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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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.

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

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

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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.

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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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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

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

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.

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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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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