SHOULD OLD ACQUAINTANCE . . .

Nine stories up, looking out over the balcony at Alabama’s sandy shore and the warm Gulf, lapping up on the beach. It’s New Year’s Eve with about six hours left to celebrate its passing. The plan is to wander Gulf Shores and Orange Beach, listen to music, sip a little vino and not eat too much. 

Funny how we single out today and tomorrow for the sole purpose of wrapping up one story and beginning again, fresh and new. I find myself celebrating the end of every day, even when I get bad news or break things. They are milestones that, at my age, take on more and more significance. The wake-up is equally sweet, with bed-head and stiff joints I smile at myself in the mirror. We get to play this game another day. But 2012 has been a remarkable year. Besides multiple road trips to Dallas, New Orleans/Baton Rouge, Chicago, Michigan and Ohio, I spent three months in Nova Scotia: swam a couple of hundred miles and lost twenty pounds. My doctors are all happy with my numbers, my friends still talk to me and every day is full of Story & Music. My children and grandchildren are well and I have a delightful new daughter (Pete & Betsy married on 12/21). So for tonight: Here’s a hand my trusty friend, give back a hand of thine, we’ll raise our spirits and the cup, for days of auld lang syne.

TICK TOCK

Waking up this morning, can’t be sure if it was a dream or low level consciousness. Maybe it started out one and stretched into the other but I was aware enough to wonder what time it was. The mantle clock began it’s hourly report as if it knew I was listening. Seven chimes and I knew, it was a good time to get up. 

I got the clock nine years ago, at an antique shop in Ludington, Michigan. It was  over a hundred years old, in great shape and everything worked. When I got it home I discovered that it only worked for a day or two, then stopped. After some searching I discovered “Bryant’s Clock Restoration”. John Bryant is a relatively young man in a traditionally, old man’s trade. He restores old, “Tick-Tock” clocks. He’s old enough to have experience and young enough you would think he’ll be around another twenty years. His shop is in Kansas City's north end. It used to be known as “Little Italy” but Columbus Circle is now home to Asian and Haitian families as well. The place screams of ethnicity but the faces and the architecture just don’t seem to go together. 

I took my new, antique, intermittently working clock to John. He told me he had a six month back log and then treated me to a short course on clock repair. With old clocks, cheap short cuts yield temporary results and then you have the same dilemma all over again. So I left my clock with him. Just over six months and $400 later, I got my clock back. All of the shafts were nested in new, oversized bushings; in newly drilled holes, with new springs and rebalanced gears. I’ve got it tweaked so it only needs a reset about every other week; and then only a few minutes. 

So, 7:00 and I’m up for the day. But I’m far, far away from any bed that I would normally sleep in. My clock and I are in Dayton, Ohio to celebrate the wedding of my son Pete and his delightful, darling Betsy. The clock has been with me long enough that I can bear to let it go. I want to give them something that suggests a tangible and enduring legacy. My mantle clock is the best I can do. 

We take time for granted, but it’s a human construct. Everything about us, all of our experiences are qualified within that framework. Was it last year, or has it only been ten minutes? How long can I hold my breath? When will you call? Time! Somehow, the ticking clock gives measure to experience and centers us in the moment. In fact, time is nothing more nor less than a way to order experience. We are stuck in the present, able to remember and to anticipate but only able to act in the moment.  

The clock is real, with a practical purpose and a story of its own. Whose home moved to its rhythm a hundred years ago? Who woke up to its chime? The hand that turned the key, wound the spring; we are without a clue but that doesn’t alter its story. At most, it’s just not for us to know. For the past nine years, this striking mantle clock has been on my dresser, reassuring me in the middle of the night and reminding me from the other end of the house. Life is moving on, with memories in its wake and a thin veneer of possibility for its future. We will celebrate a wedding this evening; in another seven hours or so. 

POW WOW

I’m not a “Tribal” kind of guy but when the whole clan is present at the same table, it’s time to Pow Wow. Sarah, in from Soldotna, Alaska; Pete & Betsy in from Dayton, Ohio and we celebrated Sarah’s birthday a couple of days early, just because we could. Jon & Jay, with their families, their mother and myself; we ate too much, played with grandchildren, told lies, tall tales, and tried to not miss a thing.

“Bedlam” is defined as, the condition of wild uproar and confusion. I remember all too well, in the 70’s & 80‘s the six of us at the same table and it was bedlam. But now they hang on each other’s words and laugh at when they made each other cry. Grandkids are well, and doing well. We must have done something right. About kids, Gibran said, “. . . you can house their bodies but not their souls. Their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow and we can’t go there; not even in our dreams.” But I get to peak in the window, the house of tomorrow, the tomorrow after that and they look like good places to be. If I was still faster than a speeding bullet and leaping tall buildings in a single bound, this growing old thing wouldn’t be bad at all. But I’ve slowed down some and my best days are watching my kids and grandkids reinvent the world.

Pete & Betsy are actually getting married next week, 12/21/12, in Dayton, OH. These two have been working on this for almost three years; trying to get their jobs in the same town and only one house between them. Looking good; I’ll be there. 

L to R - Front {Jon & Stacy's Little girls.} Cecilia, 6 and Mahala, 8 

Big girls - Stacy, Betsy, Sarah, {J.D.’s - Alexa, 12} & Granny Odis

Back row - Pete, {J.D.’s - Bailey, 16}  Jon, J.D., and me, the Poohbah.

R.H.S. CHRISTMAS PARTY

On the 1st Saturday of December, for the past eight years, old Eagles from Ruskin High School, Kansas City, classes from the 50’s & 60’s get together for a holiday party. I learned about it last year, was the only person there from my class. I saw a few people I knew and met some people who said they knew me. 

The party is paid for by anonymous alumnus: great ribs, sausage, potato salad, baked beans, finger food and beer. So we’re all going around, squinting at hard to read name tags, making jokes about growing old, trying to remember fifty year old history. The paramedics only had to come take care of one person.

This year there were four of us from '57 and it was really good to see them, find out how they are doing. Carl {on left} and I go back to the 3rd or 4th grade. Mary and Janet {next to me} back to the 9th grade. There was plenty of hoot and hollering when the classes checked in and some big “Party” talk. But by 9:00, everybody was partied out and I’m home in time to write and watch the news. We’re hoping we can get enough class mates next year to fill up a table. I can see it in my mind: dancing on the table tops and food fights until we fall asleep, or 9:00, whichever comes first. If Santa's watching, all he'll see are good little boys and girls. 

2012 THANKSGIVING

Oh my . . . my kitchen is a mess; but the food was worth it. As long as I take food somewhere else to eat, I can get away with it. When folks come to my house to eat, I have to clean up behind myself and it’s not easy. I tend to be, either - or: create or clean up, but not both at the same time. So my sink is full of dirty stuff and counter tops are cluttered with other stuff that made it only that far. I don’t mind cleaning up but it can take a while before the urge moves me.  

I’m not a traditionalist. Usually, when friends or family want to conform to tradition, because it’s tradition, I jump out of line and be something different. My mother was a great cook but holiday meals were special because of who you sat by and the great stories that were created in the process. So abandoning the Turkey tradition is easy for me. I’ve spent the last two decades rubbing shoulder and breaking bread with Cajun cooks, from New Orleans to the back waters of the Atchafalaya Basin. In the process, I paid attention and now have a few “Killer” recipes committed to memory. I wouldn’t call it tradition, more like “Just do the very best you know how.” 

There is something about cranberries, pecans, honey and orange zest that stands alone, has nothing to do with tradition; so I made cranberry sauce. Caramelize thin sliced onions and brussel sprouts in butter for a green vegetable and mixed up a little apple salad; it was coming together. I know; it’s Thanksgiving and you need a main dish that everything else can rally around. Gumbo is always a good choice but today I chose Shrimp & Grits. Recently, since I’ve been back in the mid-west, when I mention Shrimp & Grits someone is bound to tell me about South Carolina Shrimp & Grits. Down there, they serve creamy grits; which is O.K., I suppose. I prefer baked, cheese grits and there is no comparison. Throw in ‘dem shrimps with a little Cajun Trinity {onion, celery & bell pepper}, cook ‘em down, juicy with as much cayenne pepper, paprika and garlic as you can stand. 

Sipped on a glass of Pinot Noir and fed my face. Now I”m full and there’s pie in the refrigerator that will have to wait. This life sure is good and I’m Thankful as I can be, every day. I don’t eat like this every day but I am thankful every day: hope Y’all are havin’ a wonderful holiday.

BELLA NAPOLI

Bella Napoli is a bonafide, Italian Coffee Shop, Deli, Restaurant in the Brookside neighborhood of Kansas City, MO. Depending on the time of day, table trappings evolve from coffee cups and muffins to panini’s in styrofoam boxes and then linen napkins and a pedigree wine list. I hang out there with a morning coffee klatch that has been meeting every day, except Sunday, for a very long time. I was allowed to sit and join in a couple of years ago. They are used to me disappearing for weeks or months at a time so when I return, it’s a happy, fun time. 

Attendance generally runs 6 to 8 through the morning but then some days it gets crowded, like today, there were thirteen of us. I think the record is seventeen. We have an understanding with management to put chairs back and go away by 11:00. Good friends are treasures and these characters are the real deal. This round table is missed when I’m on the road; not enough to keep me in the zip code but I do miss the good conversation, the wide range of interests and expertise. It’s difficult to be in house and not learn something new. 

Swimming is going well. I get my laps in early now and write later but the day unwinds about the same. I still have to discipline myself to do guitar work in the evening but it will come. It’s harder to do work when you have friends who want to play. This life is getting tougher all the time.

WATSONVILLE

After driving a while and then a mile or so on gravel you come to the mail box at 6082 Rollenhagen Rd., off the beaten track between Grand Rapids and Muskegon, Michigan. A left turn puts you on a two track drive with a 15 acre meadow on the left, and a deep gully full of maples and hemlock on the right. A hundred yards farther you can see the tan paint of the barn through a maze of more trees and a red pickup truck or a tractor, or small bull dozer parked there. As you close in on the place, through trees on the right, the two story, tan house with a gambrel roof begins to take shape. I call the place, Watsonville.

For all legal and official purposes, this is where I live. Most of the time I’m somewhere else and the people who own the property come and go without fanfare. Duane and Laura Watson have the upstairs, back bedroom. Other Watson’s, son Ben and brother Doug, dwell in the basement. Now that daughters Kelly and Jaime are married it leaves three bedrooms unoccupied. One of those rooms is mine. It isn’t always the same room but I merit a closet and haven’t had to sleep on the sofa yet. When visiting family or friends beat me to my regular room, I just bump down one room across the hall. 

Days begin early here. Duane, a teacher, is usually up by 4:00 a.m. and covers the 12 miles to school by 5:00. Laura is an administrative assistant at the same school but doesn’t leave so early. Bedtime comes early too. I’m usually the only one up when I drag in at 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. I sleep until 6:30 and am the only one in the house when the sun comes up. Wait; that’s not altogether true. Helix, the calico cat usually follows me into the bathroom, jumps up on the counter top and waits for me to turn on the water. I make the faucet trickle as he prefers running water. After he drinks his fill, he jumps down and I can take care of my morning chores. His name derives from DNA structure; yeah, biology teachers. 

I have to remember to close my door every time. Oliver, the long hair, tan cat learned years ago that the latch on my door doesn’t catch every time and if he leans against it, sometimes it opens. He likes to sleep on the pillow as he sheds. He’s named for Charles Dickens’ character Oliver Twist. He’s the only cat that will crawl up in your lap and solicit affection. Mango is the old, yellow & white, battle worn, veteran, barn cat with scars to prove it. He’s earned his place in the house and is old enough I don’t know the origin of his name. 

While we’re on animals, Sanford is the most recent critter: a 2-yr. old Chiwawa-Terrier mix. He thinks he’s 10 ft. tall and bullet proof and he is a good watch dog. He covers the front yard and meadow from his perch in the bay window and he can hear a crumb hit the kitchen floor from outside on the deck. We have a new generation of chickens in the coop. Last spring’s raccoon invasion resulted in the loss of all 14, free range, laying hens and 9 raccoons paid the ultimate price for that indiscretion. We are beginning again with a redesigned, coon-proof chicken house. The new pullets stopped peeping and started clucking a couple of weeks ago and should start laying soon.

The house is heated with a high tech wood furnace, located out by the barn. A thermostat controls the fire box which heats water to 170 degrees, fed underground into the house. It goes through a heat exchanger in the traditional, forced air furnace and heats the house, then recycled back to the fire box. With another heat exchanger in the hot water tank, we use 170 degree water to heat well water to 105 degrees. 

The meadow is planted in either rye or oats for the deer in winter and the wood pile needs to be replenished regularly. So there’s always something to do on Rollenhagen Rd. Sometimes I cook. Sometimes I help with outside chores. Sometimes they just like having me around. When people want to know where I’m from, I don’t know what to say. I usually say something about all of us coming from Africa, a long time ago. But if they need coordinates, Watsonville. is what I tell them. 

JUST ONE MORE

I don’t know how many times I’ve photographed this light house, too many to count. It’s always the Grand Haven pier, but then it’s always new. The only constants are the pier, light house and the catwalk. The sky can have any combination of clouds or blues, and water color, waves and beach always different than last time. Birds come in and out of the frame and direct or indirect, high or low angle; light is always changing. Today the wind was strong, out of the northwest. Low clouds were lined up all the way to the horizon with little, narrow gaps between them. I wanted low angle sun light on the red light house and I had to wait. Being focused and ready when one of those narrow little windows opened and the sun came through, was a waiting game. You might get a minute and it might only last 5 seconds. My fingers ached from the cold and it was difficult holding the camera steady in the wind. But something always complicates the process and you have to work around the inconvenience. You have so many elements working, it’s like juggling 5 or 6 balls, waiting for them to be in a perfect alignment and being ready on the shutter the moment they get there. I took 88 frames this morning; after edits and deletes I had it cut down to 6.
Day before yesterday the remnants of Hurricane Sandy were curling around and down through Ontario, stirring up Lake Michigan. There were 20 ft. waves crashing over the pier and on the beach. The catwalk question didn’t need an answer. It was obvious why, in the old days, they needed a raised steel walkway, with hand rails and a life line from shore out to the light house. This morning the wind still has a cold edge and there are 6 to 8 ft. swells feeding into the channel but the lake has settled down. I decided to stop taking photos when my hands were too cold to feel the on/off switch on the camera. I figured there were a few good shots in there and it would be more rewarding to write and edit with hot coffee and a bagel than to keep leaning into that wind, working for a better photograph. But it’s like picking mushrooms or stones up off the beach. You have 6 in hand and decide to stop after just one more. Then you find #7 and it wasn’t enough after all and you keep looking. You begin to question your own intelligence after you collect #15, the one you promised yourself would be the last one, but it wasn't quite good enough to be the last one. 
I had turned my back to the wind, putting my camera back into its bag. For all practical purposes, I was finished taking photos. Then, for the same reason I suppose that alcoholics take another drink, I reached into the bag and took out a different lens and swapped out my mid range for the big baby. We were close enough we didn’t need the magnification but the “Big Baby”  has an anti-vibration feature that senses and corrects any minor motion, as you trip the shutter. I thought about the cold but it wasn’t going to get any colder, still the sun was getting higher and I might not have this chance again for a very long time. So I took more photos. I caught up with coffee and bagel a little later, exactly what I needed and my hands warmed up just like I knew they would. My hair has a bad case of “Bed-Head” and the runny nose will slow down soon. But I’m exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to be doing. 

IT'S IN THE DETAILS

A little over a hundred years ago, Springfield, Ohio was a thriving city and Burton Westcott was one of its most successful businessmen. He was in the farm implement business and later built luxury touring cars. Burton wanted a new house, one that would set him apart from other rich men whose mansions lined National Road. So he bought property on National Road, out near the edge of town. Then he hired a young, progressive, up and coming architect from Chicago to create a plan and bring it to completion: Frank Lloyd Wright.

I went there yesterday. After a century of privilege and prestige, decline and decay; the house stands restored. Owned and operated by a non profit trust, the Westcott House is one of Wright’s lesser accomplishments but so said, the earth is one of God’s lesser accomplishments as well. It is the only FLW house I’ve ever been inside but that will not be for long. Do I feel a road trip coming on? When you learn about the man, you can't avoid the dark side of his personality and of failures in his private life but how many of us have failed at one of life’s venues? Van Gogh was a failure and a drunk most of his life. If his brother hadn’t guided his career and rescued him, year after year, there would have never been a “Starry Night”.  

What struck me, and I knew it by his reputation but taken for granted; the details. With nothing left to chance, no detail was trivial. From the unusual angle at which the floor boards were sawed, to highlight the the wood’s grain, to the way the house was oriented to make use of natural daylight, it lets you know you are in a special place. When I first saw the Grand Canyon it took my breath away, in a heart beat. The Westcott House took my breath away, one detail at a time. Any well intended person can screw up their private life. But who could have envisioned windows and skylights with their ever changing, geometric shadows playing across the floors and up the walls, all day? I don’t know.

AFFORDABLE TRAVEL CLUB WITH PETE & ANNE

I belong to a travel club; found out about it from a friend in Kansas City. All you have to do is pay an annual fee, be over 55 and have a spare bedroom. Your name goes on into a directory where other members can contact you when they are on the road and need a place to stay. It’s a private, senior, Bed & Breakfast network. Someday, if I stay home a while, someone may call me and I’ll have the chance to make new friends on my own turf. 

Anne and Pete Foster were my hosts last night: a delightful couple from East Hampton, Connecticut.  Pete made a career with telephone companies in every capacity one could imagine. Anne was a homemaker and did public relations for the Red Cross, a multi career, career. Last night we shared supper and talked about me mostly. I had to change the subject to learn more about them and their story. 

Today I’ll drive west, across Pennsylvania: tonight I’ll stay in Pittsburg, with the Mann’s. Friday night will be in Dayton, Ohio with my son Pete and his better half, Betsy. They have a new home and I get to be the first, official guest. I hope to have time to stop and say “Hey” to a couple of old friends along the route. 

I’m a lucky old dog and I know it. Every time I meet someone worth knowing I’m reminded how important it is to wear the hat you want to be remembered by. It’s a great motivation to be your best self, every day, all the time.

Like A Band Of Gypsies We Go Down The Highway

Calais, Maine: I just crossed over through Customs. The Border guy was very nice; told him several stories and I think he just wanted to get rid of me. He allowed me two extra bottles of wine and my brand new, trophy board. I was gifted a “1 x “12 x ‘7 rough cut, clear pine board, fresh off the table at the saw mill in Bridgewater, Nova Scotia. I was warned that I might get static at the border and maybe even have to give it up but the Agent liked the story and welcomed me home. I had planned to stay here tonight but I’m ahead of schedule by a few hours and look to make Bangor, possibly even Portland before I shut down. 

The Story Telling Circle of Halifax gave me a goodbye send off last night: a soup & salad supper at Gil & Linda Winham’s, in Bedford. Ten StoryTellers around the same table . . . right! It was a Hoot. I stayed there last night; clothes packed and car loaded, which put me right on the jump-off, out of town this morning. I’ll post this and get back behind the wheel. 

I’ll miss new friends and cool places and there are lots of reasons to come back but for now, miles = smiles and I'm Smilin'.

"GIG"

Starbucks on Lacewood Dr. has been a friendly haunt now for a couple of months. The coffee is o.k. and the prices are in line with everywhere else. The staff knows me, what I like and they make me feel like I belong. The crowd that filters through here is pretty savvy, pretty cool; no slugs. But what I like best is the music. When I walk in the door, I know I’ll be hearing Dylan or Neil Young, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, and a comparable line up of artists, with a noticeably Canadian flavor. That’s a way-cool way to begin a new day. 

Yesterday, almost everything I did was preparation, funneling down to a 7:00 Story gig. It’s been a very long time since I worked in front of an adult audience. Not like kids, they will know if you’re prepared and if what you offer up is worth listening to. So I spent time through the day with the guitar, working my left hand through scales and chord changes. Made up a list of things I didn’t want to forget; story selections and the order I would follow. My biggest worry is losing my way in a song. A break in a story can be covered up with body language or other little tricks but music is too structured for that. 

The Story Tellers Circle of Halifax hosts a program, followed by an open mic once a month at Chebucto Coffee. Last night they gave me the first hour. The audience was about a dozen deep, mostly other Tellers. That’s a double edge blade, like preaching to the choir, all friendly faces who want you to succeed but also knowing the difference between “good” and “so-so”. 

I told a few Sam and Forrest Cole stories, from the Civil War era and the connection with their infamous cousins, outlaws Frank & Jesse James. Then I went to my bread & butter. “Summertime” is my favorite, best story, where a little boy tries to avoid work and ease his fears by coaxing his mother to sing for him. His name is LeRoy and everyone figures out quickly that I’m just an older LeRoy going by another name. 

I told the story I wrote for my daughter, a Cinderella tale with moon and stars; with dancing, a rainbow and a little magic. The guitar, the lyrics; everything came out right. Applause is the proper response in any case but when faces, the eyes in particular, tell you that you’re doing something right, it's a trip. Then I told a fun, little tale about the time I tried to teach my son to tie his shoes. He was in kindergarten; we practiced every day for weeks but no cigar. Then, at recess, a third grader on the playground showed him how. I improvised a little ditty on tying shoes, in the key of “E”. Sounded like I had been doing it that way forever.

After the break, instead of me telling more Story we segued into an informal discussion on creating your own stories and with issues related to telling stories from cultures other than your own. It was an awesome evening and I left feeling more than satisfied. People who had been strangers or acquaintances at best, parted company as friends. 

I have my last training session at the Apple Store in about an hour. The new, photo workshop software has lots of details and stuff to remember, that’s where I get bogged down but the options and affects are great. The next project is another book, in the same vein as the one I wrote for my family in 2011. Have two pieces, with photos, already in the can and still learning how to format things in ways I never thought I could do.

Sunshine yesterday; rain forecast for today and clouds are already here, dropping down. In the movies, back when Bert Reynolds was on top, with heavy mustache and side burns; “Smokey & The Bandit” was a big hit. The theme song had a great hook line that comes to mind now. It went, “I’ve got a long way to go, and a short time to get there. I’m leaving town, just watch old Bandit run.”  Well, I’m feeling more and more like Bandit.

GAME DAY

I remember football games and wrestling matches where we worked so hard, for days or even weeks, preparing. Each practice you focus on the work at hand, knowing that time will run out and the day will come. Then on game day, a process of protocol kicks in. You dress a certain way; start through a check list of game day things to do and wait for the next task to come up, each in its own time. All of that preparation, over which you exercise tremendous control would become history and the game takes on a life of its own. It felt like being temporarily demoted from the chess master to one of the chessmen on the board. 

Thank goodness for taping ankles and wrists, last minute equipment needs and unexpected, even unrelated issues that required attention. Pre-game jitters fuel a fire and if there is no outlet for that energy, it works against all the preparation. That’s when we visualize what the contest will be like. Every time, the vision is of us doing just like we practiced and coming out on top. Then comes the going out and the warming up, the shaking hands and calling the coin toss. All that’s left is for the referee to blow the whistle.

Once it begins, the game keeps its grip on everything. Everything is metered by the clock and by an official who doesn’t care what you want or what you think. So time ticks away and the game plays out. It can go your way or not. Either way, you prefer to initiate action but that ends when the whistle blows. The game is in control now and all you can do is react. A look at the score board tells you where you are and prompts any number of attitude adjustments and course changes. You feel like a horse that has been pulling a cart up hill all week, finally you’re on the down hill side with a heavy wagon behind, pushing you down the road. If you wanted to stop you couldn’t, the wagon would run you over and then drag you along behind. You don’t want to be dragged behind so you push back and try to keep your feet.

Then the clock ticks its way out of time and the last whistle blows. It’s over and it’s your game again. You take the credit or you take the blame. Preparation is one thing: the aftermath another. You either celebrate or commiserate. It all belongs to you again and you begin the cycle all over. 

The whistle blew in August, when I left Michigan. I’ve been here long enough that the game has aged and evolved into an aftermath and I’m preparing again. It’s game day and I’m visualizing, warming up, waiting for a new whistle to blow; ready as I’ll ever be. But the clock isn’t ready yet and I’ve got a few days left to stretch, shake hands and toss coins. But I’m an old hand at this: have it down pat.

Telling Story day isn’t that much different than game day. I’m Telling at Chebucto Coffee House tonight; I’ll play and sing as well. My preparation is almost done and the clock is ticking. I don’t paw the ground or shuffle jitters away any more. I relax, drink coffee and listen to music. If I had a message for the clock it would be: Hey, I’ll be ready when you are.

COUNTING DAYS

I closed out Starbucks last night. When they come around with a mop bucket and start cleaning around your feet, you can’t miss the message. My lodging arrangements are strange but it works and I don’t have much longer to do this tippy-tippy dance. I escaped the apartment early this morning, before anybody else got up. It was still dark and a steady rain was going on. Once in the car I have to start making decisions. I won’t come back until after 10:30 tonight.

Sometimes I start out at Starbucks with decaf and a bagel. I can go in and hang out without buying anything but feel guilty when I do. This morning I went there but the rain was pecking on the roof and dotting the windshield so I shut everything off but the radio. With the seat back and rain and the radio, a cat nap came easy. It wasn’t long before a car door closing brought me back. The rain hadn’t let up any and the windshield was covered with droplets.  

There was music on the radio but the show was up on the glass. Water is pretty amazing stuff. An H2O molecule is absolutely tiny. But they stick together so well that they pool up into droplets and drops, and even tiny puddles. When you have a light mist, really tiny droplets, there isn’t enough turbulence in the air to make them bump into each other so they make it all the way to the ground as pin point size droplets. If it’s a bumpy ride down, they do bump into other droplets and the attraction between them is so great that they stick together. Two tiny droplets combine to become one, slightly larger droplet; two larger ones make an even bigger drop. 

Water likes to stick to other stuff too, like my skin when I climb out of the pool, and my windshield. So I’m sitting there behind the wheel, watching rain drops that are stuck on my windshield. As they encounter other droplets, they grow from the pin points that landed there into drops as big as a pencil eraser. That’s nice but there are other things going on that will change the story. 

The glass provides a surface for the drops to stick onto but you also have to factor in the arc and the angle of the glass and gravity. As drops get bigger, there is more for gravity to pull on and the shape of the drop tends to flatten out. Or, if the surface is at a sharp enough angle, the big drop is overcome by gravity, looses its grip on the glass and begins to slide downhill {down my windshield}. 

As it gains speed, it touches other drops in its path. When they touch they say, “Hey, let’s stick together and be an even bigger drop.” That big drop accelerates down the glass, gobbling up all the drops in its way, leaving a clear streak behind that immediately begins to collect other, new, tiny rain drops. 

I watch big drops on the glass that are just about ready to let go and take the plunge. With my imagination I can almost hear their conversations, like kids with their sleds, lined up on a snowy hilltop. “Go ahead, I’ll follow you.” At any given moment, there were three or four drops in progress down the glass and as many streaks left behind that hadn’t filled in yet. 

So I’m a 73-yr. old dude who hasn’t outgrown the sense of wonder for how the world works. I’m sitting there trying to predict which drop will go next. A really big one was up high, near the edge where the glass wasn’t as steep. I figure it was bragging, “When I go, I’ll take a lot of little guys with me, and be going so fast when I hit the wiper blade at the bottom that I’ll ooze together with everybody else and we’ll flow off the end and just keep on going.” 

The smaller guy asks, “Where will you be when you get there?”  The big guy says, “All the way Baby.” I could have offered an opinion but thought better. Still, it went through my mind. “This isn’t Kansas Dorothy. Halifax Harbor is only a couple of miles down the hill and All The Way isn’t all that far.” The big drop got the bump it needed and streaked down the glass.  It was fast and I couldn’t hear the splat but I’m sure it added to the stream, running off the end of the wiper blade. 

I skipped the bagel & decaf, didn’t want to spend the five dollars. Swam with the early birds today and went to my aerobics/yoga class afterward instead of before. I was done by 10:30 and it was still raining. The library is just across the street from the gym so I logged in with my visitors card. Won’t be doing this much longer. One more gym class this week and three or four more swims. I have computer classes tomorrow and Thursday, a story telling gig at another coffee shop on Friday night; a short road trip on Saturday. Then all I have to do is see some friends farewell on Sunday. I’ll drive down along the South Shore on Monday to pick up some stuff I left there last week. Somewhere in there I need to get the car serviced and do laundry. Early Tuesday morning I’ll nose my little blue Toyota down hill and make like a rain drop on the windshield. I don’t count the days but I know exactly how many more wake-ups here are left.

I’ve done just about everything I came here to do. I’ll write it off as a success and start thinking about what to do, where to go after the holidays. The five day drive will be good therapy and layovers in Dayton and Grand Rapids will be good medicine too. In a few hours I’ll close Starbucks down again. Seven wake-ups. 

FROST

                                                        

Saturday morning, 7:00 a.m. at the coffee shop. with a bagel and decaf grande. No action here to speak of yet but it’s early and it’s the weekend, the pretty people will start coming through soon. The real news is frost. Hard frost on car tops and windows this morning in the parking lot. On the radio, it’s all they talk about. I don’t know if it’s just denial or maybe the climate here isn’t as harsh as one might imagine. Halifax is on about the same latitude as Minneapolis but it has the sea to keep it warm. The rain cleared out overnight and it will be a clear, sunny day but the wind still has an edge.

If we got frost here, I bet they got it down on the South Shore too. Last week I met a couple from down by Lunenburg; musicians. Jude plays guitar while Charlie plays Irish flute and they both sing. She immigrated here from England in the late 90’s and they live on the farm where Jude grew up. The main house is 180 years old. The board floor was nailed down about the same time Custer picked a fight with Crazy Horse at the Little Bighorn. They rent it to a lady and her kids while Jude & Charlie live in the summer house. 

The summer house wasn’t built until the early 1900’s. It looks like a storage shed with a sleeping loft under a gambrel roof. A small space was added later along with a wood stove. They are building  again, adding a back door, a porch, bay window and more living space with the chimney inside rather than outside the wall, Altogether, with the expanded living space the summer house might total 400 sq. ft. 

I spent a couple of days with them, making music, walking in the woods; I helped Jude with wiring, insulation, altering second hand windows to fit the new bay window, and Charlie, improvising a temporary shelter for fire wood. They cook on a propane camp stove; the greens and potatoes in our lentil soup came from the garden. When we needed wood to finish framing windows we went to the saw mill where the boards come rough cut and plywood is something you find in the city. They aren’t quite finished but I’m sure the frost will expedite their work. 

I’m guessing they are in their late 30’s or early 40’s, same as my kids. They live incredibly simply, happily. What they have meets their need and they don’t seem to want for anything. With a concert itinerary that stretches across Canada, spring into fall, they travel in a 20-yr old, Mitsubishi diesel, 4 wheel drive van. 

As much as I take comfort in the lifestyle and security that my grand children enjoy, my faith in the human journey was nurtured this week. I know there are still people, a few, who swim upstream, live a dream rather than take for granted the culture of granite counter tops, leaf blowers and in-ground watering systems. What’s even better, I know their names and where to find them. It’s just a short drive down the South Shore, across the LaHave river, south of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia.

HALIFAX & RAIN

Two months ago I had to program my GPS to find my way across the street. Now I drive around Halifax like I know where I’m going, and I get where I want to be. It’s kind of like slicing a sheet cake into squares. When you learn a half dozen streets in the same plane and another perpendicular set, you can explore the grid with some confidence.  

I am staying in the NW part of HRM. A while back, the suburbs and marginal communities merged into what is now known as HRM - Halifax Regional Municipality. So Clayton Park is now just the far NW corner of Halifax. It’s got a few neighborhoods with single family homes but high rise apartment/condos line  both sides of every major street. Old Halifax still has the tree lined streets and shingle-sided, two and three story homes wedged together only a few feet apart. 

I’ll be heading back to the Midwest in a few weeks, making little course  corrections as the day draws near. I want all clean clothes and no Canadian money left when I cross the border. Then I don’t want to miss anyone I want to see here before I go. This immersion into the Maritime culture has been comfortable and the people I come across have treated me well. 

The differences between us are few but they are real; I suppose it depends on who you hang out with and where you go. On the surface I’d say Canadians are less caught up in ideological controversy than Americans. You don’t see  the trappings of affluent consumption that I take for granted. When I go into a store, the lights are not as bright; saving energy. Public buildings have lower ceilings, fewer water fountains, smaller washrooms. At some level, efficiency is favored over appearance and convenience. From baristas to fishermen to educators, the people I’ve met are courteous, articulate and well spoken. Political correctness thrives here, less about an agenda and more an inherent mutual respect. I’ve grown accustomed to their little accent; with the “out” words. Phonetically, any word with the “out” sound written into it is pronounced “oat” So “about” is “aboat”, and “without” is “withoat”.  There are many more subtle little “o” sounds that emerge when I’m not expecting it and that’s cool too. Nobody mistakes me for a native. They ask what part of the southwest I come from. I tell ’em Michigan with a disclaimer; in Michigan they want to know where I’m from as well. 

I’ll be cleaning out the Toyota and figuring out how to pack soon enough. In the meantime, fall is here. Fall is big tourism time in Nova Scotia. Fall colors draw people from all over. Big cruise ships are tied up on the wharf every day and the double decker busses are running non-stop, rain or shine. Recently it’s been more rain than shine. Two big boats on the same day dump over 6,000 people onto the water front and into down town. That’s good; on those days food vendors set up shop at the Farmer’s Mkt. inside the Pier. I usually choose between Indian, Thai and Mediterranean. Yesterday it was falafel and tabouli. 

Every sunny day now is a holiday. Everyone dresses for it and walk outside. Sunglasses are as much a statement as for the eyes. I’ve done December and January in Anchorage and I know how that goes. Somehow this place reminds me of Alaska, from the dark rocky outcroppings and the thin film of soil, to long stretches of forest and lakes. They know what’s in store, later on. It will be cold and gray, with low skies and wind. I’ll be somewhere else.

P.E.I.

Halifax, Nova Scotia; I like the routine I”m in, even if it is boring. I haven’t been on a scale but I’m losing weight and that wasn’t happening in Missouri. Last night I took my belt off and my pants fell down without unbuttoning the fly. I’m taking more time off to explore but gasoline here is approaching $6/gal. and I plan my travel diligently. A typical day includes two hard hours in the pool and the gym, then a nap and lunch. Afternoons slip by in the library, reading, writing, catching up. I get plenty of down time, just never know when it’s going to strike. But then I can entertain myself with a  rubber band and a clothes pin. 

Just spent three days up on Prince Edward Island, about the size of New Jersey; They farm and fish there; in summer it’s a popular vacation destination. The beaches are pristine and it looks like the 1950’s when you go out in the countryside. Small, neat & clean family farms with hills and winding, two lane roads give it a wholesome feeling. Stayed at a B&B in Summerside (big city of 15,000).

Low tide of course, I went out on a headland that juts out into the sea. Red sandstone, red sand, red beaches; looked like a bazillion clay flower pots, ground into dust. I made my way out to water’s edge, maybe a hundred yards from the beach. You watch where you put your feet as kelp and sea weed were everywhere and a slip would either break the camera or make me bleed. I was careful. 

The scenery didn't offer many good photos so I began searching between rocks and in small, shallow, land locked pools. Not much there until, “Eureka!”. Right beside my foot in about an inch of water, a starfish, about the size of a silver dollar. I was excited as a little kid; took a photo, then bent over and picked it up. It grabbed on, hung onto my finger while I checked it out, Phylum Echinodermata, radial symmetry; oh my, too many Biology classes. Then it occurred to me; if there was one starfish trapped by the low tide, there must be more. So I start looking and they were easy to find once I knew what to look for; not very colorful but you can’t miss the shape. But they move faster than you might think. In nature, little creatures hide from the big ones. While I was off collecting, they crawled up under the vegetation. As I added to my little herd, I had to keep moving them back to the middle of my seaweed corral. I thought about Gene & Roy, rounding up stray cows, with Gabby Hayes fixing beans and biscuits back at the chuck wagon. For about five minutes I forgot everything and was on the range, herding little doggies. Reality caught up with us; the tide turned, I took another photo and headed back to the beach. I loved it.

The next day I went up the other side of the island; up to where the fishing boats were working lobster and tuna. A tuna boat only gets to take one fish per day. I was hanging out with the guys who work the wharf, in their big rubber boots and yellow rubber raincoats. A boat came in with it’s one fish; weighed in at 608 lbs. They hoisted it off the boat with an electric winch; cut off the head and fins. After it was cleaned it weighed 496 lbs. They said it would be in Tokyo in 48 hours where it would bring $15/lb. at the fish market. I did the math and was impressed. It takes cleaning fish to another level and it was a learning experience but not near the fun as herding starfish.

MOST PHOTOGRAPHED LIGHTHOUSE

In all of the world, there is one, most photographed light house. It sits on a heap of granite, thrust up out of the Atlantic on Nova Scotia's eastern shore. At Peggy's Cove, tourists come by the thousands. They come to see, to take photographs of the lighthouse but it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It is human history cast against the timelessness of stone and sea, a story begging to be fleshed out. I am reminded of the Johnny Mercer song, “When an irresistible  force, such as you, meets an old, immovable object like me, you can bet as sure as you live, . . .” The song about lovers pairs with metaphor the immovable sea and shore, and with people who have breached that boundary for as long as there have been boats. 

I arrived at first light, before sunrise. Fishing boats were already setting lobster pots, so close you could hear their engines idling and men’s voices across the water but the parking lot was empty. The sky was low and broken so there was no first dash of morning against the white lighthouse. I took photos anyway. Fog came and went and finally, sun broke through and the shots I wanted were there. I was ready and it was a good shoot. 

In the restaurant I had fishcakes, beans and coffee. When I came out a half hour later, there were several busses and hundreds of people, climbing on the rocks around the lighthouse. In another hour, people would be swarming around the land mark like ants on a peach seed. There would be no more uncluttered photographs that day. Leaving my camera in the car, I took one last walk out on the rocks. 

Some folks are satisfied to walk the path while others need to climb up on the rocks. A few venture down into the crevices and labyrinths, to either turn around and come back or climb on, up the far reaches to the point. Not many go all the way out to the edge but there were a few when I got there. On the edge, there is no place to look but out to sea. Straight out, the next dry land is Morocco. To say it’s a dangerous place is hyperbole: it’s no more dangerous than a street corner in a busy city. You are only one step away from disaster. But the metaphor rings a little truer. It is the boundary where man’s domain meets water world. The boats and their men from the early morning were out there somewhere; with modern equipment and safety features to help guide them home. They go out but they don’t all come home. Every fishing port has a monument to men who have been lost at sea. 

The lighthouse behind us was a testament to man’s perilous relationship with the sea. It helped signal the way home and it marked dangerous headlands and rocky shores. We have radar and GPS now but nobody wants to photograph radar beacons or GPS machines. The lighthouse has history and the metaphor, like lovers, marks the attraction of earth’s immovable reality and of man’s irresistible urge to go there.