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.

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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.

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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)

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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!

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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.

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.