Wizened Wizard

2011-11-08T19:59:00.002-05:00

I Smell A Rat!

'Funny the skills you accumulate over the course of a lifetime: driving a nail, mending a mitten, riding a horse, baking an apple pie, tap dancing, writing a blog. Many of them you don't ever think about, but now and then a learned skill might catch your notice as something that sets you apart from the pack.

In my case, being able to insert four fingers in my mouth and rip off a loud, shrill whistle has always seemed to me to be one of those things that elevates me to a place most girls don't get to. It's good for calling a crowd to order or summoning a dog, not to mention the fact that people are impressed.

And although you often hear somebody say, "I smell a rat!", I really can. This doesn't happen very often, but yesterday, in the barn, there it was: my nose, and the unmistakable aroma that falls somewhere between piss, vinegar and old sneakers. I'd forgotten all about rat-smelling as part of my skill-set, but yup, sure enough, I, my friends, have it.

It's funny what life in the country can teach a girl. And now I need to impart that knowledge to the cat.

2010-04-29T08:56:00.002-04:00

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Julie and Julia

It's been at least a year since I wrote anything in Wizened Wizard, although lately there have been several things that I've wanted to write about. Last night we watched Julie and Julia, and her blogging experience brought back to mind all the fun I'd had creating this blog, the excitement of having a growing number of actual readers, and the enjoyment of "getting to know" some interesting and good people.

Circumstances change. I don't have the time to be a serious blogger now, so whatever I write will be for myself and with no wish to gain a readership. Pieces won't be in Wizard's voice, but this is the easy and somewhat logical place to post them. Who knows how much I'll write or how often.

Below are the first two entries "post-Wiz". Thanks for the memories, Julie!
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2010-04-29T08:34:00.018-04:00

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Goosed

Spring brings the return of the Canadian Geese. For the past few years we have had a nesting pair on the small beaver pond behind the house. They make their presence known early in the morning with a loud chorus of donkey-sounding honks, the daily announcement of daylight in the swamp and whatever else it is that geese get excited about.

Most pairs have successfully fledged goslings, but not all. One spring, after muttering about being awakened daily by “the pond donkeys”, our sleep was interrupted at about midnight – and then made difficult for the rest of the night – by incessant and frantic honking and splashing. Morning shed light on both would-be parents pacing the shoreline, nervously looking too and fro. Down was floating in all directions, and the nest had been destroyed. It might have been a raccoon, but more likely a mink or an otter who brought about the demise of domesticity.

This year, the beavers long-gone, a pair of geese settled atop what was once a beaver lodge. It has gradually settled down into the pond and now appears to be just another small, ragged island in a swale not sure whether to call itself a pond or a swamp. We watched the female draw up bits of sticks and grasses around herself to prepare the nest, and she has been sitting on eggs for a couple of weeks now. The gander is her guardian, fiercely scaring off any interlopers, the interlopers being other Canadian ganders who are probably dropping by for a little R&R from defending their own nests elsewhere. Ducks and the pond's resident muskrat are accepted as good neighbors.

Last night a freak spring snowstorm brought high winds and buried us under more than a foot of snow. In the morning I leveled the binoculars on the small, white island, finding Mrs. Goose hunkered down on her eggs, her head aloft, her body a dark lump of determined mother-to-be in a cold, white landscape.

By late afternoon the sun was out and the snow had been reduced by about half. I took my camera and headed outdoors, lured by the contrast of green spring growth and white snow. Wandering around the pond, I decided to “shoot” the goose on her nest, and walked through the woods to a point close enough to get a decent picture. To my surprise, she was lying there completely motionless with her head outstretched and her neck in a gentle “S” curve. Playing possum, I thought, but she was so still. I clapped my hands a few times, thinking that if she was simply laying low, she would at least startle and show some sign of life, but she did not. A shrill whistle also failed to evoke a reaction, and the gander was nowhere to be seen. I was mortified. The goose was dead.

Was it the storm? The cold? Had she been deserted by her mate, and if so, had she been unwilling to leave the nest long enough to find some nourishment? Maybe he had been a victim of the storm too. Geese are thought to be “silly”, but this goose had given her life for her yet unborn children, and I was deeply moved and saddened.

Some time later, back at the house, I picked up the binoculars again. To my astonishment, the goose had been resurrected! Still on the nest, she was holding her head high. “I've been goosed!” I exclaimed aloud. She had completely fooled me, as was her intention. Later the gander reappeared, and the lives of these expectant parents went on.

So, who's the silly goose?

2010-04-20T16:03:00.002-04:00

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A Pleasant Mound

Cemeteries aren't really for the dead, but for the comfort of their living remainders. The older the stone, the more of that comfort they provide, at least up to the point in time when weather and lichens render them illegible and they become mysteries to ponder.

Yesterday I walked a cemetery called Pleasant Mound, a moniker which conjures up some odd images if you don't happen to be right there looking at it. The reality is that it lies peacefully dotted with gray stones and old maples on a hillside at the edge of town. Pleasant Mound is most surely not the place cradling the bones of Matildaville's first inhabitants, but burials here date back to the mid-1800s when much of the area had become settled, the forest cut back, and the place was humming with the business of lumberjacks and tannery workers. And when the place was still called Matildaville.

We've been living nearby for about 35 years, which makes us newcomers. Our kids went to school here, rubbing shoulders with others having the names Stowe, Hennessy, Hepburn, Irish, Arbuckle, Thomas; the same names I saw yesterday in Pleasant Mound on old, weather-worn stones. In the peace of this place, I wondered how many of those kids ever come here, curious about the great-grandfather or long-dead cousin lying at rest. How many realize the comfort of knowing - and being among - their own roots?

After my mother's death, I began researching my family tree. The search started online and eventually led me to small towns in Northumberland County, Ontario. There I found cemeteries very much like Pleasant Mound, and there I paid my respects to people whose names I had only recently become aware of, gently passing my fingers across the old stone, plucking high grass from around them, and photographing my discoveries in the hope that someday my own kids might also be moved by the history I had uncovered.

My grandparents' ashes have resided in a metal urn for over ninety years waiting for someone to figure out what to do with them. My parents' ashes were scattered from an island where we'd spent many happy times. I suppose my own will be the problem of my children. As ancestors, we'll take up less space, but we'll rob our descendants of the experience of running their fingers across fading letters on weathered stones in comforting places with names like Pleasant Mound.
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2009-07-10T09:22:00.009-04:00

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Moving On

WizenedWizard has had a good run. I really enjoyed creating this blog and watching it grow and develop over time.

At first, it was mine alone, but gradually others came to visit and a community developed. I "met" many good and interesting people, and the Wizard developed her own identity. There were the gnomes - notably Sigmund and Elizabeth - who could be observed or observers; fact and fiction were portrayed here, and the process got my creative juices flowing. It was fun.

Wiz tried to exit before, and to some extent she did, but I have come back a few times and written things that really aren't in the voice of my wizard personna. In truth, the somewhat fictionalized home in the forest had revealed its truths and told its tales; the game was over.

Recently I posted a couple of photography-related pieces. They tell where my head and heart are presently at, but they just don't fit with what the Wizened Wizard was. Rather than continue to water-down that feisty, sometimes foolish, wizened character who inhabits my woods, my home and my body, I've decided to bring this blog to a close. When winter comes and I can find more time to work on it, I intend to delete those posts which have strayed from "wizardry" and leave the blog in all its proper and appropriate glory. In the meantime...

...I have started another blog, a private one to chronicle my photographic career. This blog is personal and probably of no interest to any of you. It will be a journal and documentation of the role of photography in my life. Pretty boring to anyone but me, but I want to record this journey. And of course I am still posting Shaman's poems and an occasional photo at Shaman and Wizard.

So say goodbye to the gentle wizard. It's been wonderful, and I thank you for reading my many ramblings over the years.

All that's good -

Wiz
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2009-06-24T09:56:00.007-04:00

The Art of My Living

Spring flew by, and lots of stuff didn't get done. There are garden beds still unplanted, neglected because there were too many other things to do or it was raining on the days they might have been tended to. My back has its limits now too.

Harvesting was also victimized by time. The asparagus made it into the freezer, but the rhubarb never got canned or frozen, nor did any rhubarb pies emerge from the oven.

On the positive side, all the rain we've had is growing collosal potato plants. Tomatoes look happy too, and corn and soybeans are in, up and doing quite well. All of our wood is cut, the woodshed rearranged and partially filled. Grandson learned to ride a bike.

I "created" an office for myself at work from an ugly space piled high with computer parts and accumulated "stuff" left by previous employees. Some spackling and three coats of limey-yellow paint, a few framed photos, and I now work in a personalized, pleasant - albeit a bit small - space. Downstairs, the reception area and hallways are hung with more photos, my own gallery of sorts.

The push is on to be ready for next week's Arts Fest in Morristown. Last year I bought an Easy-Up booth and five gridwalls to display framed photos. The grids are 6' x 2' and make a sort of back wall. This year I've added three more to give me a three-sided display near the front of the booth. My photo cards will be displayed in a new revolving table-top rack, and I've bought black heavy cotton fabric to make table drapes - if I ever find the time to put them together.

My latest print order arrived Monday, and I've been busy signing, matting and bagging them. WUMB streams music through my computer as I work, and how I enjoy doing this final putting together of my creations!

The Creative Spirit gallery's juried show selected three of my five submissions, one of which you can partially see as the current background to this blog. The show opening was last Friday evening.

What a blessing this old love is.

2009-04-08T17:34:00.005-04:00

Spring

So here it is: spring. Actually, it's half-past spring, but the falling snow makes that hard to believe.

Since my last post, the biggest change in my life has been my return to full-time work. That sounds worse than it is because much of what I'm doing is photography and video work. No, it's not very creative stuff, but I do enjoy it. Today I filmed and photographed the H.R. director of a private not-for-profit agency that provides care for developmentally disabled people. It was nice to hear someone talk about the value of the work they do and to listen to him speak proudly of the many people employed by the agency. Kind of nice to know there are folks whose sense of self-worth comes from helping others, not from stock market gains.

With spring (when it REALLY comes), will come some non-work photography. Next week my Toronto chum arrives, and we'll be off "pootin' around the North Country," as she puts it. Then off to Washington, DC for Mr. Wizard's mother's 90th birthday. The last we heard, she had to be let in by the security guard in her building. She'd been out dancing until midnight!

I've had no time for blogging. I'm even way behind in email correspondence, but today, with a few minutes to kill before heading home from the office, I decided it was time to put a more seasonal background photo on the blog.

To any of my "old friends" in Bloggerville who might have been alerted to this post, my warmest greetings and wishes. I hold you in fond memories of fun, games and sometimes pretty serious stuff that we shared when I was blogging regularly.

Happy spring!

Wiz
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2009-01-27T09:19:00.002-05:00

Yesterday was the "official" launch of my new website, WizenedEye.com. The issue of the music is still unresolved, but of course there is the "Sound: Off" button to kill it when the visitor becomes REALLY annoyed by the endless repetition.

It is no surprise to either me or Mr. Wizard that we just had a conversation on Flash programming. Yes, I am interested in learning it. So many things to this photography business: building and maintaining websites, establishing and maintaining good gallery relations, participating in shows and sales, submitting photos to juried exhibitions, managing many thousands of image files - and of course actually taking photos.

2009-01-26T21:58:00.004-05:00

Heard this on a Canadian TV show called Being Erika. I thought I should write it down somewhere, and why not here? Canada. Such a good country in many ways, especially in the encouragement of the arts.

Courage is not the towering oak that sees storms come and go; it is the fragile blossom that opens in the snow. -- Alice Mackenzie Swaim

No particular reason for this post except to remember the quote.

2008-12-15T10:44:00.004-05:00

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Hmmmmm... some of you are still out there...
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2008-04-13T10:55:00.005-04:00

Swan Song

I hope your visits to this site have been enjoyable, but most of all I hope you have stopped to consider that your own existence springs from Nature. Life of any kind - even human life - depends on a healthy natural environment.

As I turn to walk off into the woods and leave active blogging behind, I thank each of you for coming here, for your thoughtful comments, and for your friendship.

And with that, the Wizened Wizard turned and took the path less traveled into the forest.

You are always welcome to visit Wizened Eye, my photography site.

2008-03-31T07:03:00.003-04:00

Namaste, Becky

I have a friend whose name is Becky. In my blog and in her blog, I call her Shaman (although she insists she is not a full shaman but a shaman in training). She is the nugget of pure gold in the mountain full of pyrite, the echoed melody in the canyon, the right blend of woman-power and vulnerability, competitiveness and giving; and every day she gives us poetry.

I always enjoy what she writes, and so often she creates word-pictures of the same things I'm seeing through my camera lens.

This morning I found some of myself in her poem:

Story Tellers

Story tellers
In times past, they were the shamans;
the ones who knew
the plants, where to find the hunting grounds,
and the sacred stories of creation.
In these modern times,
in my family,
there are story tellers.
They are the keepers of the line,
the ones who spin the lore,
the backbone of my who-am-I wonderings.
I have a friend who has a blog
she makes, and builds, sings
and maybe even surgically enhances
the past with photos and short amusing stories.
I read her truth and am truly entertained
but that is not all I glean from the years,
it is the wisdom and the knowledge
that I honor from those times.
And when all is told and listened to,
when all the names and places
are collected,
when all the old bones and old blood
are fashioned into lessons and elevated
to their rightful place I can sit and hold them
knowing of that man at war, or the woman,
the one who made the hats.
The story of my DNA
becomes re-tooled old leather
for me to wrap around my heart.
I am proud I came from them.
I am grateful too for the story tellers
for taking all those old bones and fusing
them to mine.
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By Becky Harblin.... March 30, 2008

Dedicated to: Jane and Harold Harblin, Percy Harblin, Alvina LeFebevre
and blogger - Judy Andrus Toporcer

Gosh. (Blush). I learned the word "namaste" from Becky, and today I say it to her: Namaste, Becky. I bow to you, and to Jane and Harold, Percy and Alvina. Becky, I'm so very honored.

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2008-03-29T19:37:00.004-04:00

With Mixed Emotions

Our northern border has become a home to hundreds of wind generators. They are huge. About fifty miles east of my house, a large wind project is being built. This generator (and dozens more like it) have been erected and will soon be operational.
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In principle I must like these behemoths. Energy from the wind is clean.

However, several hours before I took the sunset shot of the windmill, I took this photo of a huge flock of migrating snow geese. There were thousands of them; the two pictures were taken only a mile or so apart.

What will happen when the giant wind turbines begin operation? It is naive to think that migrating birds will not suffer because of our need for electricity.

2008-03-23T09:44:00.000-04:00

No Comment...
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2008-03-16T15:18:00.008-04:00

............Sipress cartoon from The New Yorker, 3/10/08, p. 91
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Behind the altar in the Baptist church of my childhood was a velvet curtain. If I ever did think about it as my mind wandered during Sunday services, I’d have thought it was simply a decorative touch, a bit of burgundy (or was it gold??) that matched one of the colors in the stained glass windows.

When I was about thirteen, my church-going contemporaries and I were herded into a baptismal class. The lessons “taught” to me there didn’t stick in my memory – but for the revelation that a large concrete water trough had been secretly lurking behind that velvet altar backdrop, and that one by one my classmates and I were going to be paraded into that tub and get our heads wet. In all the years past, church folks had been smart enough to do this sort of thing after all the young kids were sent down to their Sunday School classes. None of us had previously witnessed this strange event.

On “the big day” we donned some sort of white cotton choir robes, got in line, and then one-by-one waded into the tank. The water was waist-high, the minister asked me the pertinent questions, I answered as I’d been instructed to, and SPLOOOSH: the bastard tipped me over backward and under water. Apparently I came out of that tank a saved Christian; in reality I decided this religion was for the birds, or maybe the fish.

At some time after “organized religion” was washed out of me, some family friends came to visit. Their daughter Donna Jean and I were the same age but of ever more differing interests, making it harder and harder to know what to do during these occasional social get-togethers, and on this Sunday I said, “Why don’t we sew? We could make something.”

Donna Jean looked a combination of horrified and all-knowing while proclaiming, “Don’t you know that every stitch you take on a Sunday will be a stitch of pain before you die?” I must say that I didn’t know that…but not wanting to push her into doing something that she obviously felt was wrong (and apparently dangerous), I answered something like, “Yeah, oh, well, we don’t have to sew.”

My logical brain scoffed. I already had one foot planted in my father’s agnosticism and was secretly turning away from my mother’s Baptist church, and Donna Jean’s nonsense was laughable. Or was it? My mind raced. Had I sewn anything on a Sunday before?? I had. Yikes. Could Donna Jean’s proclamation be true?? Nah. But could I be sure?? Pain scared me. Building up a large cache of stitches of it that would have to be endured before death scared me not a little. We didn’t sew that day, nor did I sew on a Sunday for many, many years.

I’ve had pain now and then in the years since God’s ways were revealed to me by Donna Jean. Maybe I’m paying down the cache. Or maybe there’s a Christian equation that looks something like this:

(Life allotted) + (Sunday stitches sewn) – (Pain stitches experienced) = Time Remaining

Who knew God was a mathematician?
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2008-03-11T16:39:00.007-04:00

Life's Accumulations

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This has been a strange week. The "heart thing" surely has me thinking more realistically about mortality, and it has strangely mobilized me. Out with the clutter in my life! Toss the accumulated meaningless possessions! Focus on what matters!

And so it was that I discovered my mother's baby book in a stack of miscellaneous papers. I must have once intended to look through them, so maybe an interruption landed them on the top shelf of an antique cupboard.

At first glance, it had the look of an old-fashioned storybook, but it was titled, "Baby's Story - an Autobiography". As I picked it up and started to open it, the speakers spewing a random playlist began playing "Feels Like Home to Me", a Randy Newman song sung by Bonnie Raitt. I froze. It was the song I sang to her when she was near death, the song that somehow revived her and rekindled her life-spirit. And there in my hands were the details of her birth: the date December 12, 1912 (which I knew) and the time 10 PM (which I hadn't ever heard). More entries recorded gifts and noted the dates she crawled, stood and walked, and there, still unfaded red, was a lock of her hair. Several pages later, a description of the baby bore the words "Red hair, Freckles, No brain!" and another (First Words) said "Hee-haw!" - each in her own penciled grammar-school handwriting.

This is clutter I shall keep.

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2008-03-09T20:54:00.011-04:00

The Unexpected

I thought I was going to die on Friday. It was a thought that didn't enter my mind in the morning, for the morning was lovely - if you overlook the second or two when I passed a critical eye over the two thin flakes of hay in my hands and bent to grab a third, lifting carelessly and awkwardly and causing a familiar twinge in my lower back. Some people get older and wiser. I'm just aging none too gracefully.

Dying and how I might die has been something I've thought about before. I was with my father when he took his last breath, and seven years later repeated the event with my mother, and in those two experiences, as a mixture of sorrow, loss and relief filled me, I noted my place at the head of the line. Heart disease once took my ancestors, but now modern drugs and procedures keep us going long enough to finally succumb to cancer. I've wondered which is worse: a life cut short and ended abruptly, or a long, drawn-out demise. Maybe the amount of pain is the same, but in one case intense pain and death happen all at once, and in the other they're drawn out and somewhat diluted by morphine.

On Friday I got cleaned up to go to town, organized the banking, grocery list, stuff to take to the Arts Council, my camera gear and bag, and for some reason thought I should take my blood pressure. During the height of my back pain I was on a medication that pushed it up to an unacceptably high level, and my doc wanted me to take daily readings until I see her again. I did it faithfully for awhile, but then grew tired of doing it and stopped.

The blood pressure monitor gave me a strangely low reading, so I waited a few minutes and took it again. This time it showed high figures, but my pulse rate was 32! Whoa. My mother's pulse got down around there just before she died... I placed fingers to my neck and quickly realized that the monitor hadn't exactly been lying: my pulse was skipping beats left and right. At first my heart was beating three or four times and then skipping once; then it beat five and skipped one; then two and one. I thought about my options, then called Husband for a consult, but he was out taking his noon walk/run/ski. I tried his cell phone but got his voice mail.

More thinking about what to do.

I took my pulse again, and now I was skipping every second or third beat. Should I drive myself to the emergency room? I gathered my things by the door and then placed fingers on neck again: a distressingly slow blup, skip, blup, skip, blup, skip. I dialed 9-1-1.

Although my neighbors are usually quick to respond (once I had to call the rescue squad for my mother at 5 AM, and the first medic arrived two minutes later, the ambulance and five more volunteers within ten minutes of my call), this was mid-day on a Friday, and apparently most people were at work or off on their sleds. I had nearly fifteen minutes to gather my things, feel that unenthusiastic pulse, and think.

Was my heart simply coming to a stop? On this otherwise pleasant Friday in March, had I come to the end of the line? There was none of the pain I had always anticipated at check-out time, but there it was: my heart was beating at half of what it ought to be, and I was feeling light-headed. Would the rescue squad folks find me dead on the floor when they arrived?

I never cry in the throes of tragedy. The old proverb (zen, no doubt), "Time is short, so we must proceed slowly" describes me well in what others might call a panic situation. It's not that I'm especially strong or brave (I fall apart later), but I am the person you want around in a crisis because for reasons unknown to me I try to act rationally and wisely.

You could say that "I might be dying" wasn't a particularly wise or rational thought, but there it was. When your heart slowly but steadily slows down or stops working, it did seem to me that DEAD can be the result, and the fact brought tears to my eyes, tears of disappointment, sadness caused by the realization that the grandson who has such a tiny loving family might lose one who is important to him, lose her without a goodbye or an explanation or apology. There must have been fear too, but sorrow was upmost in my mind.

There was no pain, so I decided to try pushing my heart to work. I climbed the stairs several times. (Where is the squad??) I thought of writing something to Grandson but then - since I was still right-side-up and alive despite the blup-skips - put my coat on and went onto the porch to wait for the ambulance.

What came first wasn't white. Tim, apparently knowing he would be the first responder, traded his pick-up for a fire truck as he passed through the hamlet to the north. I didn't wait inside for him to come to a stop, and a minute later we were standing in the road beside the vehicle as he slipped an oxygen mask over my head. Moments after that we could hear the siren as the white squad truck approached from the south, and soon I was strapped to a gurney, loaded and on my way, answering questions, having electrical leads attached and reassuring the nurse that her attempts to insert an IV needle on bumpy roads were not hurting me. By the way, the FEAR that I suggested must have been trumped by ration and sorrow was pretty evident in my blood pressure readings...

So obviously I lived to tell the tale. Twenty-four hours in the hospital, a battery of tests guaranteed to ensure the financial well-being of the place, and I was sent home. Apparently I am in good shape, although there's slight leakage in one of my heart valves. "Sometimes these things (blup skip blup skip) happen, and then they never happen again." On Sunday it wasn't happening, at bedtime last night it was, and now all is normal again. I will see my Burlington doc on Thursday.

Here's the point. The past three days have brought to my attention the fact that we never know how much time we have - or haven't. How sad for those who suddenly have their lives cut short. Even though doc's reassured me that my situation is not life-threatening, I wrote a short "goodbye" to Grandson. I hope he won't read it for many years, but it would have been such a tragedy to leave him without a goodbye or the words, "I love you so very much. You are the best. You are smart and you are strong, and you will have a good life without me, but I wish I could always be here to watch you grow, hear your laughter and go with you on little adventures. I wanted to watch you grow up. You don't need me, but I am so sorry to have to leave and miss all those times you will make me proud. I love you. Grandma."
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...........................Climbing the hill alone
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2008-03-06T17:09:00.004-05:00

Somewhere South of North
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A Canadian couple enjoy the Atlantic coast in Hollywood Beach, Florida, February 2008
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2008-03-06T17:04:00.002-05:00

Spring Water Sanctuary
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A small school of fish in the crystal clear waters of Manatee Springs, February 2008
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2008-03-06T16:56:00.002-05:00

Pointing
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A "Fingernail Plant" growing in northern Florida
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2008-03-06T13:18:00.004-05:00

Priorities

I've tried to think of a caption for this photo, but I can't seem to improve upon the messages on the signs...
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2008-03-06T12:27:00.006-05:00

Blogging was an attempt at recording who I am, what matters to me, and some of the experiences that have shaped me: a sort of journal that I hoped my kids and grandson might someday look at. I wanted them to discover that I was more (I hoped) than simply "Mom" or "Grandma". I never anticipated readers, nor did I realize how much time and energy can go into being the member of a blogging community.

Like the bumper sticker says, SHIT HAPPENS. Or in my case, BLOGGING HAPPENED. Blame it on Dirk, for he was the first "stranger" to wander in here and decide that a wizened wizard might be worth visiting now and then. I followed his tracks out of the forest and began visiting some of his friends, others came here, and soon the overlapping circles caused what had been a secret path to turn well-trodden.

I met a lot of interesting people. In what I began calling "Bloggerville" there live funny folks, creative writers, artists, thoughtful people, those wrestling with enormous demons, those living unusual, wonderful, admirable lives, and just plain "everyday folks". So many of you "givers" have visited my blog, left kind comments, good advice, encouragement or greetings. I began spending more and more time trying to behave in kind, and although my trips to your sites were almost always rewarding, I never felt I could keep up with being a good community member and also live the life that matters to me in the real world.

My site meter indicates that traffic has fallen off at WizenedWizard.blogspot.com, and maybe that's a very good thing. Perhaps now I can return to my original intent, which was simply to post photos, stories or an occasional poem - just for me and maybe someday for my kids and grandson. Of course I will always be pleased to find comments from any of you who might still be reading this, but I shall be the hermit, the wizard at the end of the trail through the woods, incomunicado.
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2008-01-27T16:56:00.000-05:00

Bye-Bye-Bloggie...

As I repeated the words, "I wish there were more hours in the day" another time (it's been my mantra for over a week), I finally realized that I need to take a break from blogging. Yeah, I know... What about that sneaky septic tank? How did she build those stone walls? If she was sterile, then where in heck did her son come from? For now (if it really matters to anyone), the answers to those questions will have to wait. There are still untold stories: Dwight the Musher, for instance. And I hope there will be many photos to take and share.

Well there it is right there: the photos... My new/old career was taking off, but then came the back injury. I've lost three months and a lot of momentum, and that's the real reason I must take a break. This week and last I have spent most of my waking hours on the computer. Technology is tyranical, and anyone who shoots a lot of serious digital images knows how much time it takes to save, edit, organize and store them. For the most part, it's something I enjoy doing, but it does take time.

There are so many things I've needed to learn about. The latest realization is that I must register copyrights for any photo I really care about, and my website needs a complete overhaul. On the creative side, there are all the techniques I learned during the workshop last fall. I need to practice them until they're ingrained and rote. Marketing is another challenge that's a lot less fun than being creative or artistic.

On Friday, I received the prints that had taken me more than a week to order. (There's no question that I am organizationally challenged). I've been matting all weekend - or at least when Grandson wasn't here.

I love blogging, and I'm sure I won't stay away very long. I'll also miss you and miss following what's going on in your lives and the stories you tell.
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I'll be back, and in the meantime, be well, laugh often and love true ~

Wiz
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2008-01-26T21:11:00.000-05:00

Room 207

I spent a short time today in Room 207. It's just down the hall not far from the room my father spent time in; around the corner from rooms my mother occupied at one time or another; kiddy-corner from the one my friend Ed stalked out of trailing an I.V. and some choice expletives. Room 207 is directly across from where Shaman was mis-diagnosed, and it's next-door to the room where my father took his last breath, the room where I last kissed his forehead and said a final goodbye.

That's the thing about a small town. The hospital is small too, and, unlike big city medical centers, it becomes familiar. I know where to get juice (the same place the nurses would get it for you if you asked them to) and where the extra blankets are kept. Even the doctors have first names.

It was 5:00, and there was my son-in-law with his heated tray of pseudo-healthy dinner, the victim of what he called "a glorified physical" set in motion by a few sharp chest pains. He was up-beat, grandson was getting a kick out of exploring and checking out the oddities of institutional living; my daughter was cheerful. The building has seen the extremes of the human experience, and it struck me how the same set can stage everything from the comedy of ill-designed hospital gowns to the tragedy of a body giving up the fight.

Today he's home again, and thoughts of Room 207 once again fade. This time its memory will be fleeting and unremarkable, and that is a good thing.

2008-01-19T09:10:00.000-05:00

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We interrupt regular
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programming of this blog to
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bring you breaking news:

North Country wizened wizard and
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photographer Judy Andrus Toporcer
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has received word that she is a 1st place
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winner in the 2007 Upper Canada
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Village annual photography contest.
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Notification came yesterday in an
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email:
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Congratulations Judy!

I am writing to inform you that your photograph, "Flower Among Flowers" was chosen for first prize in the "Pure History" category of our 2007 Photo Contest.

Winners [beginning with Ms. Andrus Toporcer's photo] are posted here.

(What I didn't realize until after your photo was selected and posted, is that you were a winner in last year's contest too! Just to let you know, we receive hundreds of entries each year, so you should be quite proud of yourself!)

J. S.
Upper Canada Village Marketing Officer

Contacted at her home in the forest Ms.
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Andrus Toporcer
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commented, "Yeeeeeeeee-hah!!!!!!!"
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and did the Snoopy-dance while
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exclaiming her excitement and babbling
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something about 40 years,
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careers/loves interrupted, and actually
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BEING a photographer.

And now we return you to the blog piece in progress...

2008-01-15T10:57:00.000-05:00

You might wonder why I’m putting this story here in the middle of a bunch of “Back to the Land” tales, but it provides some background for the post that will follow. I also ask that you accept that our actions were “noble” ones. The devil is in the details, and I hope you know me well enough by now that you can accept that there were reasons – too long and complicated to go into here – for believing that Daughter would be better off without close contact with her biological father. We also did everything humanly possible to make this transition a positive and happy one for her. Some affirmation of this came after the move: the "neutral" pediatrician involved in the court ruling sent us a personal letter containing her congratulations and best wishes for us in our new home.

A Child Lost, A New Life Begun

In the summer of 1974, after making the decision to leave the city, I put my condo apartment on the market. My wasband, exercising his rights of visitation, came to take our daughter one Saturday, and upon their return, spotted the “For Sale” sign.

Five days later, the man in the rumpled suit rang our doorbell, said my name with a question mark, I answered “Yes?” and was handed legal papers stating that I was an unfit mother, that my current husband was attempting to sabotage Wasband’s relationship with his daughter, and that the child’s father was a far more suitable custodian. After all, he had a larger income and a larger house near an elementary school. Somehow the petition omitted mention of his mental instability and drinking problem. In these papers he looked like the hero of “Father Knows Best.”

At that time I was a little more than three months pregnant. Maybe it was a bit of a rush on our part (or was it that we were just careless?), but already having a five-year-old, Husband and I were thrilled to be expecting a baby.

In divorces in those days, a biological father almost never was granted custody of a daughter of kindergarten age. It only seemed to happen in the rare case where the mother was so unfit as to be in jail or otherwise institutionalized or perhaps a known prostitute or sexual offender. The law was definitely biased toward the belief that the place for a little girl was with her mother. And yet this “rule” was not set in stone, a fact weighing on any mother facing a custody challenge. I came apart at the seams.

The custody petition was served on me on a Thursday. The next day I began to bleed, and despite bed rest and a great deal of love and reassurance from Husband, the bleeding became hemorrhagic, and our unborn child was lost. My body had traumatically aborted, unable to deal with its sudden awareness that a child loved can also be a child taken away.

We removed the “For Sale” sign and resigned ourselves to fighting the court battle ahead of us.

I’ll spare you the gory details. Six months later, on December 31, 1974, the judge – on his final day on the Family Court bench – ruled that Wasband was to pay unpaid Child Support, seek mental health counseling, and continue the responsibility of visiting the child one day of any weekend in the county of her residence wherever that might be. That last phrase was hand-written into the margin of the document on the morning the case went to court, and it was what we needed to be able to make our move to the country.

There was one problem: There is nothing to prevent a person from filing a lawsuit at any time. Had Wasband thought we were going to move, he could have filed his petition again, and we would have had to defend ourselves again. He could have stalled our plans and obtained an intolerable (to us) visitation agreement. The only way we could move without risking that was to do it under the cover of darkness. That meant keeping our plans a secret, even from Daughter.

On a Thursday less than a month later, the court denied a scheduled Saturday visit by Wasband because he had not yet complied with the order to seek mental health counseling, nor had he paid the owed child support. The next morning we explained to Daughter that we were going to move, rented a 20’ U-Haul and began loading everything we owned into it. Our friends joined in the frenzy of piling dishes, piano, toys, bedding, books, and even canned food into about 1200 cubic feet of truck. We worked well into the night, loading all of our worldly goods, leaving nothing behind, and if that truck’s storage area had been a cardboard carton, the whole thing could have been accurately labeled “MISCELLANEOUS STUFF”. The next morning we were driving east on the Thruway, on our way to a new life.

I have written about our first year in the North Country, searching for and finding land, and a couple of the trials and tribulations involved in beginning to settle on it. Most of this was a joyful time, a relief from the stress of on-going wasband battles, and it was the beginning of an adventure. There was, however, one unhappy fact. During that first year, I was having some medical problems, and in that summer of moving the trailer and putting up the pole, I was diagnosed sterile. Husband and I would have no children.

Next: Water, water everywhere...
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2008-01-13T10:00:00.000-05:00

"First You Get Your Pole Up"

Note: this is #5 in a series of stories of settling in the North Country

There are some things we had always taken somewhat for granted: you open a tap and water flows into the sink, you flip a switch and lights go on, you flush and – well, you know. When you live in the country, you play a sizable part in obtaining those things you’re used to having the urban utility companies handle so smoothly.

Although we hoped to one day be off the grid, accomplishing that immediately was totally unrealistic and impossible. I called the power company and asked when they could hook us up.

“Have you got your pole up?”

“The electric lines are on our side of the road, and there’s a pole near the driveway about 100’ from our mobile home.” (We had quickly learned that it was a bit undignified to call your mobile home a trailer…)

The electric company representative then explained to me that we needed to purchase a utility pole and put it up within a short distance of the trailer. “Get your pole up and then call us,” she said, sounding as though there was nothing to it.

The local Agway sells poles. They’re 25 feet long and weigh, well, A LOT. We borrowed a flatbed truck, Agway loaded the pole on it, and we drove it out to the land. It was supposed to be sunk five feet into the ground, so with pick, crowbar and shovels we dug a hole the required depth some six feet from the trailer.

Now think about this: putting a flag in a flagpole holder can be tricky, especially if you can only hold onto the bottom end of the flagpole. You’ve got a lot of flagpole (and flagpole weight) waving around as you try to put one small end of it into a hole. Then think about how to do the same thing with a 25’ long 700# wooden pole. It’s a bit harder!

During our time in the North Country we have been blessed with amazing and wonderful friends. We rounded up two of them – folks who were building a log house from trees they had cut. Here maybe a couple of pictures will shorten the description:
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It drizzled off and on, and the four of us worked all day, but no matter how we tried, no matter how high we were able to prop the truck end of the pole, it would not slip into that hole. Darkness was closing in. We were hungry and tired. I used the Coleman camping stove to put a fire under some water to make spaghetti, and we decided to give it one last effort.

We built an even higher tower of cement blocks on the truck bed and leveraged the top end of the pole up as high as we could. We put a hemlock board in the hole so that the bottom of the pole might slide down it rather than get stuck in the earth and rocks of the hole’s interior wall. We tied a long rope to the top of the pole.
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On the count of 3, Husband and Joe would try to heave up on the truck end of the pole while Cathy and I would pull the rope for all we were worth. 1… 2… 3… They heaved and we pulled, the pole rose (!) and for several seconds seemed to teeter perpendicular to the ground (!) ---- and then it fell, not into the hole, but more in the general direction of the mobile home, missing it by about a foot and landing flat on the ground with a sickening thud.

No one said a word. We stared in silence, realizing both our great good fortune that the pole had not crushed our “house” or any of us, and the grim knowledge that our electric pole had now lost the advantage of being four feet above ground level. We went inside and ate our spaghetti, the silence continuing until the four of us hugged each other and said goodnight.

* * * * * * *
So how DID we get that pole up? Well, we had a friend named Jim Brown, a man employed by the local Soil and Water Conservation District to make a soil map of the county.

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Jim happened to stop by one sunny afternoon about a week later, and Jim – almost single-handedly – put up our pole. As Bonnie Raitt sings, “You got to know how!”
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Jim was our hero. Pssst… don’t tell the power company we cut four feet off the bottom of the pole, okay?
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I called the electric company and they brought wires to the pole. One of the neighbors we had met while blocking the road with our mobile home was an electrician, and a few days later he lit up our lives.
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2008-01-09T21:25:00.000-05:00

The Owner-built... Mobile Home??

Note: this is #4 in a series of stories of settling in the North Country

It was a Sunday morning and we were still in bed, exchanging groggy good mornings, and then Husband spoke.

“You know, maybe we could buy a trailer and live in it while we build a house.”

“You’re kidding! I was just thinking the same thing!”

And so the plan to move from town to the land was hatched. A little more than a week later we had bought a used 12’ x 60’ “mobile home” and were making arrangements to have it delivered to a small clearing we planned to call home.

Its delivery turned out to be not as easy as we expected. The wheels of the trailer were some forty feet behind the truck that was towing it, and the “driveway” had a drop-off on each side, making it impossible to cut the corner while towing it in. The trailer would have to follow the truck on a more-or-less straight line, and the situation simply didn’t allow for that.

....."I think we've got a problem, Harvey"

If the road had been wider, the driver could have made a sweeping turn and come in straight, but the road was narrow, and across the road from this driveway entrance a rock ledge rose up. A John Deere pulling a manure spreader would have had to navigate that turn carefully, but a tractor pulling a 60’ trailer didn’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell, so there we were, blocking the road, kicking stones around and scratching our heads.

Soon we began to meet the neighbors. It was late afternoon, and those coming home from work found a mobile home blocking their way. Rather than turn around and take another route, they parked their pickup trucks and settled down to watch the city-slickers in their predicament. Maybe the news traveled down the road, because there soon was a group on the other side of the trailer parked and watching. Some joked about trading cars with people on the side they were trying to get to, but it was clear that this was an entertainment nobody wanted to miss.

..................Neighbors watch while Herb (lying under trailer) jacks
..................it up again - note tire "skid" marks on the road from the
..................previous landings

Country ingenuity prevailed. The delivery driver jacked up the “home” and then everybody pushed hard until it fell off the jack, thereby inching it slowly more cross-wise of the road. This was done over and over again (as we wondered how the interior could possibly survive all of the bouncing of each fall) until finally the truck was able to move forward a few feet. More jacking and pushing, and somewhat past dinnertime our new “home” was parked in the clearing.

......................The "Homette" and the Happy Homette Owner

It was July 27, 1976. We lacked electricity, water and a septic tank, but we had shelter, and it even came with some furniture, appliances and curtains. We were as happy as pigs in slop.

Next episode: "First You Get Your Pole Up"
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2008-01-08T10:12:00.000-05:00

Back to... the Land

Note: this is #3 in a series of stories of settling in the North Country

Fall and then winter began closing in on the realtors. There were no new offerings hitting the market and we had looked at what was available.

We liked the village and were comfortable. The house we rented belonged to a spry but deaf ninety-year-old widow; she lived in the left side of it and we occupied the other half. She was a great landlord who enjoyed our company and got a kick out of my enthusiasm for learning how to can and root-cellar vegetables, sharing some of her “secret” recipes for old-fashioned sauces and pickles. Our daughter walked to school and had many playmates. It was a safe and convenient place to live, and so we felt no pressure to get on with our plans.

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My husband is a very bright guy who has always had a weird interest in helping people find jobs. In the mid-seventies, CETA (Comprehensive Employment and Training Act) was a federal government program created to fund/authorize job-training programs for low-income people. The local CETA director happened to know my husband’s former boss in Rochester, and based on his recommendation created a job opening. CETA was growing rapidly , and within a relatively short time, my husband was designing training programs geared to the needs of the North Country.

I, on the other hand, was one of those people who preferred NOT to be matched up with a “real” job… I liked dirt. I liked animals. I loved power tools, whether saws or sewing machines. I was never bored at home.

It seems to me (looking back on it) that I secretly wondered whether my husband would really be happy “on the land.” Not that he wasn’t a worker - for despite his intellectual brilliance, he'll slog through daunting, boring, no-brainer physical tasks with steady energy and never a complaint – but it did occur to me that he might not be happy if his life’s work was primarily of a physical nature.

I had also spent my childhood summer vacations in the Adirondacks. I liked farms, but I also loved the woods.

In early December I was browsing the local newspaper and a classified ad caught my attention:
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Hmmm… sugar bush, timber, springs… Not a farm, but something new and at least worth checking… I called and learned that it was in the Adirondack foothills thirteen miles to the south of town, it had a couple of meadows, and the price was reasonable. The next day we drove out to see it, met a down-on-their-luck family, and were led around over hill and down dale through woods, meadows, and streams for over two hours and what seemed like many miles by the long-legged husband. The land seemed remote and very “Adirondacky” to me. It had every sort of natural wildlife habitat, and snow covered the rock outcroppings that might have tipped us off to one of the challenges of the place. By the end of the day, in the same desperate, emotional way I once craved (and then convinced my parents to bring home) a big-eyed dog from the animal shelter, I wanted it.

My husband was less enthused. It wasn’t, after all, a FARM. “But it once was a farm,” I countered, suggesting that we could do a reasonable amount of "farming" there if we wanted to (a totally unrealistic argument). After all, I reminded him, the Nearings grew food; they didn't keep animals. The price was $10,000, the seller willing to hold a mortgage without interest charges.

Maybe he mentioned this and I failed to hear (or register) it, but Husband – who never has found it easy to say “NO” to his pleading wife – rationalized buying it by thinking we could always sell it when we found the farm.

The seller was eager. He had three kids and they had no money to buy Christmas presents. (Should we not have seen through that?!?!)

We bought the land. The timing was such that we couldn’t close until January – after the holidays – and so we also bought an old wood-burning cookstove that the seller had, shoving $125 in cash into his hand the week before Christmas.

We had found our place in the country.

Stay tuned for the next episode: The Owner-built...Mobile Home??

2008-01-06T13:40:00.000-05:00

Almost Farmers

Note: this is #2 in a series of stories of settling in the North Country

When I was growing up, there was a large Middle Class. There were rich people, but they were the few and everybody knew who they were: The Rockefellers, John Paul Getty, and some movie stars. Even athletes earned Middle Class salaries in those days. There were poor people – usually Black – and (at least if you lived in the North) you thought of them as that: poor in the sense of “unfortunate”. I saw them in the ghetto near the college or when I drove out past the migrant camps northeast of the city. In the three decades after WWII, it was easy for just about any average, able white person to find a job, and so it was that we made the move to The North Country confident of finding some sort of gainful employment that would carry us until our “farm” was established. Within a couple of weeks, my husband was employed by a County agency just a short walk from our apartment home.

Within days of our January arrival, we met a neighbor whose father was a well-respected organic gardener, and as luck would have it he planned to offer garden plots on his farm about three miles outside of the village. The organizational meeting for this endeavor was to be held the next evening, and we attended. It was our first acquaintance with several people who would become dear friends and my introduction to the man who would teach me the tricks and the know-how that I have used every growing season since the summer of 1975.

As spring approached, in addition to planning our garden, we began looking at real estate. Thank God for my husband’s patience and good sense, because I was ready to buy ANYTHING that looked green and rural, and the United Farm Agency sales folks were wily indeed. They easily spotted me as another “back to the lander” and knew how to play that angle. The first thing they showed me was a swamp with a railroad track running through it. I guess they figured I was dumb as well as eager. Still, I dragged my family back to look at it a second time…

We also spent time visiting our friends’ dairy farm and began learning to milk and care for cows. Our 30’ x 30’ garden plot was growing well and we worked to keep it weed-free. We were taking small steps, but important ones, and then in mid-summer, a beautiful old farm came on the market. It was less than five miles from our friends’ dairy, and its 200+ acres were mostly rolling hay fields and pasture. The back of the property sloped down to woods and swamp – a place we could cut firewood in the wintertime. The house was old but solid and charming; the barn was small but sound, a healthy crop of alfalfa was thriving on its gravelly loam soil. Adding to its charm was its location a quarter of a mile back off a paved country road. We knew that jumping into dairy farming there was not feasible at the outset. We would have to enlarge the barn and we had become a bit more realistic about our ability to go “cold turkey” anyway.

I remember this conversation:

.....“Do we really want to milk a herd of 40 cows twice a day, every
.......day of the year?”
.....“How do we know??”
.....“Is there anything physical we’re doing now that we have to do
.......twice a day, every day of the year?”
.....“Brush our teeth? Sometimes I don’t even want to do that!”
.....“You know, that doesn’t even compare with milking ONE cow…”

What suddenly made sense to us was to raise heifer replacements for our friends and possibly for other nearby dairies. My husband would keep his job (although the 15 mile commute was troublesome), and I would do most of the livestock care.

We made an offer on the farm.

The seller countered.

We offered as much as we could.

The seller came down to $2000 above our offer, saying that was his lowest price.

For want of $2000 we lost that farm.

Months later, shortly after we purchased 90 acres of non-farm land in the Adirondack foothills, I was walking along Main St. and ran into the owner of the “lost” farm. He greeted me enthusiastically and asked if we were still interested in his place. “I’ll come down the $2000 if you want to buy it,” he said. But it was too late. Our money was spent, and our course had changed.

That farm did sell to something called “Sealand Restoration”. They were a company hauling toxic waste from downstate that found this remote farm in a town without land use zoning the perfect place to dump their loads. The farm we came so close to buying was eventually designated one of New York’s “Superfund Sites” – one of the most polluted places in the State. Its meadows and stone walls have been bulldozed, its buildings are crumbling. According to the Environmental Protection Agency:

"The Sealand Restoration, Inc. site covers 210 acres. The site, formerly a dairy farm, was acquired by Sealand Restoration in 1977, and was operated as a waste disposal facility. Petroleum wastes were landfilled in a disposal cell near the southern site boundary or spread on the ground surface in the central and northern parts of the site. Three areas are being addressed—a land spread area, an empty drum storage area, and a disposal cell located 100 yards from a wetland. On-site ground water is contaminated with heavy metals and volatile organic compounds including benzene, trichloroethene,1-trichloroethane, toluene, and acetone. Surface water was found to be contaminated with aluminum, iron, lead, manganese, and zinc. Low levels of polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs), pesticides, phenols, and heavy metals were found in soils in the land spread area. Direct contact with or ingestion of on-site contaminated ground water may pose a health threat.”

If we had purchased this farm, would Sealand have bought a neighboring parcel of land? We went back once and saw the empty drums and the ravaged fields, but my memory of the place is of a sunny day when I walked along the farm lane beside an old stone wall, listening to the singing of birds and feeling that it was the most wonderful and peaceful place on earth. Two thousand dollars changed our lives.

Next: The Owner-built... Mobile Home??
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2008-01-05T14:10:00.000-05:00

Funny what a difference a day can make. Got up this morning still with some leg pain, but not too bad. Turned the computer on and discovered a new visitor: Slip. Of course all of you "old" visitors warm my heart, but I was curious to see who this Slip person was. When I checked out his blog, it sure looked like he might be somebody I know (maybe even a friend or neighbor). Or not. Anyway, Slip's enthusiasm for life and the road ahead began to tickle a bunch of memories, and before I knew it, I'd written a blog piece. Here it is, and probably the first of a short series on building a home in The North Country.

Nearing Home

The seventies sound like a long time ago. The Vietnam War officially ended, Nixon resigned and four of his major Administration officials were found guilty in the Watergate cover-up case, by January of 1974 the oil embargo by several OPEC members had gas pumps running dry, and we were all wearing hip-hugging bell-bottom pants.

The America I grew up believing in unquestionably had changed, or maybe my eyes had been opened. I lived in a condominium in a city then, had remarried, and we spent our evenings poring over the United Farm Agency real estate catalog and geography books. My husband and I were convinced that the country was going to Hell, and that the one feasible hedge against that was to go “back to the land” and become self-sufficient.

In 1932, some forty years before us, Helen and Scott Nearing had gone “back to the land” on a homestead near Stratton Mountain in Vermont, built a low-cost house of stone, and raised their own organic food, attaining an attractive (to us) measure of self-sufficiency. We read their book, Living the Good Life, and took their story to heart. Another book, How to Build A Low-cost House of Stone, bolstered our belief that this was something we could do, and in the summer of 1974 we made our first feeble attempt at growing some vegetables in a small plot in my parents’ yard.
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After leaving Peace Corps service in South America, two good friends had taken up dairy farming in The North Country of New York State. We had visited them several times, always awed by the space and quiet and clear skies. We helped in the barn, probably adding to their actual workload, and the smell of cow manure was sweet to our senses.

In early 1975, it was time to make the move. We set out from Rochester on a planned exploratory journey to northern New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, southern Maine, and finally Massachusetts. We never went beyond the first stop. Our hearts had already been won there, and after a small bit of rationalizing about the other planned destinations being “too far” or otherwise unsuitable, we rented an apartment in an old house in the county seat, a small town of less than 4000 residents.

We weren’t the only ones. As we gradually became acquainted with the area, we found a sizable group of like-minded folks, people from cities following the real estate catalog to a place where a young family could still manage to buy enough land to farm. We formed a social network we called “The Rural Life Association,” periodically meeting at one homestead or another for a potluck supper or picnic and the chance to trade stories and ideas. We were homesteaders; we were college graduates from middle-class America, turning away from the path many of our parents had worked hard to put us on. We were poor, and we were happy.

Next: Almost Farmers
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2008-01-04T11:01:00.000-05:00

My Excuse

I often write of the beauty of the area in which I live. We still have space and woods and wildlife here, starry night skies unspoiled by city lights, relative peace and quiet. There is, however, a down side to "the North Country," and that is that we have very limited medical care.

There are several small hospitals that compete with each other rather than cooperate, and in their somewhat desperate efforts to survive, they struggle to attract competent medical personnel. In fact, these hospitals throw welcoming arms around some doctors who probably couldn't and shouldn't make a living in their chosen profession. Amidst the boneheads are a few dedicated and excellent doc's, but you have to know who's who.

The closest hospital recently expanded and now boasts bigger offices for it's staff and new operating suites. Paying for this depends in part on billing patients for surgeries performed, and so it was that one local orthopedic doc lost his hospital privileges: he wasn't doing enough surgery... A "new" orthopedic surgeon has replaced him.

I travel more than three hours (one way) to Burlington, Vermont, when I need medical care. Over the years that has saved me three organs and two unnecessary surgeries. A teaching hospital with plenty of patients doesn't have to ferret out patients to cut up. In most instances I feel that I've gotten excellent care there.

The down side of being 125 miles and a ferry-boat ride away from your doctor is the risk taken making the trip. A blizzard stopped me earlier this week, and there have been other times when it is no exageration to say I endangered my life driving to get there or back. Add to that the cost of a hotel if circumstances require more than a one-day stay.

On Halloween I did something to my back. For weeks I babied it and hoped for some healing, but by Thanksgiving it had only worsened. In addition, Husband hurt his back and was barely able to sit upright enough to drive. I gritted my teeth and somehow got myself to Burlington, had an x-ray and was referred to physical therapy (near home). That might have done it, but as I lowered myself into the bathtub for a soak, I sprained my hip. By now it was Christmas season, and doctors everywhere were on vacation.

Until early January I doctored by phone as best I could, convincing the on-call doc that she should prescribe the maximum pain meds and muscle-relaxants. My son-in-law drove me - lying flat in the back of his Subaru - to a chiropractor who eased the hip problem somewhat, but at times I sobbed in pain. Husband and I ate our meals lying on the living room floor, cooking as little as possible, me getting where I had to on crutches.

Eventually, time and rest improved things. I could walk again (albeit carefully), my doc returned from her Christmas holiday, and I made an appointment for last Tuesday. I was pretty certain I could manage the drive, but then the blizzard struck and the trip was off.

So to end this whine, Wednesday I was able to drive myself to Vermont. I stayed overnight in a motel, saw the doctor yesterday morning, then drove home. I'll be having an MRI close to home, and then will see what that shows. My toe is still numb, but the muscle spasms have stopped and I am comfortable (finally) sitting here at the computer.

If there's a point to all of this it is that I am feeling very far from inspired and creative right now. Even Wizards get the blues.

I hope to get out soon and take some photos. We're buried in beautiful snow right now, and I'm frustrated with being housebound. I did snap one on my way to Vermont: an Amish field of corn shocks (see below). Not a great photo (I took it from the car window), but a nice taste of our North Country winter.

Thanks to all of you who have stopped by and commented on my
(s)assy Christmas card. Your comments brightened my days, and I wish you all the best in the coming year. I'll be back. I'm just not sure how soon.

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2007-12-24T11:26:00.000-05:00

Happy holidays to you and yours from Wiz and Mr. Wiz. 'Hope to see you all soon!

2007-12-19T12:08:00.000-05:00

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This is an old picture and an old wish. There is not absolute peace in the woods or in Nature, but the violence there is born of need: need for food for sustenance in order to live and mate to continue the species. In these quiet woods, the fisher kills the porcupine, the coyote kills the rabbit, the muskrat who dislocates his jaw starves to death and becomes food for the scavengers. All of this is part of Nature's plan.

May humans realize that we are no different than all of Nature's other children. Our basic needs are for enough food to eat and a place of shelter from the elements. We could live in peace without oil, money or power if we chose to value wisdom and peaceful survival over greed and war.

Imagine all the people, living life in peace.
You may say I'm a dreamer,
But I'm not the only one...

Join me in the hope for peace on earth.
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2007-12-08T14:15:00.000-05:00

The Great American...... -.Off .

For the past couple of weeks, our little local food co-op has been having a run-in with Corporate America. I could tell the tale, but perhaps you'd like to click on this link to hear what the NATIONAL NEWS COVERAGE has to say.

I couldn't help weighing in, nor can I resist sharing my thoughts with you, dear readers. What follows is a copy of my letter to the heads of General Mills and Pillsbury:

Dear Mr. Sanger and Ms. Chugg:

Regarding the recent unauthorized use of your Bake-Off trademark by the Potsdam (N.Y.) Community Co-op and the subsequent threat made against them by your legal department, I say a resounding GOOD FOR YOU!!!

Just because these country rubes want to have a baking contest to raise money for a local food pantry does not give them the privilege of using your time-honored and esteemed trademarked phrase. Corporate America must stand tall, General Mills must protect itself, and I am happy to know that your legal team is on the ball and ready to throw all of their expertise in the way of this shameful usurpation of your brilliant trademark.

Even more disgraceful than these simple folks trying to make a few dollars to help the needy (obviously at General Mills' expense) is the fact that even though your attorneys have succeeded in intimidating the Co-op into changing the name of their annual charity bake-off to a Baking Contest, they have not been able to control the sentiments of the many residents of northern New York who have taken to calling the event The General Mills Fuck-Off! Have they no shame?

I am buoyed by my belief that the noble cause shall win in the end. General Mills must stop the Co-op's use of your sacred, patented phrase. Failure to do so will cause a domino effect: first the Co-op; next, the local 4-H Clubs will be Baking-Off; and then - heaven forbid - the local Humane Society will be doing it. From there, your sales will slump, your profit margin narrow, and your stock will begin to tumble. Had your legal team been less vigilant, it would be frightening to consider all of the consequences.

For your courage and nobility, you will be in my thoughts each time I gaze lovingly at a frozen tube of Pillsbury cookie dough. Fight on, Mr. Sanger and Ms. Chugg, and God bless America.

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Sincerely,

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And here is a photo of the business posing the terrible threat to Mr. and Ms. Doughboy: Go ahead and click on the link below the picture for a more intimate look at the ~~Bake-Off~~.

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......................The Potsdam Co-op

2007-12-06T08:46:00.000-05:00

Here's something I wrote last summer but for some reason never got around to publishing. It seems somewhat timely now that a couple of degenerating vertebrae are keeping me away from my computer chair.

Age

Time has its subtle ways of letting you know you aren’t as young as you used to be. The jeans get harder to button, the joints begin to complain when overworked, and there’s the thinning of hair north and south. So you work out a little more, take aspirin, content yourself with the notion that your hair always was a bit thick and unruly. Old? Me? Nah.

Less subtle than time are children. Today I spent three hours at the playground with my five-year-old grandson. When there were no kids his age, I played with him, climbing up through the wooden maze, sliding down the slides, being a witch or “Queen of the Playground” as he dictated. I felt pretty smug that at 62 I could keep up with him. As I stood at the end of a wooden tunnel near the top of the grand structure (catching my breath), a new entrant on the scene, a six-year-old grinning the fanged smile of a kid missing his two front teeth, burst from the tunnel on all-fours and sounded a fierce roar. I jumped in faked terror, and the kid gleefully rose to his feet and shouted for all the playground to hear, “MOM! I just scared the crap out of this old lady!”
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Go away kid, ya bother me…
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2007-11-27T15:37:00.000-05:00

Art Appreciation

..........................................Smaller Than Life (please click on the photo)

I spent the Thanksgiving holiday in New York, taking only one break from "family" activities (most of which revolved around food...) to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Tripods and flash exposures were not allowed, so the shot was hand-held using available light. The child is unknown, but I couldn't resist snapping this charming expression of art appreciation. The man, turning his head to view a large painting hanging higher on the wall, stepped into the picture just as I clicked the shutter.

Since returning home, my back has "gone out" and left me searching for some position that affords pain relief, so I will be taking a short - I hope - break from the blog until comfortable sitting is again possible.

I hope everyone had a good holiday week filled with many things to be appreciated.
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2007-11-11T12:48:00.000-05:00

In Harmony

It's a struggle to get Grandson into a bathroom in any of the Ottawa museums because their thrones are all watched over by The Electric Eye, the master of the great, sudden, sucking, high-decibel, child-devouring flush. Grandson is absolutely terrified of those automatic toilets.

I can get him to go with me into the Women/Femmes - when he gets desperate enough - if I use a combination of reassurance ("I've already been in there, and they really aren't that loud") and a bite of the reality sandwich ("You're dancing, you have to go, and if you don't go pretty soon, you're going to wet your pants"). Once convinced/strong-armed, we get into a stall and I shut the door. This is when it gets dicey. Imagine being contained in a 3 x 4' space with a kid who is suddenly startled and sent into terrified flight... a kid who has a running garden hose he can't let go of. Sometimes I get the monster to flush immediately (as soon as the door is locked and he can't escape and before he gets his belt unbuckled) so as to prove that the automatic flush isn't as bad as he imagines, but that tactic undermines future trust in Grandma.

Exacerbating the whole matter is the fact that the ever-diligent Electric Eye can't seem to figure out what to do when it detects the movements of two people in the stall. Like the ass-kisser that it truly is, the E.E. invariably flushes more than once, making the point that it is never lax in its duties.

Our last museum visit was to what Grandson calls "the dinosaur museum" (otherwise known as The Museum of Nature). We had a great time and managed to survive the one and only toilet encounter, then we found an Ethiopian restaurant for dinner. To his great relief, this eatery was in an old building with an old bathroom...

The meal was spicy and very good, and eaten with your fingers: small mounds of food are placed on a large crepe-like injera. You tear off a small piece of the injera and use it to pick up a "pinch" of one food or another, so no silverware is needed. Grandson enjoyed it and seemed completely oblivious to the fact that we were practically the only white folks in the place.

After dinner we began the drive home, and as we traveled along the four-lane I turned to the back seat and said, "You know, we all have fears, things we're afraid of." Grandson was quick to reply, "I'm afraid of flushing toilets and the boiler." (The boiler "lives" in our mudroom and has terrified him irrationally since he was very young). I said, "Yes, I know you are, and I wish I could take away your fears."

A beat of silent thought; then, "Well I'll talk to Jesus about that."

I answer that sure, that might be a good idea, and I sound like I mean it. His parents take him to church, and apparently he's soaking up the message. Okay, I think, I used to believe in Jesus. And Santa Claus. And the Easter Bunny. If it gives him comfort in this world, that can only be a good thing.

A minute later I start to say something and he says, "Be quiet, Grandma, Jesus is whispering in my ear." (!) I obey, wait another minute, and then ask, "So what did Jesus tell you?"

"That these fears are okay for me to have."

"Well, that's good," I say, and Husband and I suppress amazed giggles.

A day later, it was Husband who made the musical connection. We had been listening to a Lucinda Williams CD on the way to Ottawa that morning. One of her songs, Lake Charles, contains the lines:

Did an angel whisper in your ear
Hold you close
Take away your fears
In those long, last moments

There is a game Husband and I sometimes play. We'll be discussing some event or topic, and he'll say, "Okay Wizard, what's the song?" I then quote a line from the lyrics of a song that succinctly sums up the point of discussion. (I know a lot of songs). Without realizing it, I had borrowed the third line from Lucinda's chorus when I told Grandson I wished I could take away his fears. What warms this grandma's heart is that apparently he remembered the lyrics too, and his reply made use of the first two lines.

2007-11-04T21:54:00.000-05:00

~~"You are in My Prayers"~~

My religious or spiritual beliefs are personal and not Christian. That's neither a boast nor a feeling of deficiency; it's just what I've come to believe over the course of time.

When I was a kid, I used to pray the ritual "now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep" and then add the "goblesses": gobless Mommy, gobless Daddy, gobless Gramma and Donna and Aunt Lil; but one night as I clasped my hands to pray for the undoing of a bad choice I had made, the voice of Reason within me said, "God is not listening to you, and even if he was, do you really think he'd grant your prayer and undo your stupidity?" And I did not pray. Not that night, and not for over thirty-six years. If I were trying to be really biblical here, I'd say "not for forty days and forty nights," but this wasn't a symbolic hiatus.

My resumption of prayer was brief: "Please God, help this baby," my unborn grandson, the reason for a team of medical personnel scurrying to answer a delivery room code. And then my agnostic self returned. I guess some habits run deep - like the way I still "rock" my supermarket cart while pondering various laundry detergent options, despite the fact that it's been almost thirty years since any little kid in my care needed the rocking. Maybe my early religious conditioning shoved my rational mind aside and took over for that instant in the birthing room.

I'm reminded of prayer and my rejection of it because lately a couple of friends have been going through some very hard times. Shaman is seriously ill, and there is a line of support that I am having trouble with. Most people would say, "You are in my prayers," but for me that would be a lie. Another friend, a survivor of breast cancer and the mother of one daughter who has battled the disease, has just learned that her other daughter has an aggressive breast cancer.

"You are in my thoughts" just sounds shallow to me. They are in my heart, a heart that aches with concern and caring, but they will not be in my prayers. Agnosticism does not supply answers or something to have faith in; it is the belief that whatever divine forces might exist or be at work are unknowable.

This aching heart, these hopes, is what I offer. I hope for the best for each of my dear friends, hope in a fervent and sincere way. My concern is no less than that of a Christian or a Jew or a Muslim or any other who prays, but it is not prayer.

And so, Shaman and Helen, I hold each of you in my heart, and I hope that you can feel these sentiments and know that this is my way, a way that I believe is no more and no less valid than prayer. But sometimes I wish I could just honestly say, "You are in my prayers." That would not need an explanation.

2007-10-22T12:41:00.000-04:00

There are Places I Remember...

Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water
Jill forgot her birth control
And now they have a daughter

I came from the Adirondacks. My parents had decided against having children because - in 1942 - they were convinced that there was not a bright enough future for children on this planet. That plan was undone when the two of them took a vacation in the late summer of 1944 at a rustic resort called "The Mohawk" on Fourth Lake, and my mother forgot to pack her birth control. Maybe my humble beginnings in that place of wildness and natural beauty explain in part why I ended up living where I do.

The Adirondack "Park," as it is rightly or wrongly named, remained a special place for this family my parents created (which later included the addition of three foster daughters). Our summer vacations were spent there in tents, around campfires and in canoes or on trails; our winters always included ski trips to Old Forge or Whiteface Mountain.

To me, the Adirondacks represented heaven, and so when all that eventually remained of my parents was a pair of ash-filled plastic bags, our favorite camping place was the natural choice for freeing those remains. In August of 1999, close family and two dear life-long friends gathered at Brown's Tract Ponds.

The chosen morning dawned wet. My father always claimed there were only two kinds of Adirondack weather, "dazzling uncertainty, and drizzling certainty," and his description held true as the gray downpour abruptly gave way to beautiful sunshine in mid-afternoon. The canoe served as a water taxi for our small band of eight, our elderly friends making the trip with both arthritic difficulty and characteristic grace. Once assembled, in a very unplanned sort of ceremony, we scattered those gray remains from the rocks on the small island's south shore where we had picnicked and swam so many times over the years. It all seemed very right.

Our mission accomplished, the first of the return trips was begun. Bekir and Sallie were helped into the canoe and Husband and I started paddling toward the mainland. Spontaneously, Bekir began yodeling my father's favorite, the pure beauty of his alpine tribute soaring across the still lake and echoing back to us. It was the perfect salute, and I am certain that every person within earshot stood still to listen.

Eight years have passed, and I haven't been back there. I always thought I'd return, but lack of time and too many responsibilities - or maybe just a failure to properly prioritize my life - had combined to stall my return until two weeks ago when a week-long photography workshop at Big Moose Lake just a few miles from Brown's Tract put the opportunity squarely in my sights. On October 6th, the 17th anniversary of the date of my father's death, I returned to the shore of Brown's Tract.

It was fall and the campers were gone. I expected to be completely alone, but to my surprise, there was a lone photographer beside the lake's outlet where I planned to launch. I'm pretty uninhibited and friendly with strangers, and those you meet in the solitude of the woods are usually kindred spirits, so we struck up a conversation. The emotions of that day probably greased my tongue even more than usual as I explained my reasons for being there. "I'm going to mess up your lake," I told him. It was still and all-reflecting, and I knew my paddling would disturb any reflection shots he was attempting to take. His reply was an enthusiastic, "Oh, no, your blue kayak will be great on the water!" We exchanged blog addresses, wished each other well, I put the kayak into the lake and began the final leg of my trip to pay respects to Bill Toporcer and Evelyn Andrus, my parents.

Photograph by Russ Devan. I hope you'll visit his website and his blog.

My parents gave me the gift of life and the self-assurance that has helped me to make the best of my time here, and it seems that even years after their deaths they continue to give to me, for on that Saturday two weeks ago they introduced me to a new friend and a very talented photographer.

Thank you, Russ, for this photograph that I will always cherish. And thank you, dear readers, for taking the time to travel back with me to this special place.

2007-10-16T21:02:00.000-04:00

Streaming (CLICK ON A PHOTO TO ENLARGE IT)

Here is a photograph of a Tug Hill Plateau stream. There has been a drought this fall, and the creeks are shallow. Rocks that would normally be well under water are now catching and collecting the leaves that float downstream, stacking them together like so many playing cards.

Below is a river flowing well below usual fall levels, exposing vast expanses of its rock bed. I decided to play with grayscale on this one - not something learned or encouraged by the photo workshop, but rather, something I just had some fun doing.

Remember, these pictures were part of a learning experience, and as such, they represent steps in the right direction...

I miss my camera.

2007-10-12T21:43:00.000-04:00

The Tale of the .

............Photography Workshop...

..................(or, Why I am Up in This Tree)

I spent the first week of October at a digital photography workshop near Eagle Bay, NY in the Adirondack Mountains. It was taught by an R.I.T. photo prof. and his photographer wife, two great and greatly talented people. It was a wonderful opportunity.
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.....................Covewood Main Lodge
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As the teacher explained, the average digital camera has been configured to take pictures of smilin’ white folks at a picnic. It’s turned on and shot in the camera’s pre-set JPEG mode, auto-exposed and auto-focused by a tiny Japanese man (let's call him "Yoshihiko") who lives inside the camera. If you ask him to, the Yoshihiko in many cameras will take weather conditions into consideration: choose “sunshine” or “cloudy” or “incandescent lightbulb” (most often seen as tiny representative icons). He will - if asked - acknowledge the camera operator’s directive to shoot an “action shot” or in “macro (closeup) mode” – although the average digital camera user doesn’t want to be bothered with such variables and generally lets Yoshihiko just do his thing on full AUTO. Ditto the use of AutoFocus. Connect a wire between camera and computer, and the resultant image can then be attached to an email and sent to Cousin Minnie who didn’t make it to the picnic so she can laugh at everyone in the photo. All of this works and makes many, many people happy.
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...................Part of Covewood's Dock on Big Moose Lake
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I know some basics about photography, i.e. the fundamentals of exposure (Northern, ass, celluloid and image sensor). I understand the focal length/depth of field relationship. Many people have told me I have “a good eye.” There was a time some years ago when I knew how to choose my film camera’s exposure settings by looking at the available light in any given situation. (If you have a couple of minutes to waste, you can read about how I came to photography here.)

I confess that although I often manually focus, and I do usually control the shutter speed, I just as often let Yoshihiko do his thing. He is a pretty smart guy, after all. I use a tripod on occasion, almost always for indoor shots that require a long exposure because of low light levels. I have a “nice” tripod bought at the “nice” mall camera store, but not a particularly clever one capable of getting close to the ground.

Last week, all of this was about to change…
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I arrived at the workshop, and the first thing I learned was that my “nice” tripod should probably go to the scrap-pile. I was loaned an older good one that had twice the weight and flexibility of my own. On the first day (when we were just turned loose to take shots around the beautiful old Adirondack great camp), I decided to do my usual thing sans tripod on the excuse that it would be my benchmark: the “old” way of doing things, to be compared to what I would be doing by week’s end. (Everyone else headed out with cameras mounted securely to their three-legged devices).

On Tuesday morning, armed with loaned Bogen tripod, I set out with ten others for a creek some miles away. We got there by car, then began walking up the creek, along the creek, and IN the creek. (Remember, I was using Husband’s camera because my own had gotten doused by a small container of soapy water and drowned Japanese beetles and was at Pentax Repair). The place was pretty: rocky with small waterfalls and the beautiful reds, yellows, greens and oranges of Adirondack autumn. Of course, the rocks were also slippery and the embankments steep, so I was clinging to camera and tripod with more than the normal paranoia. Yoshihiko stayed back at the lodge.

The previous evening, we had been lectured on using histograms to judge proper exposure (new to me; I had heard of histograms but had no knowledge of the why and how), and we were expected to manually focus and expose (full manual exposure being another thing I had not done previously with my digital camera). The Pentax manual packed in my bag turned out to be the camera software manual, not the actual camera instructions, adding another straw to the camel's back.
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Before shooting, and as the light conditions changed, we needed to “custom white balance” our cameras with a white card instead of choosing “shade” or “cloudy” automatic settings (another procedure I knew the value of but not the mechanics…). To sum up, the game was to climb around the creek looking for a good subject, set up and level the tripod in the desired location (balancing its legs on slippery rocks, in water and mud), figure out all the camera settings, check white balance, be sure you were focused, fire the shutter, then check to see that the histogram was appropriately placed. My brain was on overload, and being the owner of ONE drowned Pentax, I was really nervous watching water flow between my feet.
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........................... Tuesday's Best Shot
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The other half of my workshop time – because for me, it did take almost half of my time and energy during the week – was computer technology. A new-to-me notebook computer, never-used camera software, a key drive that refused to save my files, a network configuration that wouldn’t accept the lodge’s wireless network when I tried to download a photo file converter (somehow the notebook wanted to talk to my office…), the unfamiliar organizing part of Adobe Photoshop Elements, and a program for converting RAW files to DNGs all fought me tooth and nail. It was embarrassing and totally stressful to be so mind-boggled by these things, and I had to use them. My teachers were incredibly patient as we spent the evening hours struggling with this stuff.

By Wednesday I was taking some decent photos. I spent an hour in one part of another leaf-strewn stream, and I am fairly pleased with the pictures. Technically I was making some progress, and although I was still nervously hanging onto the camera and tripod for fear of another water disaster, I was handling the custom white balancing, manually setting exposures and checking histograms, and generally enjoying myself.

On Thursday we traveled up Big Moose Lake by boat and then hiked and photographed everything Nature had to offer along the trail to Russian Lake. By late afternoon I reached the lean-to at the trail’s end, and then took some shots across and into the lake. I was about finished, and stood camera and tripod near the shore, watching another photographer work on a shot of some pine needles floating on the water. A fly landed on her subject, and I suggested that I go find a branch to chase it so she could take her shot. I turned my back on the camera for less than a minute… and during that minute, the one minute of the entire week that I was not carefully clinging to either camera or tripod, the leg of the tripod facing the water telescoped slowly into itself… and with a splash, my husband’s camera fell to it’s watery grave.

On Friday, I drove the soggy camera to Old Forge and FedEx-ed it to Pentax Repair before joining the others for lunch and a shoot of Ferd’s Bog. I was an observer.

On Saturday, the workshop over, I drove to Brown’s Tract Pond where we had scattered my parents’ ashes eight years ago. There were no campers or boaters anywhere near the lake; only a lone photographer (not from the workshop) stood on the shore where I had planned to launch my kayak.
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I paddled to the island and climbed onto the flat rocks on its southern shore. For an hour I was alone with my memories. I sang "Scarlet Ribbons" for my father and then "Feels Like Home to Me" for my mother, and gradually the ache of loss - loss of camera, loss of childhood times, loss of beloved parents, loss of control, loss of sanity - lessened; lessened but was not ready to leave me.
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Back in the kayak, I circled the island. An otter slipped silently from the rocks on the far side and disappeared into the water. A breeze was picking up and gray clouds were now blowing across the sky. Returning to the deserted shore, I put the kayak on the car and turned back onto the dirt road past the now closed State campground where I stopped to briefly visit our family's favorite campsite; then went on to Raquette Lake where I paused to pay my respects to the faded old general store where generations of campers and canoers have gotten their supplies. It was the last weekend of the "summer" season.
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I drove the remaining two and a half hours north in silence.
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At home, my husband greeted me warmly. The house was clean and he was preparing a wonderful dinner featuring quinoa-stuffed squash. I opened the notebook and began a slideshow of the week's photos, pouring out stories as he poured a fine bottle of shiraz.
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After dinner the slideshow resumed... to the point of a photo taken at 4:38 PM on Thursday,
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............................Just Before the Dive
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and I said, "At that point, during the one instant of the entire week when I wasn't clinging worriedly to either the tripod or the camera strap, one leg of the tripod telescoped in, and your camera fell in the lake."
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It is quiet and peaceful up here in the tree. I am watching the leaves change color and fall, and I am contemplating Fate.
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2007-10-09T08:14:00.000-04:00

Decompression...
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.................................................Moss Lake at Dawn (please click on image)
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I am back, and it will take some time to soak in and digest all the teachings of the past week. Some were wonderful lessons in photography, and others were sobering lessons about myself. Silence, solitude and my sweet husband are restoring me.

And a senyru from Shaman...

morning fog

over autumn colors -

lipstick kiss

2007-09-30T12:51:00.000-04:00

Gone to the Woods!

This week I'm off to attend a photography workshop in the southwestern Adirondacks. Got my camera gear, a notebook computer, clothes for all kinds of weather, kayak, sleeping bag, and high hopes for learning a lot!

I leave you with a very short story:

This afternoon we harvested our onions, squash and carrots with the help of 5-year-old Grandson. He especially enjoyed pulling out the carrots, always surprised and charmed by the unexpected sizes and sometimes twisted shapes. He also got a kick out of carrying any worms we found over to the compost pile (not for any reason other than he thinks worms like the compost pile). Here's a carrot that made him laugh out loud:

"Grandma, look! This one has a penis!"
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A good, happy and healthy week to each and all of you!

2007-09-26T15:02:00.001-04:00

Still Taking A Break...
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(CLICK ON THE PICTURE TO HAVE A CLOSER LOOK)
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...but look at these little buggers: two tiny baby snapping turtles submerged in a puddle! Cute now, but I may relocate them to avoid any future meetings (when they're pizza-size). Right now their shells are less than an inch and a half long.

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2007-09-24T15:51:00.001-04:00

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My Favorite Time of Year...

...is also my busiest season. I have a few more "employment stories" to tell, but for now I'm going to take a break.

A late afternoon walk to the big beaver pond - after a day of canning tomatoes - yielded this photo. (CLICK ON IT FOR A BETTER LOOK).

I'm sorry I haven't been visiting blogs lately, but until the garden is put away and things are ready for winter, I just can't do everything I'd like to do. In the meantime, because this season is so beautiful, perhaps I'll post an occasional photo.

Best wishes ~

The Wiz'd Wiz'd
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2007-09-20T08:06:00.000-04:00

Tommy

(This is story #7 of my employment stories. For an introduction to these stories, click here. Other stories are below this post.)

How do you really know someone? Time and familiarity turn acquaintances into friends, but interviews are brief and - frankly - adversarial. Resumes may or may not be honest. I have seen fabrications of schools attended, degrees earned, and jobs held. These days, most former employers will not give references beyond the verification of dates of employment, and an employer who raves about someone may simply be hoping you'll hire their former employee so that they will no longer have to pay his/her Unemployment or Disability costs. So, how do you really judge someone in the space of a brief interview?

Our business had grown, necessitating the hiring of additional staff, and, as it happened, two of them were young, attractive women. They enjoyed the work and enjoyed dealing with the variety of applicants and hires who came through the office. They especially liked Tommy.

Tommy was a college student who had come in to apply for work for the company who provided food services at his school. He was blonde, very charming and cute (picture Brad Pitt in his Thelma and Louise role), and he was an A student. One of the girls placed him, and they all looked forward to him coming in on a Friday to pick up his paycheck or popping in to pester them about when he might get "hired on" at the college. At such times, all work would stop and there would be good natured chatter between them.

And then it happened: Tommy told us that his supervisor had offered him a "permanent" job. He would go on the customer's payroll and thereby have work through the summer and beyond until he graduated. The girls congratulated him and wished him well, remarking after he left how they were going to miss seeing him.

A day later I received a phone call from one of the college Vice Presidents: "I want Tommy out of here. I don't know how this happened, but he is not supposed to be anywhere on this campus except his classrooms. He has no business in the cafeteria or anywhere else."

Stunned, I asked what had happened and learned that Tommy had been attending the college on a prison release program. He had served three years in a State prison for the violent assault and rape of a co-ed. He had broken into a dormitory of a college he was not attending and brutally attacked a Resident Assistant, someone he apparently didn't even know.

The caller then told me about his former colleague at the college, a man who worked in the personnel office for several years and then moved to a "better" job at a business downstate. As all H.R. people must, that man occasionally had to lay off or terminate employees, and one of those terminations at this new "better" job returned to the work site with a gun and killed him. "So please do not tell Tommy that I called you."

I assured the caller that I would terminate Tommy - would simply tell him there was some reorganization and "the college" realized they could not hire anyone new at the moment - and I would certainly get to the bottom of how Tommy managed to be hired by us.

For several minutes, I sat at my desk absorbing what had just transpired, then called staff together and told them about the phone call. Faces went ashen, then the interviewer who had hired Tommy said she had checked references and they were fine. She couldn't believe what I was saying.

I decided to check the references myself, calling on the pretense that I had just interviewed Tommy and was considering him for a job: "He seems like a good kid. What can you tell me about him?" I asked. As the interviewer had said, Tommy's references were good - although knowing what I knew, I could see that one of them was undoubtedly covering for that three-year stretch of time when he was in prison. The "reference" was supposedly a self-employed contractor, but I suspect he was simply Tommy's friend or relative. "He was a good worker. He worked on and off when I needed him for big jobs. He's a good guy." Another reference was more recent and raved about Tommy. Tommy had "kept the books" for her at the tiny corner grocery, a grocery that I'd always suspected of dealing in more than food...

I called Tommy and broke the news that not only would he not be hired on by my customer, but that because the semester had ended, his assignment with us was also finished. He took the news cheerfully, thanked me for the job, and was in every way a complete gentleman. He never asked why, and so I did not offer reasons - although I was prepared to. I told him I would mail him his final paycheck so he wouldn't need to stop in the office for it.

What he had been convicted of is awful, and I certainly can't excuse his deceitful dealings with my business, but it also rankled me a bit that the college was willing to take his tuition money without allowing him any of the usual "privileges" that come with that purchase. It seemed to me that either he was dangerous or he wasn't. Why would it be okay to let him into a classroom but not a cafeteria?

Three years later I hired an acquaintance to patch some brick-work on the front of my building. The fellow was a member of A.A. ("Hello. My name is Jim and I'm an alcoholic.") He said he'd bet I meet all kinds of people in my work, to which I responded with a couple of stories, one of them the veiled story of Tommy, of course leaving out the names and specifics. Suddenly the brick-layer stopped me: "Wait a minute. I know who you're talking about. That's Tommy. I know him and I know that story. I know it because we used to be drinking buddies and I was with him that night. Tommy was so drunk that there's no way he physically could have done it. He passed out. The cops picked him up near the college. He was framed."
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2007-09-18T07:53:00.000-04:00

Who's the Bigger...?

(This is story #6 of my employment stories. For an introduction to these stories, click here. Other stories are below this post.)

We had a deal. They didn't waste my time; I did what I could to place their people: Probation and Parole respected that arrangement because their populations didn't have many good options, and I'd worked in the so-called "justice system" myself once upon a time, my heart a bit soft for people trying to climb out of holes.

Jack was the first parolee I placed, so he had to be a good gamble. Stick a customer with a guy with a criminal record and no desire to straighten out, and you'd never get the chance to do any future sticking. Jack's parole officer truly believed that what his "client" really needed was a chance to prove he was worth something, and so I hired him. There was only one customer willing to ride that horse with me, but all it took was one, and so Jack began gainful employment.

Three days later I was manning the front desk at the office. Myra was in an adjoining office interviewing a guy whose claim to fame was being a carnie; Jane was out of harm's way back in the accounting area. Suddenly there was the sound of the downstairs door banging and someone coming rapidly up the steps, stomping down the hall, and then our door burst open, presenting an obviously furious man of about 25.

"I want a job!" he yelled. "You gave my brother a job, and I need a job! You gave my brother a job, and he's a bigger crook than me!"

The guy was irate. He cussed me up and down, the gist of it being that I was an idiot for hiring his brother. If I understood his logic, I should have hired him, the lesser crook, instead - even though this was my first knowledge of his existence.

Meanwhile, the carnie in the next room rose to his feet and asked Myra if she wanted him to "take care of that guy out there." Somehow she managed to convince him to stay put, possibly helped by the fact that I jumped to my feet, drew up all of my 5'2" of red-haired height and started around the desk toward Mr. Wonderful, loudly proclaiming that when he had a parole officer who would vouch for his hirability, I would consider him, but until then, he had better get the hell out of my office.

Lucky for me he retreated, shouting obscenities all the way down the stairs, and the office settled back to relative peace and quiet.

Jack, by the way, was successful in the job and as far as I know has never been in any further trouble.
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2007-09-16T21:43:00.000-04:00

Older Professions

(This is story #5 of my employment stories. For an introduction to these stories, click here. Other stories are below this post.)

The toughest day of the week was Friday. Others might chant “TGIF!” but I just tried to keep my nose to the grindstone and my shoulder to the wheel, plodding through the interviews so that they would be finished in time to get to the week’s lay-offs and firings before throwing together a late dinner. Saturdays and Sundays I’d be phoning potential hires, trying to make the placements that would begin working at 7 AM on Monday.

The State Job Service provided space for me to interview applicants. In the early days they also administered the tests required of electronics assemblers. I’d show up as they were concluding, look quickly at the test results, and begin interviewing. Eight was always the number scheduled, but there were usually as many walk-in referrals whom I would screen and then perhaps schedule for the next week’s test.

On one morning when I’d arrived well ahead of schedule, one such walk-in approached me. I invited her to the applicants’ chair before getting close enough to get a whiff of her. Bad body odor wasn't often the reason for not hiring someone, but it occasionally caused me to do a bit of pre-hire counselling, and occasionally there was a stinky worker – someone already hired who just didn’t bathe often enough or maybe couldn’t afford deoderant or perhaps simply didn’t have running water at home – and I’d have to have a talk with him or her about the problem. Those were never easy chats, but they could save an otherwise good prospect from being passed over, or keep an otherwise good worker from losing a job.

On this Friday, though, it was her breath that I could smell, and the smell was reminiscent of the old drunken roommate on the morning after: stale smoke and alcohol in a combination that was just downright nasty. And it was nine o’clock in the morning. She handed me a completed application, I gave a cursory interview then told her I would be in touch if it seemed she was the best qualified applicant for a job matching her skills. Dutiful, honest, legal, and at worst I had wasted ten minutes.

She rose and left, and I then turned to Sheila, the youngish Job Service clerk, and said, “Phew! A bit of alcohol on that one.” to which Sheila replied, “Oh yeah, she spends her mornings down at Campy’s Bar giving blow jobs to the old guys.” “EEEEeeewwwww!” I replied, “You mean that wasn’t alcohol on her breath?!?!”

Heaven help me, I thought, if I ever have a job opening for which she is the most qualified applicant. And if I did, what Worker’s Comp code would it be? What industry?? How would I determine the prevailing wage???

It was the beginning of a very long Friday.
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2007-09-15T21:36:00.000-04:00

Alice in ...Wonderland?

(This is story #4 of my employment stories. For an introduction to these stories, click here. Other stories are below this post.)

I offered her the job. To be honest, I was new at this hiring business, and she fit my naïve mental picture of a “light assembly” worker. Alice was middle-aged and had “been around” a variety of blue-collar jobs. Rough around the edges, she was tough-talking but friendly, knew how to schmooze, and it was obvious that her mama didn’t raise no fool. I wouldn’t have to worry about her, she assured me. She’d be there early. She knew how to work. Not like the goddam kids today. Why, she could teach them a thing or two.

“Can you start on Monday morning at seven?”

“I could start right now,” she replied with a wry smile.

On Monday, the call came in mid-morning. All four of the new hires were on the job, but one – Alice - had been late.

I called her that evening to see what had happened and to reiterate the importance of being at work on time.

“I had a flat tire,” she bellowed into the phone. “How can you get a goddam tire fixed at six in the morning? I showed my supervisor, but she didn’t care!” (And in fact, she had literally dragged her supervisor out of the plant to the lot where her pick-up was parked and pointed to a “flat” tire in its bed).

These things can happen, and so I sympathized with her misfortune and again reminded her how necessary it was to be on time from now on.

“Well I can’t help a goddam tire!” she repeated. “What the hell was I supposed to do? You can’t get a tire fixed at six in the morning.”

“Okay, Alice, no, you couldn’t help that. I hope tomorrow goes better.”

It didn’t. Tomorrow she didn’t show up at all, and when I called her home to see where she was, she yelled into the phone, “A goddam tree fell on my trailer! What was I supposed to do? Go to work?? I mean a goddam tree fell on my trailer, for chrissake.”

On day three she wasn’t on the job either. “I had to take my disabled daughter to the doctor in Syracuse, for chrissake. What was I supposed to do? I mean I’m her mother and she got sick and I had to take her to the goddam doctor.”

“Alice,” I said, “It sounds like you have too many problems in your life right now, so how about if you call me when things settle down and you are able to go to work.”

An indignant tirade followed in which she repeated all the excuses of the previous days, punctuated with the same chrissakes and goddams in exactly the same places. I got the sense these excuses had seen a lot of use over the years.

I never heard from Alice again, but months later I read about her in the newspaper. Using several aliases, she had defrauded the county welfare department, and using some gasoline, she had staged an “accidental” fire that destroyed her trailer. No doubt it was the same trailer the goddam tree fell on. Apparently the disabled daughter was out of harm’s way, probably sitting in the pickup truck with the goddam flat tire in its bed, for chrissake. Alice went to goddam jail.
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2007-09-13T14:04:00.000-04:00

Who Would Show Up?

(This is story #3 of my employment stories. For an introduction to these stories, click here. Other stories are below this post.)

It was the end of the day, but sure, I would interview one more - Claire. Chris, the Job Service counsellor, said she had some electronics assembly experience and maybe I could use her. His weary expression might have suggested to me that he didn't really think so, but I always took his referrals.

I greeted her and offered the chair, my eyes quickly skimming over her application papers as I sat down, but before I had a chance to even engage in some warm-up small talk, Claire began spilling the information she could not contain.

He had beaten her so bad, so bad she threw up, and then, while she was wretching into the toilet, he pissed on her. And then he beat her again. And again. Within thirty seconds of our meeting, Claire told me - a complete stranger, a possible employer - the intimate details of criminal abuse and pathetic submission. Everything about her was beaten down, like the worn once grassy short-cut people take across a lawn to save going to the corner. There was no life, no resillience left. Despite her statements that all of these things were behind her now, her eyes were dull and unable to meet mine, her mousy brown hair as limp as her spirit. I placed the application quietly on my desk and just listened.

"But that's all behind me now," she said at last, "and I'm ready to go to work." Of course that wasn't true, for if it had been, she wouldn't have spilled her guts to me as she had done. I thanked her for talking with me and gave the usual line about keeping her application in case I had an opening for which she was the best match.

For weeks thoughts of Claire would come back to me at unexpected times, her vivid descriptions haunt me. I'd seen the scars of abuse before, but this woman had described the wounds so clearly, in such detail, and she had poured out her heart to me as though I was a trusted friend.

Months passed. I hired Jane, a part-time assistant to do payroll and help man the office. One Thursday afternoon Jane handed me the list of people she had scheduled for Job Service testing and interviews for the next day, and I saw Claire's name.

"Oh dear," I said, "Of course you couldn't have known, but I've already 'interviewed' her, and she's not someone I can hire. No matter, I'll interview her again. Who knows, maybe her life has changed."

The next day, I arrived at the Job Service and took a peek into the testing room, but I didn't see Claire. As expected, there were eight people, and several of them were women, but none was the person I remembered so clearly.

I conducted three interviews, and then an enthusiastic, curly-haired blonde handed me her application and took the applicant's chair. The name on her papers was Claire. I took a double-take. This couldn't be the same mousy woman I had met previously. Her body language was confident, even jaunty; she was positively pretty.

The interview began to have a "Twilight Zone" feel to it as I realized that she had worked at Black and Decker and at Campbell, two of the same places the other Claire said she had worked. Finally I couldn't continue without addressing the situation.

"Claire," I said, "This is so strange. Months ago I interviewed someone who had the exact same name as you - but didn't look like you. This other Claire was not someone I was able to hire because she had some serious troubles in her life at the time. I would like to offer you a job, but this is just so strange... You not only have the same name as this other person, but you have worked in two of the same places!"

Claire lowered her eyes and said, "Well, there was a girl who lived with me for awhile, and she used my I.D."

"Oh my God. You mean she pretended to be you?" Claire continued to look at the floor and gave a slight sort of "strange things happen" smile. "Well, no wonder I was confused!" I said. And I asked her if she could begin work the next week.

When Claire left, I asked the Job Service clerk to pull all the information they had on both of the Claires. "Oh, there's only one," she replied. Incredulous, I said, no, there had to be two. "No, she completely changes every so often, but there's only one."

I believe I had interviewed a schizophrenic. Two of her. Unfortunately, I had to call her later that evening and rescind the job offer. There was no way of knowing which Claire would come to work.
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2007-09-12T07:40:00.000-04:00

Fairy Tales May Come True, It Can Happen to You...

(This is story #2 of my employment stories. For an introduction to these stories, click here. Other stories are below this post.)

She hadn’t ever really had a paying job, but it seemed to me that she had worked. By the time she turned seventeen, marriage and babies ended whatever educational aspirations she might have had, and now at 27 she said (in so many words) she wanted to contribute to her family’s ability to live better. Her name was Cinderella. Cinderella Hotchkiss.

On first impression there was something about her that I liked. Maybe going through life poor and living in the back woods with that name had given her a sense of humor, the ability to cope with adversity. Maybe it was that look of determination in her eyes.

No coach nor fancy footmen had this Cinderella. In fact, she didn’t even have a driver’s license. No matter, she assured me confidently. Her husband would drive her to wherever the job was, and if he couldn’t, her mother would. (How many times before had I heard promises like these, believed them, and got screwed by day two of the job? Porcine flight has greater probability.)

Worst of all, she had not done well on the manual dexterity testing. That was hard to overlook, but I knew that my customer sometimes had a need for packers, and that job called for energy and a good attitude in greater measure than fine motor skills. Maybe she could fit in somewhere.

Her gown was denim, and that was in fashion at this electronics manufacturer’s ball. I stole a peek under the desk… good…her slippers were canvas - practical, no glass in sight.

Across from where I sat, Cinderella’s eyes looked at me with a sincerity and eagerness that was refreshing, and despite all the reasons I could see for not hiring her, I wanted to.

“I’ll be there and I’ll do a good job if you hire me. I want to work. I won’t let you down.” (Please stop saying that, I thought. Please stop reminding me how dumb it would be to offer you a job.)

And so I told her that I didn’t know if my customer would be willing to give someone a try without at least a “medium” score on the testing, but I would ask, and I would let her know. She left and I continued interviewing the remaining candidates, thankful that a few of them had high scores and some history of employment.

But how could I not take a chance on someone whose very name conjured up images of fairytale castles and living happily ever after? Okay, so that didn’t fit with the “hire with your head, not with your heart” philosophy, but I was also desperate for enough qualified workers to fill the job orders lying on the desk in front of me, and at the end of the day I called the customer who had always been the most reasonable to work for.

“Wayne,” I said, “I’ve got someone I want you to try. She scored low on the testing, she doesn’t drive but swears she’ll get to work on time and always, and her name is Cinderella.” There was a beat of silence and then Wayne laughed and replied, “Sure, why not? We’ve already got Grumpy, Dopey and Sleepy here, so she’ll probably fit right in.”

And she did. After working on my payroll for eight weeks, she was hired by my customer and worked there for over a year. Eventually I lost track of her, but I’ll never forget Cinderella and my gratitude for her and for workers like her, workers who made my own business shine.

2007-09-09T20:50:00.000-04:00

Tell Me What You Like to Do

(This is story #1 of my employment stories. For an introduction to these stories, click here.)

He was a man of few words and sullen stares. The size of his hands told me he wasn’t likely to be good at working with tiny electronic components, but hand size wasn’t something you could pre-screen for when somebody called and said they were looking for a job. Ditto the stares.

I guess you could say that terseness defined him, for his written answers in the application’s blanks were few and far between and tended toward one-word summations. He had apparently finished high school (but didn’t say where) and had been in the army (again, no details). There was no indication of any work history in the fifteen years since. Even the “position desired” question was unanswered.

I worked my way through the application, verifying his address and asking for his telephone number, learning that he had done “odd jobs” and that he didn’t care what kind of work he got.

“You haven’t put anything here on this line where it asks what your interests and hobbies are,” I said with an encouraging smile.

Another stare, and then he replied, “Whattya mean?”

“Well, some people like sports or listening to music or working on cars or whatever. You know, what do you like to do when you aren’t working?”

Silence. And then his eyes met mine and he said slowly and deliberately, “Killing people is my specialty, and I’m very good at it.”

I chuckled (trying to act nonchalant and as though he had been joking) and replied, “Well, I guess everybody’s good at something!. … So… John… do you have transportation?” and I gradually concluded the interview so as not to appear intimidated.

I rose and extended my hand to shake his but was un-met. As he walked away, I made the coded notation for “Do Not Hire,” and I thought that he was probably an honest man. His specialty was killing people, and he was probably good at it because you had to be if you survived Vietnam, and it would haunt the rest of his days.
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2007-09-08T22:50:00.000-04:00

Workin’ On a Chain Gang

It’s called “Human Resources,” and it’s a sort of slave trade that I was involved in for many years.

Per Webster’s Ninth:

.......Human: 1: of, relating to, or having the characteristics of man
.......2: consisting of men 3: having human form or attributes.
.......(Hmmmm….. WOMEN are not mentioned by Webster…)

.......Resources: 1: a source of supply or support; an available means
.......2: a natural source of supply or revenue 3: an ability to meet
.......and handle a situation (I left out some obviously irrelevant
.......meanings)

Loosely translated, then, my job was to find creatures having human form, who had some ability to meet and handle a particular job situation. Most of the jobs paid low on the wage scale and did not require any formal education beyond high school. My tasks were to advertise and recruit, phone screen, test for physical ability to do the work (eye-hand coordination, fine motor skills), interview and then offer employment (or a plausible excuse for not hiring), and make appropriate job placements.

I flew by the seat of my pants, not having any actual training or experience in H.R., frustrated (or, conversely, buoyed up) by the fact that the ideal candidate hardly ever existed. The goal was to hire the best available, and when you met the range of possibilities, "best available" sometimes became clear by elimination of whom you would NOT want to hire. Okay, so I’m exaggerating a little, but sometimes it resembled the physician’s creed: First do no harm - don't hire the alcoholic, the violent, the irresponsible, the crook.

During those years I met some noble, hard-working, good people. I also met some of the scum of the earth. I met the working poor – people who will struggle all their lives at pay rates below a living wage. I met people down on their luck (often perennially). In total, these folks were the Americans vying with their unfortunate Chinese or Mexican counterparts to produce the lowest cost electronic toys we all love and want.

My work was not without joys and satisfactions. A job of any kind can be the leg up a person needs, it can be the first step to exiting a bad marriage, the extra money to see a family through a rough patch. It can help define a career, a path in life. A job – even a low-wage, entry-level job - can bring self-confidence and a sense of pride for some people. I offered an opportunity to men and women who had few such; not a great opportunity, but a first (or sometimes last) chance to get on the ladder and start moving up.

This is the context of my next few posts. They are going to be stories from the interviewer's side of the desk, stories I could never invent. The first one begins above this post.

2007-09-06T13:11:00.000-04:00

Let's Go Canoeing!

One enjoyment of the Labor Day weekend was a five-hour paddle up the St. Regis River from the tiny hamlet of Santa Clara. Our canoe is a wonderful 39# Wenonah Jensen, designed for touring and speed rather than for cargo and stability. It is a delight to paddle, and we launched at about noon on Sunday.

At the launching site there is a weatherproof wooden log-box where we signed in and indicated our intentions ("canoe up river") and length of stay ("a few hours"). The river is wide here and the current not too strong. Ducks and great blue herons nervously took to the air as we paddled past them.

About a mile or so upstream the river makes a sharp bend to the right and then again to the left, and from there on it begins to narrow and meander.

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There were two possible landing places for lunch, a rocky outcropping that seemed to have a small landing beside it, and a sandy shore. We chose the latter and put in for our picnic. ..

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Soon well-fed and back in the canoe, we surprised a muskrat. (You can just see his head near the center of the next photo).

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As the terrain flattens a bit, the river divides into several channels, in the process of making the ever so gradual natural change from navigable stream to eventual bog. The main course is swift-flowing and often longer than alternative routes, so we chose to try paddling through some of the shallows, often feeling our paddles gently bump the thick plants and even the bottom at times. We quickly learned which water plants grow in the shallowest places.

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In these shallows, the minnows are found. We saw thousands of them, most about an inch or two in length, and then we were surprised to spot this: (click on the photo for a slightly better look)

We maneuvered the canoe closer so that I might get a photo of his front end, but when the canoe paddle accidentally clunked against the boat, he vanished in cloud of silt, gone to take refuge far from the floating golden menace.

A shrill "klee! klee!" above us announced the arrival of a large hawk. Holding onto some vegetation to keep us from being carried back downstream, we watched him circle and soar until an updraft carried him up and away out of our sight.

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The channel was narrow now and the current swift. About three hours had passed since leaving Santa Clara, and we had seen no other human beings except a man and a woman fishing from a rock not far from the launch. They would be the only people we would encounter during our five-hour paddle.

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Tired - and noting the sun's position - we turned around, smiling at the knowledge that the rest of the trip would be downstream and with the wind at our backs,
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but even with the cooperation of current and wind, we began to believe that someone had moved the launch site a couple of miles farther downstream than it was when we set out. We were weary!
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Finally back on dry land, the boat on top of the car, we headed to our favorite watering hole, the Casa del Sol in Saranac Lake. After tamales del dia and enchiladas, we drove the long ride home, tired but still glowing with the delights of the day. .

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I hope you have enjoyed our paddle. Thanks for keeping your weight centered and not tipping us over!

2007-08-31T08:39:00.000-04:00

Joys and Trials

I swore I'd never do a meme, but one probably should never say never. (I probably shouldn'ta swore either, but "should" and "shouldn't" have never been guiding principles for me). Confused? I am. What were we talking about??

Oh, yes. To get to the point, a few days ago Em tagged me with the "Joys and Trials Meme" and I have been thinking about what that means ever since. Here are the rules:

"You have to use your own belief system for the meme.
No fair using someone else’s to make a joke or satire.
Being humorous about your own religion is encouraged!
You have to have at least one joy and one trial. More are encouraged. And no, they don’t have to be equal in length, but please be honest.
You have to tag at least one other person. More are appreciated!
Please post these rules!"

I have to admit that I’m not exactly sure what this meme is really asking. I’ve visited a couple of the former tag-ee’s sites, and they seem to have answered in religious/spiritual terms. Unfortunately, it has been so long since I gave serious thought to just what my "religion" is, that I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around a clear enough picture of my spirituality to couch my answer to the meme appropriately. If I base my reply on my heart's feelings (rather than what might be my "soul's") then my Joys list includes (not necessarily in this order nor limited to):

Nature – living things, beauty, weather
My family
People (or at least "good" people)
Music
Going outside naked when it’s warm and windy
Words, images, songs
Love
Good food and wine
Laughter and having fun

and my Trials list includes (not necessarily in this order nor limited to):

Nature – in particular, rats, voles, raccoons, woodchucks, hail, lightning and high winds, potato blight, Japanese Beetles, and sometimes deer
My family
People
The world
The degradation of nature
Fundamentalists of any sort
War and hatred and greed

A bit of background: My father was agnostic, my mother a Baptist. I was raised in her Baptist faith, but eventually decided that his agnosticism made more sense. Husband (who is Jewish) and I say grace every night, a grace that I learned when I was a young child and just never stopped saying:

We thank you for the food we eat,
We thank you for the friends we meet,
Thank you for our work and play,
And help us to be good all day. Amen.

It is perhaps an odd little ritual for two quite ripe adults, and it’s the only "religious" thing we do, but in its simplistic lines the basics are contained: thankfulness and the acknowledgement that being and doing good is right and proper.

I say this grace not because I believe in prayer as a way of communicating with a listening God (I don't), but as a reminder to myself of how fortunate I am and what I believe my human responsibilities ought to be. Grace is often followed by one of us asking the other (with a smile), “So, were you good today?” and then dinner is consumed as we discuss the events, experiences, accomplishments and trials of our respective days.

There are times when I feel that I am not a spiritual person at all. My belief that whatever power created this vast existence is unknowable is simply a rational thought. If that is the yang of me, then my yin is the deeply passionate belief that there is a purpose, a reason for and a connectedness of everything in the universe, not one living creature better, more important or chosen than another. In that context, my Joys list becomes:

The beauty and wonders of Mother Nature
The peace and happiness Love brings
The lessons of Time and Experience
The excitement of Creativity and Artistic Expression
The enrichment of my life by Friends, human and animal

And my Trials can be summed up in one:

People. Our arrogant, greedy, destructive, self-centered, irreverence for each other and – above all – for Mother Nature and all she encompasses, that which gave us life and sustains us. I am despondent over the degradation of the planet and the fact that so few people living today understand or care about the interconnectedness of the lives of humans with everything natural surrounding us. "Progress" and "economic growth" demand that we work to obliterate our very sustenance.

Yet, is there a god reigning over all that IS? Maybe. It does seem to me that there has to be some great unknowable power behind the mystery, but as Iris DeMent sings,

Everybody's wonderin' what and where they all came from.
Everybody's worryin' 'bout where they're gonna go when the whole thing's done.
But no one knows for certain and so it's all the same to me.
I think I'll just let the mystery be.

Thanks, Em, for giving me the opportunity to stand on my little soapbox for a few moments. I'm not sure I have answered appropriately, but I was honest. I tag Crabby - if she wants to accept the tag - (giving her full permission, if I may, to move the discussion away from the spiritual if she wants to...), and I leave you with this.

2007-08-30T12:21:00.000-04:00

Air Time
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Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On jupiter and mars
..................(Lyrics credited to Frank Sinatra)
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Being a grandparent allows you to do some things you might otherwise miss out on. Last weekend we took Grandson (age 5) to Ottawa to see an air show featuring old and "antique" planes. There were also a number of beautifully restored antique cars.
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There were many other people armed with cameras - some with obviously expensive gear - snapping photos left and right. It was easy to see that most of them were plane-lovers taking pictures... while I was a photographer who saw this as an opportunity to take pictures of a different sort of subject than often crosses my path.
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Here, for your viewing pleasure (I hope), is a peek at some of what we enjoyed. Not being an airplane buff, I have not supplied names and descriptions for most of the craft, but I hope you like this little "album" in which I tried to capture some of the beauty of carefully tended, old machinery. Yes, every one of them flew.
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. Click on any photo for a better look.

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......................................Rain threatened but never materialized.
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.............This Seabee's propeller is behind the cockpit.
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. .....Uh, why are the "Mis -Terris" of the world always redheads...?

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.......... A 1920's era Franklin beside several SeaBees
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The show took place at an aeronautical museum, so of course we also spent time inside. I'll post those photos on another day. Right now I'm feeling that I need to look at something green and living...
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2007-08-28T09:49:00.000-04:00

Eclipsed

It was 2:30 in the morning. The alarm clock had been set for 2:45 but was rendered unnecessary by my own internal clock. I tip-toed to the spare bedroom for a good look at the full moon, but was disappointed to find it obscured by some wispy mare’s tail clouds, and I returned to bed. At 3:30, by my calculation still 24 minutes before the earth’s shadow would begin crossing the moon, the clouds had cleared and I got up and dressed for moon-watching.

The camera and tripod were waiting on the front porch, the remote shutter release by the door. The moon was so bright that no other light was necessary for me to make my way out from the shadows and into the moonlit front yard.

I could see a problem immediately: the moon was already low on the horizon. And then another problem: there was no sign of any dark, curved shadow on its beaming face. Was this the night after all? Thoughts of Karan and Shaman flashed through my mind, thoughts that they too would be up and outside… waiting…watching… waiting…

Inside the house again, I turned on the computer and checked the NASA website. It did say “The event begins 54 minutes past midnight PDT on August 28th when the Moon enters Earth's shadow. At first, there's little change.” Okay, 12:54 Pacific Daylight Time should be 3:54 AM Eastern Daylight Time… but then below the written descriptions of a full lunar eclipse was a timetable showing this:

..........................August 28, 2007, Total Lunar Eclipse

Time Zone............. Total Eclipse Begins.............Total Eclipse Ends

EDT (Eastern)................0552AM................................0722AM

Rats! Here I am all dressed up and no place to go for another two hours!! Why hadn’t I read this website all the way through?!?

I made myself a small bowl of granola, figuring I might as well have some sustenance as compensation for a lost night’s sleep.

Worst of all, I had told Shaman to get up by 3:54 too. I wondered what poem might come to her as she pondered why the clear sky held just another empty full (and of course beautiful) moon. Coyotes weren’t even howling. Maybe they had enough sense to be sleeping.

.....Fee fi fo fum
.....Sometimes wizards can be dumb

At five A.M. there was finally the hint of an arching shadow across the top of the moon – a moon which was now sinking low toward the horizon. I wondered if it would still be in view an hour from now when it would be reflecting all the great colors.

I took a few pictures as the shadow progressed, but soon the moon began to disappear behind the tree-tops on my horizon.

My bed beckoned and I answered its call as daylight began to overpower moon-glow.

At 6:28 A.M, this arrived from Shaman:

Lunar Eclipse

Chased the moon
around the house,
then around the yard,
got on my bike too,
but alas
I was eclipsed
by trees and time.

2007-08-25T06:29:00.000-04:00

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In Tune

I heard it in the wind last night,
It sounded like applause.
Did you get a round resounding for you
Way up here?
It seems like many dim years ago
Since I heard that face to face,
Or seen you face to face,
Though tonight I can feel you here.
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.............Excerpted from Joni Mitchell’s “For the Roses”

I picked up my dulcimer last night. Light shining into it through one of the heart-shaped sound-holes illuminated the penciled signature of its maker on the inside of the back piece: Dennis Dorogi Brockton NY March 14, 1972.
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I’ve played a number of dulcimers over the years, but none compares to mine’s rich, mellow tone. Dennis is/was a superb craftsman, and he built his dulcimers from old barn wood. The cherry in this instrument was already aged for perhaps a hundred years before Dennis worked with it in 1972. The one I bought was his cheapest model (all I could afford at that time), its lower price reflecting a lack of carved or inlaid ornamentation, not a lesser sound or structural quality. It also came unfinished. I had to do the finish sanding and apply a light oil to it myself.
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I strummed out a little of “Pack Up Your Sorrows” and “Carey”, then picked and sang the beginning of “Vincent” (Starry, Starry Night) – stopped by the realization that the diminished chord at “but on that starry, starry night, when no hope was left in sight” isn’t to be found on a dulcimer fret board. Joni Mitchell’s “California” didn’t sound half-bad despite my rusty voice. The chords I had once figured out and known so well came back to me with surprising ease.
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Encouraged, I opened my guitar case and pulled out the beautiful old Martin D18 (eat your hearts out, bluegrassers!). The softness of my once-calloused fingers was immediately evident. Damn. This would be painful. My right hand was stiff and awkward, so I strummed and sang the first two lines of John Prine’s

“I just found out yesterday that Linda goes to Mars
Every time I sit and look at pictures of used cars
She'll turn on her radio and sit down in her chair
And look at me across the room, as if I wasn't there
Oh My stars! My Linda's gone to Mars
Well I wish she wouldn't leave me here alone
Oh My stars! My Linda's gone to Mars
Well, I wonder if she'd bring me something home,”

but then bagged it and travis-picked my way through “Sound of Loneliness” instead (because there aren’t any high notes, and because I think my voice has about as much “lilt” these days as Prine with a Sunday morning hangover). Husband cheered me on, maybe enjoying his own memories of our early days together, a time when I sang fairly regularly in a downtown coffeehouse, maybe secretly gritting his teeth at the degeneration of my music but knowing how much it still means to me.
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I sang “Follow Me”, the voice and fingers cooperating enough to bring a smile to my face. There are a few songs that always remind me of my partner in music way back when, and “Follow Me” is definitely one of them. Mentally I turned back the clock and considered some of the Richard Farina songs we used to do, but I had put the dulcimer back in its case, so instead launched into “Lyin’ Eyes” (but had trouble remembering a chord progression in the chorus) and then another John Prine/Steve Goodman tune, “Souvenirs”, saying “Take it, Steve!” when I came to the break, and laughing at my clumsy picking.

I sang “Circle Game” and some of “Both Sides Now”, then bits and pieces of a Nanci Griffith tune, “There’s a Light Beyond These Woods”, squeezing my left hand hard against the guitar neck for the four-finger and bar chords, too often missing the frets’ sweet spot.

Finally, fingers sore and voice spent, I put the guitar back in its case. I entertained the thought of doing this much more often, of actually practicing. I thought of my musical old friend. We’ve kept in touch, and in fact, he’s about to take off for Ireland to teach a workshop in “American Fiddling Styles” to some folks who have bow rosin in their DNA. (If they were interested, he could also teach them a few things on the mandolin, banjo, guitar and autoharp). What would he think if he saw my stiff hands and heard my cracking voice? And what would he say if he saw the aging strings on my beautiful instruments? I winced.

“Between the soft fingers and the arthritis, this is quite a challenge,” I said as I snapped the clasps on the guitar case and set the dulcimer aside. Husband replied, “That was great – the best, well no, maybe the second best entertainment there is.” We laughed, turned out the lights and climbed the stairs to bed.
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2007-08-23T10:10:00.000-04:00

Tied to a Post

Sweet memory images
of a voice recalled,
a touch remembered,
given blog voice,
and then I toss, sleepless,
reliving the warm
rose-colored view
of years ago,
the intensity
of those feelings
surprising
my
heart
with the strength
of their grasp.

Comments flatter and touch
as others dream back
their own memories buried.
We all steep in
my creation’s spell,
a universal heart
beating for passions past
or love lost,
until Today’s comfort,
Age’s mellowing
and Now’s love
hold sway,
and I write again,
a new post
releasing me
to resume
my life.
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......finspired by "As Time Goes By" posted 8/17/07 and several of you who left comments

2007-08-22T11:18:00.000-04:00

Gimme Shelter

I recently visited two buildings.

The first photo shows a ceiling in the Great Hall of the Museum of Man in Gatineau (also known as Hull, the French side of Ottawa). Soaring, lofty, colorful, beautiful, and certainly not of the "everyday", this is a very wonderful place.

This second photo is of a place I stopped a day later in northern N.Y. Simple, functional, colorful and beautiful in its own way. Here is a home built in the style commonly seen in my part of the world, and this one happens to have been the boyhood home of "Farmer Boy", the husband of Laura Ingalls Wilder who wrote Little House on the Prairie.

I was alone here at the Wilder home because by the time I arrived the caretaker had gone home for the day. The late afternoon was quiet, lacking any sounds of civilization; moths and butterflies silently worked the wildflowers in the adjoining meadow. I walked down through the woods to the river, then returned to the house and peeked in the kitchen window at the dry sink, churn and other simple furnishings. Turning around, I spied a few cherries hanging red and shiny... and within reach... Eeeeewwwhh! Sour!!! (I guess that's what I deserve for pinching one of Almonzo's fruits).

Mankind is capable of some very nice work, and although I was awed by the beauty of the museum, I felt so very much at home at Almonzo's farm. Each building was carefully crafted, a monument to its era's artisans; the Wilder farmhouse has withstood the test of time, and I suspect that the museum's Great Hall will also.
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2007-08-17T11:00:00.000-04:00

As Time Goes By

She noticed he was different that first night on the bus - smarter, she thought, because of the book - and it drew her to him. They exchanged formal smiles and nods almost as dance partners might do in acknowledgment of the pleasure of a minuet just ended. A week later they were lovers.

The compatibility of their bodies amazed them and passion consumed them until their breathing slowed again, their flesh released them to consider what the rest of the night had to offer. Sometimes they would wash away the time’s separation in the shower, his strong arms lifting her to him as the sides of the metal stall rumbled thunder and the steamy spraying water poured over them; on other nights they rolled in a cool ménage a trois with the spring breeze that stole softly in through the window above his mattress.

They were lovers, though love was never spoken of. They even made a point of saying, “I like you,” as they lay together, a joking reference to the respect each of them had for the seriousness of love.

He brought her to jazz, to the Wade in the Water of Oscar Petersen, the rich vocals of Lou Rawls. Rochester was a music town, and after formal concerts ended, traveling jazz greats of the day found their way to Doug Duke’s tiny club down at Charlotte beach. The place would start jumping around midnight, and he'd bring her there, as much being part of the scene as taking it in. Heads turned and old men smiled recognition as they made their way to a table near the stage so tiny that it felt as though Clark Terry or Marion McPartland or Coleman Hawkins might play just for them. Her own musical interests were baser. She sang him Pat Sky and Phil Ochs, vibrated his stereo speakers to Jefferson Airplane on those rare nights when they would just hang out at his place.

In the wee hours of the morning they would drive to Nick Tahou’s for the “garbage plate” or homefries. It was a tough neighborhood. There’d been murders there, so he’d go in while she waited in the old green station wagon he called “The Pickle.” Sometimes the weight of the food was more than the grease-soaked paper bag could hold, and it would lose its ketchup-laden load in the front seat as they laughed in greasy-chinned silliness. Then he’d drive her home, often as the night was giving way to sunrise.

The affair ended as suddenly as it began. They traded places, in a way, when he graduated and moved to Boston, and she left her job and enrolled in summer courses. He came back to visit a few weeks later, and things weren't the same.

They eventually loved and married well, though of course not each other, but for years each haunted the other’s dreams in the way a lover can. At times a song or an old photo still stirs the memories. They're good memories, memories of a searing yet tender affair, but when rational thought replaces the frivolous recall of fickle emotion, they both believe that it would not have been the right love, the love that sustains them now and has for so many years. It was a show in rehearsal, mis-cast, a film outdone by its sequel despite the enduring luster of its original players.

You must remember this,
A kiss is just a kiss,
A sigh is just a sigh.
The sentimental things apply
As times goes by.

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2007-08-16T07:24:00.000-04:00

.......................................Here's lookin' at you, kid...

2007-08-13T13:08:00.000-04:00

The Secret Lives of Animals...

This morning I was treated to a wonderful sight. In the corner of our freshly cut meadow, the white of a doe's tail caught my eye, flicking rapidly out of habit or perhaps necessity (although it seemed too early in the morning for the flies to be bothering her).

I went to the back porch for a better look, but the change in angle placed her out of my view, and instead, I spied her fawn in a bouncing game of "Herd the Turkeys!" Acting much like a border collie, this young Bambi was circling two dismayed gobblers, bouncing and dashing with a speed that had them completely befuddled and seemingly scared witless. Compared to their hysterical fits and starts and Keystone Kops collisions, the young deer was poetry in motion. I watched in amazed amusement.

After a minute or so, probably reacting to a call or signal from the doe, the fawn suddenly turned and bounded toward the corner of the meadow and then into the woods. Game over, the turkeys stood still as statues, apparently wondering what on earth they had just experienced.

And then life in the meadow returned to the normally peaceful quiet of an early summer morning.

2007-08-11T11:19:00.000-04:00

August

Yesterday I pushed aside weeds grown too tall and pulled the largest of the beets. Sitting on the porch steps, I lopped off their green tops, setting the youngest and most delicate aside for the freezer. Next came lots of washing and then, while I prepared the "pickle", simmering. Once cooked, the skins rub off and the remaining tops fall away, and they're ready to slice and put in jars, top up with the cooked vinegar/sugar/cinnamon, allspice mixture, cover with lids and their screw-on bands, and put into the water-bath canner. As I write this, there are 15 pints of pickled beets waiting to be labeled and put on shelves in the cellar.

Today I pulled the garlic. It sits in the sun, drying, soon to be stored away.

The corn is ripening; there are a couple of red tomatoes, chard and kale are keeping us in fresh greens, new carrots are being enjoyed.

This is August in the North Country.
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2007-08-06T08:43:00.000-04:00

Horse Crazy

I can’t remember when there weren’t horses in my life. I loved them always, from the time I could walk, and the evidence is still stuck to a pair of tiny brown and white leather saddle shoes my mother packed away with other souvenirs of my childhood. Most mothers would be loath to save horse manure, but my mother wasn’t like most.

In the evenings and on weekends, we would visit all the local stables, attend all the horse shows and come to know every local horse person - and horse - we encountered. I knew no fear of these big animals and lived for long Sunday afternoons when I’d sit on the hood of our old Chevy with its bumper up tight to some corral fence, watching the Pleasure Horse or Stock Horse classes and the Flag or Pick-up Race. I never tired of what someone once quipped was “a bunch of horses asses riding a bunch of horses asses” go around and around those rings.

When winter ended the outdoor riding season and darkness came early, our small family would eat dinner and then huddle close to the radio for episodes of Straight Arrow and his golden horse, Fury. My father read Red Ryder comics to me and then Will James’ book, Smoky the Cowhorse. We found two indoor riding rings to visit, quenching my thirst until spring.

By the time I was four, I had a “job” riding ponies. There was a circular, double-fenced enclosure about two miles from our house, and above its white painted gate a sign proclaimed PONY RIDES - 25¢. For a quarter (no small fee in those days), a kid could be put up on either Jingles or Trigger and - with the pony on a lead-rope - given three turns around the ring. My father took me there often, and we quickly endeared ourselves to the proprietor. At first I must have been led around, but soon I was off the lead and galloping. Kids passing by saw the commotion and begged their parents to stop their cars and let them ride, and when they did, I would have to relinquish my mount. Of course, the ponies walked sedately (and tiredly) with these “amateur” riders. When the crowds dwindled once again, I was lifted into the saddle, and with a hearty “heeawwww!” I took off with flying hooves and a wake of dust. The details of this activity were unknown to my mother who assumed that my tales of having to rein in “that ornery cayuse” had their root in a galloping imagination. One evening my father suggested that she come and watch me ride, and after nearly dropping the camera in her terrified shock, she documented my cowboy skills in Kodak home movies. The owner of the pony rides place knew good advertising when it galloped past him: my riding was free.

My own first horse was named Lady. She was a handsome bay mare (if you overlooked her stiff legs and slight limp) given to me by my mother’s childhood friend, Marion. Marion had a farm, but she and her husband had recently moved to the city, leaving Lady, but not the daily chore of feeding her. I was the answer: a horse-crazy kid whose parents had recently bought an old house and two acres of land. The amenities of that real estate included a small pasture and a shed containing a box stall, the perfect home for a sedate equine.

Lady was 13 – about twice my age. She had been a riding stable mount - a lousy life for any horse - until her legs gave out, and from there she was sent to a mink farm where she was destined to become sustenance for those poor animals on their way to giving up their hides to grace the shoulders of rich women. Somehow Marion had seen her there, and in exchange for a fin and the horse’s promise to safely entertain Marion’s children, Lady evaded the gun and the food bowl. Several years passed, and those children left the nest. On June 10, 1952, Lady was trucked to her new home at my house. I paid Marion my life’s savings of $6.00 for her, which probably covered the cost of the transportation.

How I loved that horse. She was my steed, my friend and confidant, and the passion of my young life.

The remarkable thing about this story is that my parents knew nothing about horses and had no interest in them. Perhaps on a Sunday drive we passed “El Rancho”, the stable where someone first plunked me on top of a horse, and it was love at first plunk, or maybe it was a picture in a book or a toy animal that first caused me to become horse crazy. Whatever it was, my parents supported my interest with countless hours of their time and with money they really didn’t have. In doing so, they gave me a gift beyond measure: I grew up believing that a passion was to be followed and that dreams could be realized.
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I guess I’ve written enough about this for now, so….. HEEAWWWW! C'mon, you ornery cayuse! Let's git to the ranch!
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2007-08-01T08:42:00.001-04:00

One... Singular Sensation...

(Begin with the right foot) BRUSH-BACK-STEP,

(now the left) BRUSH-BACK-STEP,

(right) BRUSH-BACK-STEP-(now step on the left!) STEP,

(now right again!) BRUSH-BACK-STEP.

(REPEAT!)

Thus began my dancing lessons, red-haired Miss Byrne calling out the instructions, and an ancient, stooped woman named Sylvia pounding an old, out of tune upright piano.

....(Up a steep and very narrow stairway,
.....To the voice like a metronome,
.....Up a steep and very narrow stairway,
.....It wasn't paradise...
.....It wasn't paradise...
.....It wasn't paradise...
.....But it was home)

The place was the "Val Mates School of Dance," up a long and very narrow stairway above a storefront on East Avenue. I was a very pigeon-toed, skinny kid, and my parents were hoping that dancing lessons would straighten out my feet.

.....(Dance: ten; Looks: three...)

True, Val Mates wasn't paradise, but neither was it anything like my home. The man Val Mates, though seldom seen, looked like his painted portrait on the sign that hung in the window, albeit a bit older: an oddly (to me at the time) pretty fellow with very curly hair slightly longer than was the masculine style of that day. The rest of the faculty was made up of women unlike any of my friends' mothers. Except for Miss Byrne and the grumpy-looking old pianist, they were bleached blondes, noticeably made up and wearing fishnet stockings, low-cut leotards and very short dance skirts. As young as I was (probably about eight), the prevailing lack of wholesomeness made an impression. This was a fascinating place.

.....(Give me somebody to dance for,
.....Give me somebody to show.
.....Let me wake up in the morning to find
.....I have somewhere exciting to go).

There was a small lobby with a curved black sort of desk/counter where you paid your money. The lights there were dim, and it was where The Blondes hung out when they weren't teaching in one of the two maple floored, mirrored studios. It didn't seem to me that pretty, freckle-faced Miss Byrne fit in there, and I must have been right, because one day she was gone. I arrived for my lessons, and she had been replaced by one of The Blondes.

Sylvia disappeared too. Her piano pounding was replaced by a small record player, one of those old 78 rpm portable models that looked like a small suitcase, the top unlatching and opening to expose the turntable and needle arm. Perhaps in boredom, perhaps for the shock value, The Blonde put a vinyl disk in place, turned it on, and proceeded to play the record using her long, red fingernail instead of the needle!!!

.....(Play me the music!
.....Play me the music!
.....Give me a chance to come through!
.....All I ever needed was the music and the mirror
.....And a chance to dance-- )

Not long after that, Miss Byrne called my mother. She had opened her own dance studio in the basement of her home, or more likely, her parents' home. I left Val Mates and resumed tap, acrobatic and ballet lessons next to a furnace beneath a low ceiling and neon lights, eventually graduating to "toe" (nowadays known as "on point") and modern jazz. I thought I had talent, and maybe that was why I didn't feel I needed to practice. (If I’m honest here, I guess I would have to admit to having more laziness than perceived talent). I'd gradually learn the numbers as new steps were added week after week, eventually suffering through each lesson as poor Miss Byrne must have suffered in teaching a student with little motivation. One day she announced that she was going to get married, and her underground dancing school closed.

My mother sought out other studios, and after a nasty encounter with a teacher who used my ponytail to yank me into a back-bend, I gave up all but the tapping and took dance in the home of a young man who was the nephew of our local town druggist. I’d ride my horse to his house for lessons, transforming from Annie Oakley to Bo Jangles and back in the space of an hour.

And then came hormones, Jr. High, and the realization that even if I wanted to be (which I didn't), I would never be a dancer.
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.....(Hello twelve,
.....Hello thirteen,
.....Hello love! )
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It was time to let my tap and toe shoes gather dust.
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.....(Everything was beautiful at the ballet.
.....Graceful men lift lovely girls in white.
.....Yes, everything was beautiful at the ballet.)

Well, not really everything. I had seen that.

I quit.

There was no reason to continue. My pigeon toes (the reason my parents sent me to dancing lessons) had straightened out, maybe (as hoped) from those many weeks of forcing them into first, second, third, fourth and fifth position. Or maybe it just would have happened anyway as I grew.

The many “routines” I’d learned were soon forgotten, but I can still do the steps – and sometimes do. The beauty of having had all those dancing lessons is that to this day I can still punctuate a wise-crack with a shuffle-ball-change.
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.....(And I can't forget, don't regret, what I did for ~~love~~ pigeon toes).

2007-07-29T07:49:00.000-04:00

Go Greased Lightning!

Living in the North Country, we’re more intimately connected to what the sky delivers than city folks are. A rainy day can spoil our picnic, but it can also make our garden lushly abundant; a rainy month can promote hoof rot and turn the basement into a pond. A hot day can be enjoyed at one of the many nearby lakes and rivers; a hot month can wither a crop and dry up a well.

This summer we have dodged quite a few bullets. The weather forecast has warned of thunderstorms with high winds and possible hail many times, but so far the storms have not materialized or they have passed around us.

Friday morning’s humidity and hot sun gave way to a dark mid-afternoon sky, followed in short order by white flashes to the west and the grumbling roll of thunder. Rain started to fall, carried by wind that quickly increased to a multi-directional frenzy, and soon torrents of sky-water and icy bullets were pelting the windows and bouncing off the patio and picnic table. Through it all I could see the corn and asparagus fronds swaying violently.

We were hit. The simultaneous CRACK/SNAP/BOOM told me so, but the power didn’t go out. Glad I had disconnected the computer and modem, I wondered if the horses were okay. They usually stand outside during a storm, maybe avoiding the deafening pounding of rain on the barn’s metal roof, or maybe just enjoying the shower. They weren’t in sight, although it was hard to see through the downpour.

And then, more suddenly than it had begun, the storm passed and the sun appeared: blue sky to the west; blackness moving away to the east. I picked up the telephone to make a call and realized it had been toasted. (How many times this has happened! Cordless phones and lightning just don’t mix well.)

In the barn, I found both horses peacefully munching hay in their stalls… and the electric fencer blown to smithereens.

The fencer is critical not because it keeps the horses in pasture (which it does), but because it keeps woodchucks and raccoons out of the garden. We have already lost this year’s soybean crop to a hungry chuck because the “coon fence” wasn’t electrified, and I certainly do not want the corn crop to meet a similar fate, so I headed to town to buy a new fencer. Upon returning home, I found that a second storm had blown through and knocked down about half of the corn crop I was attempting to protect.

Yesterday as my husband and I righted corn and constructed baling twine supports for it, we quipped that it’s a good thing we aren’t trying to feed Europe. A favorite old joke came to mind: It’s a good life if only we don’t weaken.

"No shoes, no shirt, no service"

The charred remains

Take that, you coons!

Why gardeners cry

After a couple of hours of lifting, straightening, tamping and stringing

Addendum: Today is beautifully sunny and still. The corn has a good chance of digging its roots deeper and standing tall without prolonged help, and - surprise - you can still buy a phone that has a cord!

2007-07-23T09:47:00.000-04:00

Re-entry...

Changing realities is a little bit like changing gears the first time you drive a standard: grind... clunk... lurch... and then things are reasonably smooth again. For me, it's easier to up-shift than to down-shift.

View from the Taconic Parkway west toward the Catskills

The excitement of a trip to New York builds along with the frenzy of packing and getting the home front in order before blast-off, and it continues to increase along with the traffic after we cross one range of mountains, skirt the edge of a second, and see the first "Sprain Brook Expressway" and "George Washington Bridge" signs in Westchester County. By the time we've sped along with the taxis, cars and delivery trucks on the FDR Drive down the western length of Manhattan, our pulses and attitudes are beginning to fit right in with the natives. Coyote howls and stillness are already unimaginable.

After delivering my husband's mother to the W Hotel downtown, we headed up 3rd Ave. (past the site of the previous day's steam pipe explosion) and found our son's new office. He gave us his apartment key and directions to a great nearby cafe, and after a fabulous salad, we choked on the cost of leaving our car underground for a little more than an hour and headed for the Brooklyn Bridge.

Brooklyn is a borough in transition. It's also huge and comprised of many neighborhoods, some gentrified and some still affordable to those blue-collar workers who keep Manhattan functioning. Our son's place is a co-op apartment in an 1850s church, this in an area of brownstones with small front gardens surrounded by wrought-iron fencing. Lovely trees line the streets and shade the homes; cafes and shops are within easy walking distance, and this weekend there were stoop sales and a nearby Saturday block party. A few blocks south, Spanish is the predominant language.

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Part of a magnificent garden in front of an old graffiti-covered building
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Our trip's purpose was to attend the wedding of a nephew, and that we did on Friday night. It was black-tie in an elegant hotel. It was swank, the food was fabulous, and it was FUN. We danced to a great band (you should have heard them belt out "Respect"), women gradually shedding shoes and men shedding jackets until the early morning hours when even the young among us were flagging.
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The next day we walked around Brooklyn, starting with breakfast on the roof of a Mexican restaurant.

View of Lower Manhattan from the Mexican restaurant in Brooklyn

From there we walked to an amazing new grocery market on the waterfront,

Looking west from the market

bought some fruit, and then hopped a bus back up toward Prospect Park. More walking, and then onto the grass and pathways winding past one group after another repeating the hundred-year-old summer ritual of a family picnic or barbeque in the wilds of a city park.

Two of several kites above Prospect Park

My feet were worn down to nubs by the time we walked back down toward the apartment, and although we had planned to eat at one of the many new restaurants in Brooklyn, we were still so sated from the previous evening's feast that we called a fabulous frozen yogurt (with fresh fruit) "dinner" and went to bed early.

A small rock beside a trail in Prospect Park
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On Sunday morning, Starbucks and Whole Foods supplied breakfast before we piled into the Prius and headed north. The trip is a pretty one with little traffic after the first thirty miles or so, and we broke it up with a dinner stop in an old Adirondack hotel on Long Lake.

After dinner beside Long Lake

For several miles, puffy clouds reflected amazing shades of orange and pink, and then we drove in darkness. It was around 10:30 when my husband dropped me off at the end of our road and then continued on to return his mother to her home-away-from-home in the town about twelve miles north. (She, by the way, was absolutely mortified as I stepped out of the car into the darkness in what she thought to be the absolute middle of nowhere, a place lurking with sharp-fanged wild beasts).

I walked the mile up the road through the woods by the light of a half-moon low in the sky, here and there listening to the scuttling of an animal or the breaking of a twig in the darkness, buttoning my sweater up against the cool of the night air. I do have to admit that about a quarter of a mile from home the nearby and unexpected shrill snort of a deer scared the bejeezus out of me! A note just inside the door greeted me with news that Heidi's eye seems to be healing nicely, and both horses had been fed.

And so today I look at the garden with its new crop of weeds, the barn with its fresh supply of manure, what passes for our lawn at a new high, a house with an empty refrigerator and a pile of dirty laundry; I do as little as possible and plunk myself down here at my keyboard.

(Down-shift! Toe-heel the brake and accelerator! Down-shift! Now, put it in low gear and begin slowly... ) It was a great trip and fun to be a city person for a short time, but very soon I will be back in the happy swing of my peace and quiet and dirt and work. Right now, though, I need just a little while to idle my engine.

2007-07-19T07:55:00.000-04:00

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2007-07-18T06:51:00.000-04:00

Update:

The patient is improving, i.e. the eye swelling has gone down considerably. I made a cloth pad and sewed it inside her fly mask to put some space between the mask and the wound, and that is working out well. Her vision is fine and she doesn't seem to be in any discomfort. The big question now is whether the cut will heal together, or, more likely, how much of a gap will be left in the edge of her upper eyelid. You see, a previous (worse) injury has already left this eye susceptible to problems.

How it happened is the million dollar question. There are trees in the pasture, some with sharpish branches; also some pretty thorny boysenberry brambles. I am extremely careful with nails and fence wire, going to great lengths to bend any loose wire ends into non-sharp tiny loops. There is no barbed wire, only smooth electric fence. My suspicion is that she did it on the handle of her grain bucket. It is hung in her stall, and some time ago she whomped into it and bent the handle somewhat. It looks to me that there is a very slight protrusion of the metal handle where it attaches to the bucket, and there was some blood on the stall partition quite near it. ? I'll never know, but I have replaced the bucket.

This horse needs to wear a helmet. She is very "heady" (can send you flying if you don't watch out for her), often making sudden swings of her head or trying to rub an itchy spot. She doesn't know her own strength and assumes I am a scratching post. If something startles her, she could easily bang her head and possibly cause a tear like the one we're dealing with now.

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One sweet aside: she's loving all the attention. I gently massage her eye before putting the ointment in it. That gets her relaxed and she closes it, which is the only way I can sneak the medicine in. Yesterday when I finished giving one of the doses, she nibbled on my shoulder in an affectionate gesture.

.......................................Heidi's "good" eye last winter

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Heidi is supposedly half Morgan and half Quarterhorse. I do not see the latter (and in fact think maybe there's a bit of the Budweiser Clydesdale in her family tree), but she does have the Morgan "hot-bloodedness" which can make for excitement. Imagine a 1000 pound fraidy-cat... If anything startles her, you must be ready to jump out of her way in a hurry. She's kind hearted, but a bit of a squirrel.

Time will tell, but so far she's making reasonably good progress in healing.

Thanks to all of you who have expressed concern. I appreciate your kind words. Heidi would thank you too if she could. Maybe you could stop by and be nibbled.

............................A roll in the pasture last month

"Oh oh... now they'll think I just sit around all day..."

2007-07-16T17:42:00.000-04:00

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.............................Heidi relaxing in the pond on a hot day
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Murphy's Law of Trips
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It's the way things go. You plan a trip, or maybe you have to go on a trip because it's a holiday or somebody you're closely related to is getting married, and that trip becomes the "deadline" by which time a great many things have to be accomplished. (There's the reverse of "THE TRIP" which is called "The Date the City Relatives Arrive for a Visit," but that's a different story).
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The pasture fence must be secured. If it was fine last week, you can bet an animal has gone through it or a limb has fallen on it since then. One early morning several years ago, as we rushed to put our suitcases in the car in time to reach an airport three hours away, we discovered a dead deer hopelessly tangled in the pasture fence, and besides the sadness of that tragedy, there was added to the "to-do-before-we-leave" list the physical effort of wire cutting, fence repair, and dragging the animal to the road (where within ten minutes he was mistaken for road-kill and hauled away by someone who would use the meat).

The garden must be pest-proofed, and even if you just strung the electric raccoon fence, on the morning of departure you can be sure to discover that the raccoons have found some way in that must be plugged before you leave if you plan on filling the freezer with corn this year.

Plumbing knows your plans; so do blizzards and thunderstorms. Kids schedule ear infections or bronchitis to coincide with blast-off, and pets... well, pets... is what this story is about.

You can take a dog to the kennel, leave a cat for a couple of days with lots of food and a big litter box, farm out a hampster or other small critter to friends, but you have to have someone come to your barn twice a day to look after a horse. My barn is set up so the horses can each come and go at will from their box stalls. Water is outside in a tank and will last a week between fillings; grain can be put in their buckets and hay can be thrown into the stalls while keeping a stall wall between the horse and the caretaker of the horse (eliminating the risk of being stepped on or kicked). It's a good set-up.

So far so good.

This Thursday we leave to attend a wedding in New York, and so today I went out to the barn to muck out the stalls and throw some bales of hay down from the loft. At my appearance, Dream began her usual pawing and nickering in anticipation of the morning scoop of grain. I quickly obliged and then scooped for Heidi. As I approached the second stall, I saw it: Heidi's eyelid was ripped, swollen and encrusted with dried blood and dirt.

From experience that I will write about some other time, I knew that nothing could be done at this point except prevent infection. I washed Heidi's eye and called the vet, feeling deja vu: deja vu of Passover time and of a horse going lame with an abcess; deja vu of another horse having to be put down the day before Thanksgiving.

The vet came and agreed that antibiotic ointment was all that could be done, and that doing it three or four times a day between now and our departure may be enough. In New York City as the groom and bride raise their glasses in a toast to health and happiness, I will celebrate, but I will also think of Heidi and hope for the best.

Sometimes I wonder if Murphy didn't like animals.

2007-07-07T15:03:00.002-04:00

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I thank some of you readers for encouraging my writing. Here is another true story, but of course the names have been changed to protect the people involved.
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Illegal
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They met on a dark road in the middle of the night, a pre-arranged headlight signal marking the transfer point. Pierce’s pulse quickened as his truck wheels slowed, and worrisome thoughts raced through his brain, but so far everything was going just as he had been told it should. Arturo, riding shotgun, stared quietly with wide and nervous eyes.

The truck rolled close, nose to back-end of the van in the manner of two horses doing mutual fly-control, and before Pierce could come to a complete stop, the door of the van opened quietly, a small shadowy occupant was ejected, and then it was gone, disappearing into the night in less time than it took the young man on the pavement to clamber into the cab of the pick-up. As if someone had screamed, “Drive like hell!” at him, Pierce wheeled the truck around and sped north.

There was an embrace, an outpouring of questions and answers, the laughter of relief as they realized the mission appeared to be accomplished. The two young men talked excitedly in Spanish, faster than Pierce could speak it but not so fast that he couldn't understand the news from “home” and the details of the journey.

It had all gone without a hitch. La mamá había llorado, but her tears were proud and hopeful. The first miles were unremarkable, then the crossing of the border and the transport to Phoenix was accomplished, and finally the 2500 mile van ride east and north. For a young man not yet seventeen years old it was an adventure that gave both pride and more than a little worry, but the network was experienced and efficient, and he had made it. Miguel expressed sorrow for others like himself who didn’t have an older brother awaiting them, or who, like his friend Pedro, had been intercepted, arrested and sent back.

They reached the farm an hour later, the darkness beginning to give way to dawn’s early light, and Arturo proudly led his younger brother up the stairs to the apartment Pierce had fashioned above the milk house. It was small, but there were amenities both boys had lacked in the shantytown outside of Hermosillo. Miguel was awed by his new "home" with its shower and flush toilet and thought how he would work hard to prove his worth. Milking cows would all be new to him, but he was eager to become a wage-earner, and so far his impressions of his new employer were living up to the descriptions Arturo had shared in their frequent cell phone conversations.

In the morning almost upon them, Miguel would be introduced to the Amish family who were also employed by the farm, to the large herd of Holsteins, and he would gaze out over fields more lush than any he could have imagined from his home in Mexico. He understood that he must not leave the confines of the farm for fear of being recognized as an “illegal” and picked up by the Border Patrol or State troopers who regularly patrol this south side of the Canadian border, and Miguel accepted that condition. Six hundred acres and your own apartment was a lot of space.

Resting on their beds, tired but running on adrenalin, the young Mexican brothers wondered how it could be that there were no Americans wanting to do this work.

*... * ...*... * ...*

Arturo and Miguel have the good fortune of working for kind-hearted people who can speak their language. They continue to work on the farm (and they are excellent workers), send their pay back to Mexico and appreciate these jobs that no one else wanted. Like most of the hispanic workers employed on our local dairy farms, they plan to return to "Hermosillo" when they have earned enough money to begin a decent life in their home country.

2007-07-02T13:20:00.000-04:00

The Great Bank Robbery

.....(This is a re-run of a piece from the early days of this blog. At that time, nobody was reading anything by some wizened wizard in the enchanted forest, so I'm re-posting this true story because it's a good one and you no doubt missed it the first time around, and because instead of writing, I do have to clean out the barn today.)

It was a hot summer afternoon in Potsdam, a lazy college town that had turned its students and teachers out to summer pasture. The merchants were complaining about things being “slow” (as they always did at that time of year), yet they, like everyone else, were secretly enjoying the quiet of the off-season. Then it happened: The Great Bank Robbery of 1987.

It certainly wasn’t on anybody’s list of expected occurrences, so the robbers had the advantage of surprising the employees of Community Bank’s tiny satellite location. While they had the element of surprise on their side, they had the distinct disadvantage of being the only three black men in a white Cadillac convertible within probably a hundred miles, and that in a county full of rednecks in pickup trucks.

The local police quickly jumped into action, although they weren’t exactly sure what sort of action they should jump into. By 2:00, Alfred, the town’s one black businessman, had been arrested twice by two different State Troopers, only to be immediately recognized by the local chief and turned loose, his apologies to Alfred gradually morphing into a string of expletives aimed at the visiting forces.

The police did manage to set up roadblocks while the robbers were driving around town trying to decide which way to leave. It would later be learned that they had come to Potsdam on the invitation of a local professor who hoped to do them some social good, but apparently they were in such a hurry to make the most of the opportunity presented that they hadn’t bothered to get their bearings. Someone reported seeing the trio studying a map in the hospital parking lot shortly after the commission of the crime.

At 3:00, Alfred was arrested again, freed again, and decided he might as well go home for the rest of the day.

Lost, confused and road-blocked, the robbers eventually decided to ditch the car and make their get-away on foot. The Cadillac was found at the south side of town, on the north edge of the great swamp.

Meanwhile, the local coffee counters were a-buzz with speculation as “Three men and a Cadillac” began to take on gangland proportions. Not everyone, however, had heard the news. Irv Thompson, high-school English teacher, was home relaxing in blissful ignorance of the excitement... in his house bordering the swamp...

News of The Event reached Vic Jarvis early in the day. He was the proprietor of Vic’s Barbershop and Figure Skating Leotard store, and one after another his clientele wasted no time in giving him the scoop. “Just in case,” Vic set his scissors aside, took his pistol out of storage and placed it in readiness for any would-be robbers. He’d never had any black men come looking for haircuts (or leotards, for that matter), so he figured he’d know them for what they were if three came knocking on this afternoon. Maybe it was the latent figure skater in him, maybe it was just good common sense, but Vic was nervous.

When the location of the found Cadillac was announced, Vic’s fears reached panic proportions. He grabbed the gun, flipped over the “OPEN” sign, jumped in his car and sped south. Although he didn’t know it, Vic reached Irv’s place about the time the first of the bank robbers quietly and peacefully gave himself up.

Bursting into his friend’s living room, gun in hand, alternating frantic questions concerning Irv’s well-being with excerpted news bulletins, Vic made an immediate and profound impression. The idea was that Irv should have the gun to protect himself; an idea punctuated by the deafening blast it made as Vic endeavored to show Irv that it was safe because it wasn’t loaded.

The town’s memory of that eventful day has faded with time. The fate of the bank robbers and their collegiate co-conspirator is forgotten by most of us these years later – most of us except maybe Alfred who still shakes his head in wonder at honky stupidity, and Irv and Vic who occasionally look at a hole in the fireplace mantle and chuckle at how lucky they both were when the shot was fired.

This is a true story. I have changed the names, and 1987 is my best guess at which year these events actually took place.

2007-06-29T16:30:00.000-04:00

Pedicure
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Every eight weeks, my horses get a pedicure. They seem to enjoy it, or at least they enjoy the change in routine and the attention. My farrier, Dick, is a calf-roper and he and his wife are co-owners/managers of a barn that is currently housing fifty head of horses. They have an indoor arena where they give riding lessons and host clinics. The chaw of tobacco in his mouth and his cowboy style hide the fact that he's the son of a kindergarten teacher and a county legislator. He's bright, loves a good joke and hasn't much use for Republicans. He's also very kind and gentle in all his dealings with horses.
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First Dick uses snippers to clip off most of the new hoof growth. It's like using a nail clipper on your toenails (but you need a bit more strength). If you click on the picture, it will enlarge somewhat.
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Next, he files the hard edge he just snipped to smooth it and make it uniformly even.
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After the hoof is clipped and filed, he measures to be sure it has the proper angle. When he's satisfied that the horse is correctly balanced, Dick uses a sharp farrier's knife to pare off excess sole and trim the frog (that's the V-shaped area in the above photo). He'll file around the hoof , rounding the edge slightly before applying some Thrush-X to help prevent any hoof rot that might be starting. In a dry summer, that usually isn't necessary unless he has found an injury.
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It was a special day at the barn because Becky stopped by to watch. For some reason, Heidi seemed more interested in her than Dick did, but then, this horse-work is serious business.
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2007-06-26T12:29:00.000-04:00

What's Cooking, Wiz??
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It is the end of rhubarb season. We've eaten some as sauce (I never did get around to making a rhubarb pie), but there's something I really love to have in the pantry: rhubarb-carrot-orange marmalade. Made with organic fruit and carrots and organic sugar, it is simply yummy on toast, in sandwiches or spread between layers of angel-food cake.
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When I began gardening back in 1975, I also began learning to cook and preserve food. Canning isn't difficult. You just have to do it carefully, mindful of cleanliness and correct processing techniques and times. This is a water-bath canner; the device you see beside the jars is a jar lifter for removing the cans from the boiling water. I also have a pressure-canner which is used for low-acid (generally non-fruit) foods. In August I'll be canning some tomatoes and dehydrating many more, pickling some beets and green beans (yummy!); in September perhaps I'll make applesauce and watch the bees buzz at my windows, drawn by the smell. Corn, soybeans, kale, swiss chard and brussels sprouts will go in the freezer. Potatoes will be dug and stored in bags in the cellar, onions and garlic go in a dry, dark place next to the cellar stairs. All year long we will enjoy the fruits of these labors.
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My parents' and grandparents' generations were quick to adopt "modern" ways, and so these days not too many people preserve food. It's a shame, because you just can't buy some of the wonderful things you can make. In these jars you can see the orange bits of carrot, and the lighter bits of ground whole oranges, all of them swimming in a sweetened rhubarb sauce. As the book Putting Food By says, "This recipe is as good and honest as it is 'out of the way'."
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I dream of a garden replacing every lawn, of plates and cellars filled with organically grown food. Yes, it's a bit of work, but it's gratifying work and it makes so much sense. Imagine the healthy, great taste. Imagine the peaceful quiet of suburbia without the drone and pollution of lawnmowers. Imagine...
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Resources:

Putting Food By, by Janet Greene, Beatrice Vaughn, and Ruth Hertzburg. ("To 'put by' is an old, deep-country way of saving to 'save something you don't use now, against the time when you'll need it...')

The Ball Blue Book This is the most comprehensive how-to book on food preservation, featuring gourmet and special diet recipes, along with classic home canning and illustrated step-by-step instructions.

2007-06-24T08:13:00.000-04:00

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"People. They're the worst."
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A Wizardly Rant

(Quote from Jerry Seinfeld)

Recently Robin asked her readers what each of us are doing to stop global warming/climate change. I was sobered and embarrassed by my meager list of attempts, depressed by the fact that I - one so vocally irate about the lunacy of the human race in this regard - was doing very little about it. Facing my complacency moved me to take some actions.

Effort #1 aimed at saving our planet: I bought some fluorescent light bulbs. No, not for all of the lights in our house, but I got some "daylight" and some white light bulbs to see if we could stand the neon glow. Surprise! The color of the light is great! The "daylight" bulbs are good in places like the woodshed and the basement, where there give strong, bright light; the 15 watt white bulbs are just fine in reading lamps, and unless you can actually see them, you would not know they're not strong incandescents. Okay, good move, and I will now replace all of our old bulbs with these more energy-efficient fluorescents, but eventually they will have to be recycled. They must not just be thrown in the trash.
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Effort #2 aimed at saving our planet: Double my commitment to using cloth grocery bags instead of the plastic ones dispensed ad infinitum by the grocery (and other) stores. Refuse their bags; use my own.
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Effort #3 aimed at saving our planet: muttering to husband about how we are driving too much and not efficiently. We need to plan our trips to town, cooperate to use ONE vehicle, etc. Or we need to move. This resulted in Husband riding his bike the 13 miles to the office. He's been doing that about once a week on the days I need to go to town for supplies, and then we load up the bike and drive home together. (It's generally downhill to town from our house).
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Effort #4 aimed at saving our planet: We bought a Prius! This is a nifty car and driving it has convinced us that it is a vast improvement over anything we've ever driven. It is both simple and complex, simple because it doesn't even have a key - you just push the "Power" button. Drive, Reverse, something called "B", and Park" are your options; chosen by the one-finger flip of a small lever. We are averaging over 50 mpg, and yesterday we drove 70 miles, and we did it using only slightly more than one gallon. Of course, we must drive less.

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Our efforts so far have convinced us that we can make some positive changes in the way we live, but of course we're still not doing enough. We need to find clean ways to generate our power and heat our water. The Prius has taught us the value of driving a bit slower. There is a screen that shows you what mileage you're getting at any moment and over time. You can often go 65 on our country roads, but when you do, you get poor gas mileage. Driving more slowly and mindfully of your gas usage gets you where you're going and cuts pollution by saving gas.

Since I'm self-righteously preaching in this post, I'll add this comment: People are dying in Iraq so that we can have oil. If you're going to roar around at fast speeds in a gas-guzzling automobile, please take the hypocritical "Support Our Troops" ribbon off it. If you really do support our troops, slow down and drive less so that they don't need to fight for you. And senators and congresspeople, please pass a law lowering the speed limit.

NASCAR, hydroplane racing, air shows and other entertainments that burn oil for entertainment suck. Try walking, biking, music, sports and other pleasures that don't pollute. Again, if we're wasting fuel, we have some blood on our hands.

Maybe you think climate change is "a natural thing" or that "yeah, there's some global warming going on, but it's not that bad," or maybe like the Republican Administration you say "it needs to be studied more" or "we can't hamper economic productivity with environmental restrictions" (instead of doing something about it). If so, imagine how inconvenient it will be to learn that there isn't enough food to feed your family because of crop failures caused by weather events. We're already seeing some of these events (droughts, unseasonable freezes, high-wind storms dumping hail); we will see more and more if we continue our ways. And that's just the beginning.

Yesterday my just-turned-five-years-old grandson overheard us talking about "losing eight years" of progress toward energy efficiency and turning the tide of global environmental destruction. He wanted to know what I meant by "we lost eight years." His question led to an explanation: We have a leader for our country who is called a president, and right now his name is Mr. Bush. Mr. Bush is a bad man. ("Why?) Mr. Bush is greedy. ("What does 'greedy' mean?") That means he wants things just for himself and for his friends, and he doesn't care about the rest of us. A good president would try to do what's best for everybody. (That seemed to answer his questions).

A beat of silent thought, then Grandson replied, "Well maybe Jesus will come down and show him that he should be good so he can go to heaven." (Pause...) (Giggle...) "Then maybe he'll be DEAD!" At that, we all laughed.
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As long as I'm ranting... GUNS... No, not relevant. I've ranted enough for one post. No, wait. Guns: Let's shoot the people who just don't "get it." People. They're the worst. Wizards. They're a close second.

2007-06-17T17:34:00.000-04:00

Here's My Latest...

Harry and Jane Before the Storm
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The barn, protected by its lightning rods, awaits them; the corn, not yet mid-sized, will have to withstand the force of the wind-blown rain. Before going inside, the farmer will check the generator to be sure it's ready to take over if power is knocked out. With some luck, tomorrow the sun will rise on a farm still anticipating a good crop and a prosperous season.
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2007-06-11T12:18:00.000-04:00

Where's Wizard??

The demands of the season are keeping me away from the keyboard lately. The garden is almost all planted, but then comes the weeding. I snap a few pictures of especially pretty flowers, but even photography is on the back burner right now. A pasture fence needs mending; the garden fence needs some electricity to it. Son, daughter, grandson and I all celebrate birthdays within one month's time, and at the moment, two out of our (formerly) three vehicles are out for the count. And then there's the pinched nerve in my back. You can get NOTHING done while lying flat on the floor.

I need more time!!!!!!!

In lieu of a "better" post, here is a little flying critter I've often tried to capture on "film" and - until recently - never quite got in focus: the Hawk Moth (also called a Hummingbird Moth), here visiting a flower garden.

And a "flower among the flowers" at Upper Canada Village:

Hope all of you are well. I'll get back to visiting you soon.

2007-06-04T08:31:00.000-04:00

Time Travel

I went back to 1867 yesterday, just in time for sheep-shearing.* ...The sheep were docile and cooperative as the clippers gradually removed their thick woolen burden.

At the other end of the village, a woman worked at washing the fleece (a job more likely done by men in 1867).

Before carding, the washed wool was placed outdoors to dry.

Clean, dry, and gently twisted into coarse strands of about 2" diameter, the first shearing harvest was already being spun into woolen thread. It will be woven into cloth for clothing and blankets for the winter.

Here's looking at ewe!

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* Upper Canada Village is a living history park in eastern Ontario, created from collected buildings and artifacts that would have been flooded when the St. Lawrence Seaway was built.

2007-05-29T08:39:00.000-04:00

We Got Game!

As folks who visit my blog regularly know, I have a friend who is a Shaman. She would correct me to say that she's an Assistant Shaman or a Shaman in Training or some such Lesser Shaman (maybe like the Least Flycatcher: every bit as wonderful as, say, the Acadian Flycatcher, but just living a bit farther north).

Every day, Shaman emails three or four new poems to her friends. My husband, being her occasional racketball partner, was on the receiving list, and so it was that I happened to read a couple of them. I was hooked. There, in beautiful words, were many of the same things I was photographing. I emailed her a photo that paired wonderfully with one of her poems and asked to be put on her mailing list. That was the start of it.

After a few weeks, I put up a blog called Shaman and Wizard and began publishing her poems and adding photos to illustrate some of them. For a while we kept it quiet and private, although I was secretly eager for the world to see our creations. Eventually she agreed to share.

Often a poem sends me out in search of the right picture; sometimes I'll send her a photo and wait for the almost inevitable poetic response. Sometimes things just get plain funny, as in the following exchange. It started when I posted this photo of one of Shaman's concrete statues (among other things, she's a sculptor). For me, it was a good exercise in learning some photo editing tricks.
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...................................Becky Atop Whiteface at Sunset

Whiteface Mountain is near Lake Placid. There is a road that winds up to its summit (which is rocky and bare and commands a magnificent view of that part of the Adirondacks), so most people around here are familiar with it.

I didn't have to wait too long... a couple of days after posting that photo on the Sha-Wiz site, this poem arrived in my Inbox:

Whiteface Naked

I didn’t climb naked
I really didn’t,
it was the hot sun,
the dizzying heights,
distant views,
my then love near,
yes, I took off my clothes,
the picture sold
by him
to some blog for little
money and all
my dignity.
But I do not regret
the moment
when the sun and her colors
stroked
me
as he never could.

By Becky Harblin May 27, 2007

It struck me so funny that I just had to share it with you. I hope you'll check out some of her other writing on the Shaman and Wizard site. You'll find a few of my photographs there too.

2007-05-26T21:12:00.000-04:00

A Stroll in the Park

Here's a view across the village green. After my truck was towed (see previous post), I hoofed it here to wait for a ride home.

The next photograph should be clicked on. It takes on the quality of an impressionist painting when enlarged.

The metal of the fountain (possibly copper?) is a dark gray but reflects the blue of the pool below it.

I was not alone in my enjoyment of the fountain on this hot afternoon.

And in a small garden nearby is this message:

...a dream for most of us, a reality in this small village park.

On this Memorial Day weekend, it seems to me that the most meaningful ceremony in remembrance of the dead of wars past and present would be the this: the celebration of a world at peace.
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2007-05-25T22:19:00.000-04:00

My Lucky Day

............................... Bell's Garage in Earlier Days *

If you’ve ever been in an accident, you know the sound: the smashing crunch of metal on metal. The lucky ones among us get out of the car upset but not hurt, and then forever hold that sound in memory. For me it’s been three slight fender-benders spaced over about 45 years of driving.

Lately I’ve had a reoccurring fear of that crunching sound that is somehow unexpectedly stimulated while I’m driving, perhaps caused by the sudden realization that I’m day-dreaming or not focused sharply enough on the activity at hand. I shudder as my eyes open wider and quickly look out for the imagined other vehicle. I wince in expectation of the smashing crunch. So far it hasn’t happened, and I’m left wondering why this strange fear is asserting itself. My experiences being minor collisions, I wonder how people who have had really serious wrecks react to it.

Maybe my imaginings are being sparked by an incident that happened about a year ago. As I loaded my groceries into the back seat, I heard that unmistakable sound as three cars tangled up in a – fortunately – low speed wreck in the entry to the shopping center lot. No one was hurt, and so it was apparently just another case for the insurance companies and local body shop folks to wrangle over. I can think of no other possible trigger for my current paranoia.

Today I drove my old pick-up truck to town, planning to pick up some lumber and saw-horses from my son-in-law, a chair I’d bought, groceries and garden supplies. My to-do list was long and involved a number of places on all sides of the village we call “town". It was a stop and go day.

By early afternoon I’d crossed off several things on my list. Taking the lane behind the Main St. buildings, I swung into the local fast-food restaurant for a bathroom stop, stepped on the brakes, and didn’t stop. The pedal went to the floor, but the truck maintained every bit of its speed. I saw a vacant parking spot and aimed for it, bouncing backward when the tires hit the concrete curb that defines the lot’s perimeter.

I sat there in my truck. I thought of the people I’d stopped for in crosswalks that morning, of the car I waited behind at the red light, of the trip a few days earlier carrying a full load of shredded bark mulch out the hilly back roads to my house. And then I went inside to tell the restaurant owner that my truck might be in her lot for a while.

There are two garages within walking distance of downtown, so I bought a bottle of water and hit the sidewalks. Tonight my truck sits at Bell’s Riverside Garage and I sit at home, thankful that my brakes failed at probably the best possible time and place, thankful that the only consequences are towing and repair bills. I guess it was my lucky day.

* As I waited for the wrecker to deliver my truck, I noticed this framed photo of the garage and snapped a copy of it.

2007-05-23T20:12:00.000-04:00

Wistful

Prologue:

Robin left a comment to my blog about becoming a photographer that she felt there was something “wistful” about the piece. She was correct, but not for the reasons she may have suspected. You see, that was to be my swan song, my exit from Bloggerville. I had run into a wall. The passion I had felt for writing seemed to have written itself out or maybe been shoved aside by the season’s outdoor activities. I would take a break, possibly a long break. But then a strange thing happened. Writing “Photography” stirred up the creative juices again, and suddenly I wanted to write some more. Today's entry is titled “Wistful” because of Robin's comment, but you will find there is nothing wistful about it. (Thanks, Robin).

This three-year stretch of time, though significant, was just one part of the path that ultimately led me home.

“Have you been to that new home shop in The Commons?”

“Dan and I just bought a king Beautyrest, and we adore it.”

“Don’t you just love this dip mix?”

“You want the side-by-side Frigidaire. It’s just so much easier.”

“Who did you get to decorate?”

"I just let Jim deal with the lawn. I have enough to do keeping the house neat."

When I think back to that time, those office cocktail parties remember like a Robert Altman movie where you catch bits and snippets of conversations, getting the suggestion of substance without ever really experiencing it. Other times I remember them in the clear focus of Woody Allen when he totally mis-fits at a WASP dinner party. In both cases, those years seem like they were lived on another planet in a galaxy far, far away.

Beginning in the summer of 1968, I was an IBM salesman's wife. I bought the right things (or at least the ones that we could afford), mimicked suburban dress, and lived in a new split-level house. I've always been a bit of a chameleon, so although it was a change from anything I'd ever experienced, it wasn't a difficult role to play.

On some days I longed for wall-to-wall carpeting and coordinating drapes, but the colors and patterns that appealed to me weren’t “the latest fashion” and so couldn't be found in the stores that sell such stuff (or maybe subconsciously something deep within me was repulsed by the idea of conforming). In my little suburban castle, wooden floors peeked out around remnant rugs, and windows were hung with home-made curtains. Our house wasn’t shabby; it was - like one of its occupants - just a little schizophrenic.

One thing that had enamored me of this particular house was that the lot was large and backed up to the remains of an orchard. In fact, our back yard had been part of that orchard, as the apple tree outside the dining room window attested, and the large barn that once graced the acreage-turned-housing tract straddled the two "vacant" lots next-door. I secretly loved this weathered, elephantine "eyesore" and sometimes took my 2-year-old daughter into it to explore and play.

The neighbors were nice folks, although they always struck me as being adults. The women and I had mom-hood in common. None of us worked “real” jobs, so we did the things suburban women do - swapped recipes and potty training strategies, watched each other's children, kept house (to varying degrees), and shopped - but that was about where our commonality ended. They did crafts; I tore the boards off another old barn and paneled my family room. When it was finished, I framed up a darkroom beside it. I dug up some evergreen trees from a nearby wood and planted them in my front yard.

Subconsciously at least, I fought this IBM wife role. At social events my skirt was too short, my hair too long. I tried to convince myself that the other salesmen and their wives were swell people (which they probably were) even though they reminded me of what we called “the clique” back in my high school days.

My husband was a good salesman, in fact, one of IBM’s top 15 rookies nationwide that year. My husband also drank. He always had, but in college everybody drank and it was considered normal. Now he drank more. We argued about it, and his drinking began to fit into a pattern of drink too much, promise not to drink any more, have “just one drink” (which the next night became two, and then the following night three), and then he’d make the same unrealistic promise and the cycle would start again. On day four of these cycles, things got thrown and smashed. As he was wont to point out, my upbringing by a pair of tea-totalers didn’t help matters. For the first time in my life, I began to experience a long stretch of unhappiness, worry and fear.

Depression crept over me like a fog. Self-pity and anger tangled up with love and despair. There were weeks when yesterday’s dirty dishes littered the place until I had to use them again, and there was the night we stood together in the kitchen, separated by only a few feet and his drunkenness, and I edged closer to a chef’s knife lying on the counter with the intention of plunging it into him, stopped only by the more rational thought that he was big and strong and that I, the mother of a toddler, couldn’t afford to chance dying.

I’d seen the dysfunctional families of my foster sisters, watched them struggle and self-destruct. Some were just way down on their luck, but most were pathological and made poor choices or allowed other people to beat them down. I somehow reasoned that if I remained in my current situation, I was as sick as they were. It wasn’t any brilliant motivator, but that thought – that I was as sick as those poor people if I stayed where I was – somehow gave me the strength to take action.

Months of separation and counseling followed. During the separation I moved "home" to my parents' house in a neighboring town. I found a part-time job waitressing and another in the community services office of a juvenile detention center, enrolled my daughter in daycare, and bought a car, all steps to regaining some measure of the independence I had lost to the marriage. In early September, we reconciled and I returned to married life under the conditions that I would keep my day-job and I would take an already-planned trip to Norfolk to visit my old singing partner. Counselling continued, and things were better, but by Thanksgiving I knew they were not good enough. I would wait until after the holidays...

Christmas came and passed, and then New Year's, but inertia had me in its grip and married life continued.

Three days into the new year, a man walked into the probation office where I was working. I happened to be alone, so we talked for some time about our respective programs and then strayed to sharing a little of the paths that had led us to our current jobs. I off-handedly mentioned that I was getting a divorce and that the working hours my job required were convenient for my child and me, as we would be beginning life on our own. The sound of those words emanating from my mouth surprised me. Later, while locking the office door, I spoke aloud to myself: “There. You’ve said it. Now go do it,” and that night I told my husband I was going to file for the divorce. We had tried. Counseling had helped, our marriage was somewhat better, but it was not the way I wanted to live the rest of my life. My days of being an IBM salesman's wife were over.

Just before leaving my suburban split-level for the last time, I made two discoveries. In a paper bag under some things in a closet, torn to shreds, was my favorite dress. It was one I’d made of a blue handkerchief cotton print, a dress I'd worn to usher for a local summer stock theatre, my counselor-suggested "independent activity" that left my husband home to baby-sit and gave me an occasional night out. The other discovery was something hidden above my head on top of the kitchen cupboards: his wedding ring, the one he’d told me he must have lost when emptying the trash.

About two years later I married the man who had stopped in my office on January 3, 1971, the stranger who heard me mention off-handedly that I was getting a divorce. We celebrated our 33rd wedding anniversary last fall, but of course that is another story.

2007-05-21T20:30:00.000-04:00

An Evening's Photographs

In town, the photo op was man-made and peopled: four ballerinas were enjoying some fresh air on the fire escape of an upstairs ballet studio.

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.................................Pas de Fire Escape

A few minutes later and a few miles away, I encountered a subject of an entirely different sort:
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...............................................Sun and Barn Sinking
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And by nightfall, the moon and a planet were sharing secrets in a darkening sky:
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............................................Sky Companions
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Good night!
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2007-05-17T08:48:00.000-04:00

Photography

I’ve put myself “out there” for crowds for as long as I can remember. Something within screams, “PEOPLE! LISTEN UP! I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY!” and I sing or act (or lately, post a photograph). Did it begin back in grade-school when I first tapped across the black stage boards and heard applause? Was it when the high school voice teacher heard me singing and asked, “Where have you been?” (Is it attention I crave)? For a long time I favored the performing arts because - frankly - I was better at them than I was at sketching.

My college career was pretty checkered. I was the first of my family to go to college, and even in my teenage naivety I realized that I should eventually come out of it with some kind of career. As it seemed to me, that career ought to be made from something I enjoyed doing, a piecing together of new-found college-taught knowledge and a love of… well, what? (I probably should note here that because my dad worked at R.I.T., I qualified for free tuition at most other colleges and universities; I also earned a NYS scholarship that paid all of my room and board costs. College for me was free, and if it hadn't been so, I couldn't have gone.)

My life’s passions to that point had been horses, nature, singing in coffee houses and “hootenannies,” theatre, writing, cheerleading, and a boy named Phil. The last two didn’t seem to have a future, and the first four weren’t anywhere in the curriculum at the college I was about to enroll in. I did a twelfth grade “I-search” paper on journalism, but during my first weeks of college, a wonderful teacher convinced me that geology was the major for me. I loved his class, although nagging at the back of my mind was the question, “What the hell kind of career is geology??” Luckily (maybe), I got sick – really sick – and had to drop out of college five months later.

I recovered and regrouped. As Bob Dylan was writing then, “Thought I’d had some ups and downs till I rambled into New York Town; buildin’s goin’ up to the sky, people goin’ down to the ground.” I transferred to a school in New York and registered as a sociology major. With three foster sisters, it was something I knew a little bit about. I hung out in the coffee houses of Greenwich Village every chance I got. Once I even sang on Washington Square. It was the ‘60s, and New York was where it was at. The trouble was, I hated the head of the Sociology Department. He was a sociologist, not a social worker, and he was a total jerk, so when I heard about a junior year abroad program in Austria, I packed my trunk.

Austria provided a liberal arts program with no particular major emphasis. Fine by me. I studied art history, French, German, philosophy, history – all interesting, and none of the program particularly difficult. At the end of that alpine school year, I couldn’t imagine returning to traffic and concrete, nor could I imagine that a person could do “social work” anywhere but in a city: chuck that career idea. I dropped out of school… again.

I worked as a dental assistant, sterilizing instruments, developing x-rays, making plaster models of teeth and handing stuff to the doc’s. After several months of being under-appreciated and underpaid, I got fed-up and quit. It was October, and the department stores were hiring Christmas help, so I applied and got a job selling lingerie. After Christmas I was offered my own department: Junior Lingerie… cute little bras for cute little boobs... and it was there one afternoon, by the escalator, that a passing photo student from R.I.T. snapped my picture. By evening we were developing things in his darkroom…

I met his friends and classmates at a party – photog’s all, and some musicians. I saw the movie “Blow-up.” I began singing with a small group we called “The Handful of Change” and two of us recorded the short sound-track for another photo student’s film. I modeled for a soon-to-be fashion photographer. Late nights I’d be at the jazz club where folks like Coleman Hawkins played after hours. I was in hog heaven and not missing school one bit.

And then, came the dawn…! It occurred to me that by using a camera, I could create what my clumsy hands could not. I could express the passions of my soul! There was an eight-week summer program at R.I.T. where I could take all of my freshman photo courses in intensity. My new friends were heading home for the summer, and they loaned me darkroom and camera equipment. I immersed myself in studio, classroom, and shooting assignments during the day and spent my night hours in a make-shift darkroom. I hardly ate during that time, using lunch hour to crop and dry-mount prints, wolfing dinner so that I could get down to my basement trays of developer, stop and fixer. I was the only student in the program who had no previous photography experience, and I was also the only female. I loved every minute of it, and despite my sizable experience handicap, earned a B for those “freshman” courses.

Two months later, three weeks into my sophomore year in the “Professional Photography” program, I realized I was pregnant.

Time passed. Photography, once a passion, became synonymous with family photo album. I don’t think John Lennon had yet said, “Life is what happens to you while you’re making other plans,” but I lived that.

Fast-forward thirty-eight years. The same Minolta camera purchased in 1967 for R.I.T. was still with me, although now at times the shutter was sticking open. We had both registered a lot of things. “Would you like a new camera for your 60th birthday?” my husband asked.

Although the decision was mine, he favored digital. Digital was the buzzword, but I wondered how a digital SLR could possibly compare to a good film camera. I thought of the people I know who fancy themselves photographers… gear queers seemed a more apt description… when all you really need is an understanding of focal length, aperture, film speed – and a good eye… now a wizened eye…

Digital just couldn’t be as wonderful as the feeling of gently rubbing your fingers over a developing print, couldn’t substitute for the peace and joy I used to feel in the dim glow of the darkroom light or the brief illumination cast by the enlarger on paper. My mind zipped to building a darkroom but then tripped on the problem of chemical disposal.

We had a Kodak digital camera at the office, and I began using it. It wasn’t much of a camera (although considered quite better than average at the time it was purchased), but it showed me the possibilities. Husband continued to push digital. It was needed for website work and for his new enterprise and that would help justify the cost of a good camera. He literally led me to a wonderful camera shop above Ben and Jerry’s ice cream parlor in Burlington, and – at age 60 – I emerged with a new Pentax digital SLR.

I submitted one of the first pictures I took with the new camera to North Country Public Radio’s “Photo of the Day” web page, and it was selected. At the end of the year, NCPR asked permission to use that photo in a calendar they were publishing. Several months later, two of my three submissions to the Frederic Remington Art Museum “Amateurs Only” show were selected for exhibition.

Last fall I submitted one photo to Upper Canada Village’s annual photo competition, and despite competing with many wonderful submissions by many good photographers, I won a 2nd place. At the moment I am preparing for my first solo “show” at a local restaurant.

What is creativity, anyway? Why do some of us literally ache to express? Is someone a photographer, a sculptor, a poet, a dancer - or is there a more universal need that finds release in one medium or another, not really caring what the medium is? For me, the need to have a career has passed, replaced by the earned luxury of time to do what pleases me, and taking – and sharing - pictures pleases me greatly. This is my creative passion.

In this blog I have tried to post photos that give glimpses of the natural world, something I love and believe must be preserved. In this way, my photography supports those other things I am passionate about. Coupled with these images of the Wizened Eye have been stories, the photographic muse’s lexical counterpart.

Thanks to each of you who has visited my blog or website and left encouraging words, for to be an artist alone in the wilderness (with no audience) might be unbearable.
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2007-05-13T07:43:00.000-04:00

Remembering My Mother

There she is: the redhead in white in the middle of the fun. Behind her, in the white cap, is my father. This was a newspaper photo from the 1930s when she was Rochester, NY, city speed-skating champ and he was the city's men's tennis champion.

And here is a poem written by Shaman:

A wish

May we all find our
way to our mothers
today, or some day.
May we find
the mothers
we miss,
the mothers we wish we had,
and the grandmothers of our
mothers,
where the love waits
unconditionally.
And may we be wise enough
to say thank you for the gifts
they were able to give.

........................Written by Becky Harblin..... May 13, 2007

Happy Mothers Day to each of you who are mothers and who have or had mothers.

You may find more wonderful poems by Becky here.

2007-05-09T15:42:00.000-04:00

Spear Fishing

Ya-hoo! Look what's up!

Our asparagus bed averages about three feet wide and is 100 feet in length. That's a lot of asparagus... We eat it fresh and freeze all the extra crop to enjoy year-round. Six weeks from the date of the first harvest, we desist and the spears are left to grow into green feathery plants that grow taller than my head. Okay, so I'm not a particularly tall wizard, but still, they are impressive. The greenery will nourish the roots, which will in turn provide next year's harvest.

This bed is thirty years old and still thriving. The key seems to be keeping it weeded and picking off the Asparagus and Japanese beetles. In the worst attack times, I prowl the patch several times a day carrying a small bucket of water and dish detergent, drowning my enemies. (I also squish 'em bare-handed if I happen to be bucket-less).

Fresh, wholesome, organically grown asparagus. It's delicious.

2007-05-04T06:39:00.000-04:00

Leeking Information...

For the past week I have caused several people to be in a perplexed state.

While looking for wild leeks, I came upon an unfamiliar wildflower and of course photographed it. As soon as the pictures were downloaded and viewable, I set about trying to connect a name to the mysterious greenish-purple critter.

That turned out to be not so easy, and in fact by the time a local naturalist saw and recognized it, there were at least four knowledgeable people thumbing through field guides and botany books and scratching their heads.
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It was finally identified as blue cohosh, an herb known as "a powerful women's ally, who's main action is on the uterus." Reportedly (on the all-knowing, ever-truthful Internet), it can be used for everything from contraception to menstrual cramps, and although one writer reported that it didn't work for her, blue cohosh might be used in combination with pennyroyal and black cohosh to induce abortion. As you might expect, you are warned against overuse...

Just imagine: there is something growing in my lovely woods that those opposed to CHOICE might find unholy. How nice!.

Fortunately, the search committee is not tainted by any such concerns, and all agreed that this is a lovely and interesting denizen of our spring surroundings. It's not as pretty as trillium, perhaps...

but the greatest blessing Mother Nature gives to us is the diversity of her children. If I want to excite my uterus, I will gather some blue cohosh, but if I want to dazzle my eyes, I will gaze upon its three-leafed cousin.

And did I mention how delicious the wild leeks are?

2007-05-04T06:32:00.000-04:00

Bogart & Bacall, Lucy & Desi, Homer & Jethro, Macaroni & Cheese, Green Eggs & Ham, Shaman & Wizard...
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poem © 2007 by Becky Harblin, photo © 2007 by WizenedEye.com
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If I listen
closely
to the place
I came from,
and eventually will return to,
I can hear
the green children
playing
their sweet fiddle tunes.
And sometimes
when I am out walking
in early, early spring
I catch them
just as they pull
back into the earth,
nothing showing
but the soft
curly green of their fiddle's
head.
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2007-05-02T08:50:00.000-04:00

The Agway Studio
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. ............................phalenopsis (orchid)
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In the bank yesterday, a teller asked me if I had any photos of calla lilies. I do not, or rather, did not. In fact, it seems to me that it's been years since I saw one in bloom.

After leaving the bank, I went to Agway to pick up some grain for the horses. There is a large and wonderful greenhouse there, and this time of year it is teeming with plants. Next to several beautiful orchids, I spotted two calla lilies. For the next twenty minutes or so, I photographed some of these beauties. It was a good excuse to stay longer, breathing in the heavy scent of so many flowers.
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. ................................calla lily
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surprised by sunshine
silly gardener shopping
greenhouse flowers bloom
..
And now I must get to work in the garden!
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2007-04-30T09:25:00.000-04:00

Wood to stack today, burgemot to thin, grain and supplies to fetch... but this came in from Shaman and inspired an early morning photo. Enjoy ~
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I can’t look in without looking out

I am searching
for the root, the heart,
the very essence,
a center,
some of us call God,
some say Creator,
or Allah, or the One.

I keep looking small, and talking big,
then when I still can’t find
this nano-essence,
I talk of smallness
and look to big,
because maybe,
the essence
is not a boiled down thing.

This core of life, has no core,
it is the biggest
all encompassing
universal lumpy thing.
It is the all without and all the within.
This is exhausting,
I think I will have a cup of tea,
and drink it in.

................... ~ Becky Harblin..... April 29, 2007
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........................photo by wizenedeye.com