The rig arrived, the well-driller set it up, and drilling began. Rock dust filled the air, and within two hours the well was 60 feet deep. Soon it will be cased, grouted, and drilled another forty or more feet in search of a water source deep in the ground and - hopefully - clean and clear.

The Pamily Wedding

Last Saturday, my daughter married. Her husband is a wonderful man who has been “Papa” to her four-year-old son, fixer of household things, confidante, occasional chauffeur, and all-around good guy – her “best friend” for many years. Everyone in the family is glad for them, for it is clear they love each other and will share happiness.

He is a widower somewhat older than she and has a grown daughter; otherwise, there are few relatives on his side of the family. The horde of her relations made the trip north from New York, Washington and Arizona - the usual jolly, hard-to-miss army.

The wedding was beautiful and personal. The best man, matron of honor and I each read poems written by other family members; her next-door neighbor sang beautifully as my next-door neighbor played the piano. The array of guests included many members of the local Bike Club (the couple met peddling) who feel a sense of surrogacy, the parents of one of my daughter’s patients, and many loyal and long-time friends and co-workers.

There was a simple but lovely reception held in the church, followed by a dinner for family and the wedding party, and on Sunday evening I hosted the final event of the weekend, a dinner for family at my house. As the bride and groom and their entourage were leaving, I hugged the groom’s grown daughter and warmly exclaimed, “Like it or not, you’re a fart of our pamily now.”

Yep. We’re now one big happy pamily, and each one of us is a special fart of it. And this fart needs some sleep!

Friend

I pushed him once too often. He needed the push, or rather, he needed to take action, but he couldn’t take the push. His exact words as he left my life are forgotten now, although I do remember thinking profanity wasn’t ever expressed more eloquently than in the irate oration of this man. My front door – no stranger to his exits – punctuated the sign-off message with a profound slam, and then there was a very long silence.

That was the surprising part: he didn’t come back. The almost daily visits of the past twenty years completely ceased, and I got used to days and weeks uninterrupted. He was still around, but even in this North Country where no one is a stranger, our paths didn’t cross for almost two years. He had a woman companion (no doubt the reason he was able to “give me the mitten”), and I was glad for that, and a woodpile appeared in his driveway, so apparently he did make the call I was suggesting when he lost his temper with me. I hoped he was doing okay, but frankly the relief of no longer being the best friend of a person suffering mental illness was a relief I savored. I just never thought I’d be savoring it for so long.

Today while weighing the relative merits of Keebler and Nabisco in the local supermarket snack-food aisle, I became aware of a shopping cart close to mine, looked up, and there he was. I don’t know how long he’d been looking at me, but his eyes were filled with tears, and instead of “Hello,” the words, “I’m so sorry” flowed from his mouth. We embraced, a long emotional embrace, causing shoppers to make U-turns and forego crackers rather than confront this soppy pair. I told him I don’t ever care if he calls me names or gets furious with me, but he if he ever again disappears on me for two goddam years, I will hit him right side of the head with a two-by-four.

As I drove home, my mind wandered over the memories of what nearly a quarter-century of this friendship was like. How many phones had he smashed? How many dents in the front door? I thought about the morning he discharged himself from the hospital - an I.V. line, a string of obscenities and me trailing behind; remembered the call (made in my absence, from my phone) to the crisis center to come pick up his body in half an hour; thought of being in his tiny cabin as he flailed his ax, committing murder on a block of wood in the doorway; considered the night spent with him in the emergency room, his hand slashed open by the propane heater he had raged against. And who could forget the Town Court appearance where he put on a drunken oration Richard Burton would have been in awe of. With him there would always be times like those, and there would not be apologies.

And yet, he is a wonderful friend. On the good days, no one has a better sense of humor, a quicker wit; no one is smarter than my friend, no one more fun to be with. He has nursed sick animals, maintained diabetic cats, and comforted me through the death of dear pets; it was this friend who introduced me to P.G. Wodehouse, Gilbert & Sullivan and led me to Randy Newman. Have a question? Just ask him, and if he doesn’t have an informed, insightful answer immediately, expect a typed, researched response left on your dining room table within 24 hours. Baseball, science, literature, music, history – choose your topic, and my friend will bring it to life with sensitivity, intelligence and often humor.

So here I am, back on the merry-go-round again. I know there will be days when I’ll ask myself how I ever got into this relationship again, but right now I am feeling a warm sense of happiness. Thanks, Keebler and Nabisco. There's been something missing from my life.

Opening

An artists’ reception was held yesterday for exhibitors at the Frederic Remington Museum’s Amateurs Only! Juried Art Exhibition 2006. Only a few years ago I might have considered such an event with disinterest, and in fact even yesterday I went there with an attitude somewhat prejudicial toward the combination of “amateurs” and “art,” but I had to go (in fact, couldn’t wait to go) because this year I am one of those amateurs.

To my profound delight, the two of my photos selected for inclusion among the thirty-six now hanging in The Richard E. Winter Gallery are in great company. The Remington defined "amateur" as someone not making his/her living selling art, and apparently that includes some remarkable artists. I am proud to be a part of this great exhibition and (in the style of a theatre program) thank Bob, Kelly, John, Terry (of Fisher Design in Potsdam), and all of the others who have encouraged and helped me reach this milestone.

Photographs: American Wreckage (above); Web Designer (below).

The museum's website may be viewed at: www.fredericremington.org

Enough of Mickey, Already!

Photograph © Copyright 2006 WizenedEye.com

Sometimes you’re lucky enough to “get the picture” in the field; sometimes you might have to bring the subject to the studio and work at setting up a shot.

This fall there was a stretch of time when the milkweed pods began to open and the weather favored the transport of their seeds on dry, silky bits of plant-fluff. Rain would end Wind’s opportunity, and so time to photograph these ephemeral fliers was also passing. I carefully gathered up a vase-full of stalks and seed pods - several already open and beginning to spew their contents - and brought it into the house. My plan was to keep them dry and then take them back outside for photographs when I had the time.

Yesterday I glanced at my “bouquet” on the window sill near my desk. The pods are empty! No, the seeds aren’t littering my floor... they were all eaten by the mice.

Autumn Snow

© copyright WizenedEye.com 2006

Scary Stuff

I may have come a step closer to understanding the Bush administration.

Do you know that there are Evangelical Hell Houses staged this time of year to ward their youth from the perils of evil? “Come celebrate like the true believers this Halloween season at the most shocking and controversial haunted house you’ll ever visit!” states one website. Supposedly these EHHs were a brainchild of Jerry Falwell back in the 1970s, and - like bell-bottom pants - they haven’t gone away. (http://lesfreres.org/hellhouse/main.html)

You (or more likely your moronically Christian parents) purchase tickets for one of these events. On the chosen night you enter the Hell House and are walked through different rooms of evil scenarios (secular humanists sipping lattes, suicide, homosexuals dying of AIDS, pregnant cheerleaders) and finally hell. Ultimately you are saved by Jesus and asked to accept him into your life, and then you are brought to a Christian party with a live band, donuts and punch. The stick and the carrot have certainly taken on new dimensions.

All of this causes me to think about the Bush administration and the Republican party going on about Iraq having WMD, about taking war to the terrorists so they won’t take it to us, about Democrats somehow not being able to protect us from evil, and – although there are terrifying people and forces in this world – I begin to see how the G.O.P. may have come upon this idea of using fear to retain their grip on power. Can’t you just see young, drunken George W. Bush being scared sober? Can’t you just imagine Karl Rove’s glee when he realized the potential of the power of fear? Can’t you just believe that Jesus would cry if he could see what’s being passed off as his teaching?

Onions

The onions were pulled from the garden about a month ago and laid out to dry on the bed of the wagon in the tractor shed. The shed is open at both ends, and the prevailing winds whip through there, making it a perfect place for this process. When the tops are brown and beginning to shrivel and the roots no longer rubbery and vital, the onions are ready to be gathered in and stored in a cool, dry, dark place.

Holding the round head of an onion in my left hand, I firmly grasp its neck in my right, then twist the bulb around and around in a counter-clockwise direction until it severs next to my right hand. With each severing I think, “Take that, Dick Cheney [George Bush, Karl Rove, Condoleezza Rice, Donald Rumsfeld, Ralph Reed, Pat Buchanan, Bill O’Reilly...]”

Soon there are two bags full of the heads of those self-serving liars and hypocrites, and I move on to the day’s next project: mucking out Heidi’s stall. There's way too much shit in this world.

The Private Lives of Bluebirds...

A female Eastern Bluebird watches as her mate takes a bath. He splashed around, he hopped out, shook himself off, and then they flew away. The temperature here today is in the upper thirties, and they are headed south for the winter.

Fall Hiker

© copyright 2006 WizenedEye.com

A resting hiker is reflected in a still pool along the Grasse River.