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.