent presidential collection, not too heavy on the love. There also were rooms concentrating on Jacqueline Kennedy and Robert Kennedy, along with space on Edward Kennedy, implying his space would grow at some point. I appreciated that Jackie spent some time as a newspaper photographer and columnist. Not only that, but hanging in her room was a cartoon she drew while Jack was a senator, washing his socks in a hotel room sink. MBW and I could emphasize, and pleased that even the born-rich don’t send everything to the hotel laundry.

We’ve visited the Clinton and Johnson libraries so we had a baseline on impartiality. They’re not, but all included controversies and crises. The impeachment is noted at the Clinton but not so much the Starr Report. MBW also has seen and loved the Carter library.

The Kennedy is especially extraordinary in its architecture, by I.M. Pei. (On Wednesday, June 28, we enjoyed Maine’s Portland Museum of Art, designed by a partner of Pei), In Boston’s, you don’t feel like you’re on a boat, it’s just evocative of the best of sailing, more of a dream of grandeur and floating.

We returned to downtown for a tall-ship sunset cruise into Boston Harbor, with enough time to walk in to a Legal Seafoods and make reservations for 8:45. The boat was solid, the crew friendly and encouraged not only questions but participation. After being coached to yell “Ho” when a skipper cries “Heave,” I hoisted the foresail and MBW a Chardonnay.

We had a few minutes before dinner so we stopped at the nearby wall of the New England Aquarium, as it was mostly a glass side of the seal tank. Great idea: Passers-by are lured to pay admission by seeing at their eye level some five cute seals swimming about. We walked to another side of the outdoor exhibit and read four male and one female seal lived there and originally there had been two. The aquarium seemed large, but if you were a seal accustomed to an entire ocean, maybe not. We saw two seals front to back and looked around to make sure no small children were there. We realized it was three seals that close to one another. Were they cramped? Were they bored? Was this what you saw when you linger at a zoo’s primate exhibit for more than five minutes?

Well, yes. All three seals it turns out were more gay than happy.

Look at the time. Let’s move on to the restaurant. -30-

This morning’s breakfast comprised the only separate sessions of the weekend. Recent conferences have had one to three of the hours with attendees splitting into small groups on their more specialized interests. Lots of us, including me found that some hours had nothing we were that interested in and others we wished to attend two or three at once. This is what made the CD recording of 2005 in Texas such a valuable purchase.

Today I stayed with the Blogging breakfast table, led by Tom Regan of the Christian Science Monitor. Mainly I got a feeling of camaraderie where 12 crowded the round table for 10. “The thing about blogs is their style,” he said. “Columns are personal by definition, but blogs are somehow more personal.”

J. Michael Robertson of the University of San Francisco announced results of surveys he’s been giving columnists in the last year. The findings are interesting but too spare for any reasonable validity. Though entertaining, I hate to repeat invalid statistics. Last year’s conference comprised most of his sample, and with Robertson’s self-effacing wit on how he needs more data, we learned we are exactly who we thought we were.

The circus of the weekend was when our conference was hijacked into a production backdrop for a cable television “Beyond the Book” program. Learning of an upcoming book on I.F. Stone from his biographer was fascinating — I will read it — but it was not about columnists turning their columns into books, our program’s title. A second panelist did say columns can only be the starting point of a single-subject book, that collections are failures from a sales view. The third panelist disagreed totally.

The famous writer and innovative blogger Arianna Huffington was our luncheon speaker. I had a few professors at Stanford like her: fascinating, brilliant and talked in circles, even though she was using notes — hard to know what to remember for the test and hard to figure out her main and subsidiary points for, say, Brick.

Huffington did say that we should be cognizant that online readers are different from print readers. Blogging has opened up the mainstream media, which is vital. She sold me that her upcoming book on Fearlessness must go on my must-read-soon list, because it is more memoir and little that’s mere political commentary.

A feature of the conference is the Saturday afternoon excursion. Only half to three-quarters of us, some with families, boarded the charter trolleys for the Adams National Historical Park in Quincy. It comprised three separate locations all in the heart of the suburb: One lot has two saltbox houses. The senior Adams was born in 1735 in the one built in 1681. It’s the gray-sided one. The younger Adams was born in 1764 in the one built in 1663 and now is seen as the whitewashed, fresher house. Rangers — what a nice job that seems to be — walked small groups of us room by room.

There are rocks in my garden in Fayetteville, Ark., that aren’t that old.

The elder Adams bought the so-called “Old House” in 1788, built in 1731, and is a few blocks away. It is large and appropriate for a successful lawyer with a large family, not to mention ideal for a man to return to after the White House (J.Q. got elected to the House after his presidency and died in the Capitol.) Generations of Adamses, many of whom had distinguished careers in public service and academia, lived there until 1927. The furnishings here are from the 1920s. According to Ranger Karen Yourell, the family’s instruction was not just that things be left as they were, but that things really be left, not renovated or brightened at all. Besides the early 20th century furnishings, items came from a century earlier. There was the chair in which the nation’s second president (J.Q. was the sixth) died on July 4, 1826, the 50th anniversary of the Republic and the same day Jefferson (allies then enemies then friends again) passed, at Monticello, Va. Even I knew that tidbit before the tour, but it’s remarkable enough to mention yet again.

The last segment of the “park” is a church, a few blocks in a third direction, where in the basement is the Adamses family crypt.

On the land of the Old House is what amounts to the first presidential library, a two-story stone, ivy-covered building, constructed in 1870 by Charles Francis Adams, a son of J.Q. Visitors are allowed in only along one side. It has no interactive, audiovisual displays, just the family’s books. The patriarch loved collecting books and this was passed down. The second floor is more of a mezzanine ringing the ground floor, just like in some old movies. It doesn’t have the leave-as-is bequest instruction, and the the temperature and humidity controls to preserve the volumes are obvious.

A couple of family bibles sit on a huge table in the middle of the single-room. They’re encased in custom pasteboard (no doubt acid-free) boxes. One was, Yourell said, opening the box, the Mendi Bible, presented to J.Q. by the African Amistad captives in appreciation of his legal assistance in 1841. The first signature is that of Cinque. I keep intending to rent the video of that movie; now I must. -30-

I love the camaraderie most of all, which is a good thing because the serious work of a conference — panels and lectures and mini-workshops — seem to wrap up nearly before they start. Hey, you try to keep a common hour special, much less one that the presenters have planned for months. One problem is the occasional bad session, where sometimes it is rotten and other times it just wasn’t what you the participant wanted or expected. On the good hours, and the NSNC has maybe 85 percent good working sessions, you find yourself panting for the one good comment that will inspire you for months. You get it, but the time receiving it — there goes that whisp.

This morning Mary Ann Lindley of the Tallahassee (Fla.) Democrat recalled the early days of the society. She was president when I attended the 1991 Charleston, W. Va., convention, which got me hooked. Lindley, and Bill Tammeus of Kansas City performed my request of critiquing a few of my columns in the weeks after the conference. Even nice people don’t have to do that, but they did. But Mary Ann apparently left the Omni Parker House shortly afterward; I didn’t get to thank her.

By the way, I’m just recalling a very few key moments of the work of the conference. You want solid reporting on this, click on Editor & Publisher and poke around the magazine’s search engine with words like “columnists” for Dave Astor’s reports.

Derrick Z. Jackson of The Boston Globe recalled one of his early, good editors advising him when starting to write a piece to tune in a jazz radio station and form the “gist of your piece in one sentence. You get one comma.” This forces you to do good reporting before you get to that space, he said.

Obviously it forces you on the next story, a bit late for this one. He lamented Americans in generally running away more than ever from facts and contradictorily wanting the news media to “rattle the cages” while criticizing us.

A panel of female editorial writers followed. The best tip, for me, was Rochelle Riley of the Detroit Free Press (and previously of the Louisville (Ky.) Courier advising, “back up your opinions with reporting, even if it never appears in the copy.”

The session I anticipated the next following: Blogging. As with the best Christmas/Hanukkah/birthday gifts, I felt slightly disappointed, here because there were no huge revelations or insights. I appreciated the small ones, though.

Bill Tammeus of Kansas City noted these wild days of newspaper-sponsored blogs being unedited or slightly edited are dwindling. The trick to increasing hits is to create “links, links, links” in your posts.

Sheila Lennon of the Providence (R.I.) Journal to my relief called RSS a “big wastebasket.” Lennon prefers to just bookmark her favorite blogs and to find others via Google, rather than the news feeds that RSS (Really Simple Syndication) compiles.

Moderator Tom Regan of the Christian Science Monitor (the NSNC conference rookie I most appreciated meeting) sought the best clear definition of the ideal blog. It’s a “snippet,” he said, though the usual definitions — journal, diary, essay — are accurate too.

Lunch gave us a Harvard man, Alex Jones of the Shorenstein Center. He was a pessimist on continuing financial stability of newspapers, although he allowed that commentary is for the moment “hot, so hot that The New York Times can get away with charging” for its opinion makers like Maureen Dowd and Tom Friedman.

Tom Regan spoke on Editing Columnists in the afternoon. The trick with columnists from other fields, especially scholars or professionals, is to consult with them before they begin writing so they know what to do to some extent and what to expect what happens when you edit them.

Ending the day formally was a reception at Suffolk University Law School’s new library. My favorite part was the library’s collection of antique maps of Africa, discussed casually by its chief cartographer. My first work-study job at Stanford was in the map collection of its Main Library, where I learned a bit about such old charts. -30-

Just because I’m an early riser doesn’t mean I’m a morning person.”

Getting into downtown Boston and only five minutes late for my 2 p.m. meeting of the columnists board was not quite as hard as we were warned by several sources that it would be. But we navigated it, helped by a couple of relaxing hours walking along the beach of Ogunquit first. It was hard to leave the sand of course but also our eccentric cabin at The Dunes.

Then we had a terrific brunch, driving north, not south, to the Maine Diner in Wells, which my wife had spotted as we drove to Portland yesterday.

We each had a lobster omelet, differing in choice of sauteed vegetables inside. We’re vegetarian but made an exception due to being in the neighborhood. Not only was the dish extraordinarily full of the local specialty but the lobster was in big, choice chunks, obviously the claws etc.

Driving south into Boston is as exciting as heading into any metropolis, dirtycrowdednoisybustlingintimidatingfun. This was our first visit. We plan to come back. -30-

Sure enough, the late-morning outing was canceled as we tourists were boarding the boat so we received refunds. We were to sail near Walker Point, the Bush family compound. Dang.

We then walked around the town, spending the most time at an import shop specializing in Japanese and Korean goods. The proprietor said he was retired from the State Department, with his time in the Foreign Service in those countries and part of his sales inventory from his collection. He took a call while we were shopping and spoke fluent Japanese.

Still we kept thinking of Eureka Springs, Ark., in the questionable quality of the other shops — souvenirs are souvenirs and apparently the official bird of every state is the mosquito. But we were reminded of Branson, Mo., as well, in the bumper-to-bumper cars. Every shopkeeper in Maine told us, traffic was light, just wait until July.

Running out of things to do quickly, we drove in a steady drizzle to Portland, for the Museum of Art before dinner with a Stanford freshman dorm friend and his wife. It was terrific and though small deserved more hours than we gave it. Periodically I need to see how Impressionism evolved into Cubism, and between a traveling exhibit and the permanent collection this was made plain. The progression is as inevitable as for me impossible to explain. Read Robert Hughes; he comes close.

My favorite painting was “Un Jeu de Croquet,” 1872 by Abbena and owned by the Arkley family. Hey, classical croquet.

The Youngs took us to Walter’s in the renovated wharf area. The 25th reunion we all missed in 2005 in Palo Alto we created that night. These are smart, kind people living decently in a great region. Everyone lives so far apart; if only. … Our college lives had so much hope, and look at us now, not so bad at all but still. Oh let’s not go on either of those paths. -30-

The tourist season we were told begins on the Fourth of July. Heck, it was certainly still rainy and cool at the end of June; how unlike Arkansas. The un-season was obvious by the sparse crowd. We were close to having the ocean to ourselves, well, us and just a few locals and a number of birds.

The water, in the ocean itself and the “river,” was surprisingly clear. And as far as that briny smell of saltwater, where was it. MBW and I are quite familiar with California beaches from San Diego to Half Moon Bay, and a consistent odor. Before Maine, we associated the smell with happiness: We are here! In Maine — with only a nearly absent and maybe slight astringent quality — we realize the Pacific smell has a fair amount of rot in it, seaweed on good days, a little fishy on others.

We only would smell decaying fish on Wednesday, the Kennebunkport day, but that was more from the inevitable walking past restaurant trash bins more than the little port.

We drove one town up to Wells for the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge to learn about the ecology of salt marshes. As a child in the 1960s (not a “child of the ’60s), I remember seeing a documentary film about Carson in class. Inspired, I bought her Silent Spring. In recent years I looked through the classic somewhere and wonder how as a kid I got through it. Was it an abridged version from Scholastic Books?

After a satisfying dinner in Ogunquit, at the Impastable Dream (never mind the stale pun), we walked around; stores were starting to stay open late for the season. A drug store had a Portsmouth (N.H.) Herald, which I bought because it had the John Updike talk “above the fold,” 1A. The large photo was of the entire, dark stage, Updike’s head lit, centered and tiny, and the write-up only adequate.

The Portland (Maine) Press Herald overall has been so much better; I got one at the motel office every morning. It was small but complete, locally and nationally, good local columnists and displayed a pride in itself, too. On Wednesday mid-afternoon, we would be driving to Portland. At dinner then (more in tomorrow’s entry) with a college friend and his wife, I praised it. I thought he’d be pleased that I liked his hometown newspaper, but he wasn’t keen on its quality. He complained that its editorials especially in recent years were more conservative than they and their friends liked.

We in print journalism still see editorials and opinions as an inevitable part of our identity. Newspaper folk pooh-pooh dailies with light, “neutral” or vague commentaries, despite five years or so of inarguable national declines in circulation.

Editorials probably aren’t costing sales in and of themselves, but they aren’t really helping, are they? -30-