THE NOW

New Year’s Eve; traditional time for reflection, resolutions and taking stock. I try to keep myself focused on the present, in the moment, on the Now as Eckhart Tolle says. After they start paying you to stay away from work, if you wait for the culture to point the way or throw you a line you can fall off the cart altogether, on the fast track to irrelevance. So I ask myself what is important to me, right now. As soon as I get an answer, that’s what I act on. I’ll ask myself again in a few hours. Ironically, that’s what we should all be doing, young to old. But Tolle was right when he wrote his little book and nothing has changed. All I’ve ever had to work with is the Now and I still have that. 

2014 was good. I finished with good health, family, good friends and enough to pay my bills. I covered a lot of miles, gave my passport some exercise and captured a few great photographs. There were speed bumps and a tumble or two but you don’t get redo’s; I won’t mull over it. 2015 has a loose schedule but schedules have a way of morphing into something else. My daughter and I have seats reserved on a river raft for the end of August. We ran away from home, the two of us, in June of ’89. Everybody else in the family had jobs and we saw the writing on the wall. If we stayed home we would be mowing grass and cleaning house all summer. So we threw bikes and sleeping bags in the pickup and headed for the west coast. Together, we discovered the Grand Canyon. You may have seen the movie and heard the stories but you can’t experience it vicariously. We promised ourselves that someday, we would float the Colorado from top to bottom. I was there four years ago with my granddaughter; realized if we were going to float, it had to be soon. This is the year. 

The Now has me in Baton Rouge for the New Year and I’ll work on celebrating some bubbly at midnight. The Grand is too far out for me to give it much thought. Tomorrow will be high priority when it becomes the NOW, and the day after that as well. But the morning I find myself on the beach at Lee’s Ferry, AZ and we are packing our dry bags onto the raft, it will be the only thing on my mind. 

I collect quotes; not a bad way to close out the blog for 2014. Most quotes are too long for me and either cliche or clever word play. But some are worth keeping. These are favorites.

“What day is it?”

“It’s today,” squeaked Piglet.

“My favorite day,” said Pooh.

A.A. Milne

 “Do not dwell in the past nor dream of the future.                                                    Concentrate on the present moment.”

Buddha

12/21/14

Holiday atmosphere had been dampened by several days of low clouds and rain. But 12/21 has nice symmetry, maybe a little mojo working. Sunday was the only day my kids and their kids could rendezvous for food and gift exchanges and we jumped on the opportunity. Had we costumes, one might have mistaken the table for a medieval feast. Grapes and cherries, cheese, veggies, chips and dip; chile substituted for roast pig and we used spoons. After gifts were opened we settled in for a board game that had everyone drawing cards to find out what kind of ridiculous act they had to perform in front of the others. We had to set ground rules about smart phone videos and what could be posted on Facebook. 

Back on 12/21/12, it was an altogether different celebration. In Dayton, Ohio, we celebrated a wedding. My oldest son Pete and my 2 now, going on 3 year daughter said their, ”I Do’s.” We got to talk on the phone with them last night as they marked their 2nd anniversary. We talked to our daughter/sister in Alaska as well. Her birthday, just a long week earlier was still fresh in our celebrating. 

When I got home the rain had let up but the patio was still wet. I gathered scrap wood from a barrel in the basement and built a mini-bonfire in the chiminea. Sitting in front of the fire, I watched flames leap out of the stack, sparks rising and disappearing in the dark. 12/21 is winter solstice; has been since they adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1582. Solstice must be the earliest, most enduring celebration in the history of human-kind. I love it. The longest night of the year signals longer days, more sunlight and the promise of warmer weather. The warmer weather takes a while, like 4 months but the promise is something you can hang onto. It will happen. From their cave-condos, our ancestors associated longer hours of daylight, even by a few minutes; before they knew what a minute was, with the return of warm weather. 

In Great Britain, Pagan Druids worshiped trees and burned logs in sacrifice on that longest night of the year. Out of that tradition came the Yule Log. Decorating trees and the Yule Log were later incorporated into Christian tradition, a way to help assimilate pagans into the new, Roman religion. So I sing, “Silent Night” and, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” in keeping with the new. I also build a bonfire on the longest night, in keeping with the old. 

PLAN FOR THE DAY

My plan for the day was to mat and frame some photographs for a show I’m hanging in the spring. I’ve never done that before and I need help. Today my helper couldn’t make it so we rescheduled for another day. I called a friend and asked if he would help me size the gallery space, come up with the ideal number of pieces and frame sizes to best fit the room. So imagine two little old men with tape measures and sketchpad, fumbling around the gallery. Straight out, it was reminiscent of an old, Laurel & Hardy movie. We arranged empty frames up against blank panels and debated the merits of here or there, large or small, vertical or horizontal. After a couple of hours, we had a new plan. It looks like 23 pieces, plus or minus; and three different sizes. I love it when I have a plan. I never stick to the plan but it’s nice to know there is one. 

I’ve known Nelson since 2008; we go to the same church. We both have kids in Alaska and we teamed up on a big road trip. We drove my daughter’s car to Washington then took it on the boat, up the inland passage. He flew back after a week or so and I stayed in Anchorage for a couple of months. I hadn’t seen him recently; I was down on the gulf coast for thanksgiving and he was in N.Y. for the Macy’s Parade. His career was all about how crop insurance should work in 3rd world countries and mine was about teenagers and the difference between momentum and inertia. He is a good friend. 

It was lunch time when we finished and the weather today was unbelievable, Here it is, warm and sunny in mid December. We both wanted to eat outside as the weather will surely close down soon, leaving us to sit in a booth next to a window and watch winter go by. So we landed at a little sandwich shop on the Country Club Plaza. It’s a high end shopping district, built in the 20’s, with Spanish architecture and pricy shops. I had a salad and he got a sandwich. Our table was in a sunny corner, out of the wind. I have forgotten what we talked about but I always do. 

Nelson wanted to walk for a while, for exercise and to look in the shops. A young woman with dark, pulled back hair and full, rosy cheeks was stationed by the door of her store. It was a tea place. That’s it. They sold tea and tea pots. She had a couple of tea urns and lots of small cups for samples. While I was sipping my Orang Blossom tea, she updated me on the wonders of their exotic product. She said the sweetener was all natural and unprocessed. I asked if she had to go to Nepal to learn about unprocessed sweeteners. Nepal is after all, where Tea Gods dwell. She told me no, that her cohort standing beside us, shaking tea out of one large tin into smaller tins had trained her. So I asked her boss if she had been to Nepal to learn the tea trade. She laughed and I sipped a second sample. I spent eight dollars on two ounces of Orange Blossom tea, sampling another cup as I went out the door. I’ll make a point to drink some tea before the new year or, its aroma is so nice I could use it for a potpourri. 

I’ve got a new wood shop project going on in the basement that requires rabbets and dados. I belong to the Kansas City Woodworkers Guild. They have a world class work shop with top of the line power tools.  I go there when I need powerful, precision equipment or someone over my shoulder, telling me either, “No, not like that,” or, “yes, you got it.” That’s my plan for tomorrow. My holiday greetings are stuffed in their envelopes and stamped, ready to go. I’ll probably wait another day or two before I send them on their way. 

IDLE

Thanks Giving came and went without a hitch. I made fish & shrimp tacos; halibut from Alaska and fresh, Gulf shrimp. Couldn’t be thankful though without cranberry sauce, (orange zest and pecans) and cornbread stuffing. Skipped all the football in favor of PBS. Louisiana: good food and music and I count on that. The Indian Pow Wow was way-cool. Spent a couple of days ratting around antique shops in Mississippi and am now sitting under a tin roof shelter house on the beach; Pensacola, FL.  My action on the computer is about all that is going on. Sun is starting to get low and gulls are all perched on their favorite pilings. Birds are great fliers but even better at conserving energy. They don’t fly unless it’s about food, sex or survival. Right now, they’re all happy to be idle. Except for the occasional acorn falling on the tin roof and shadows getting longer, one could make a case for suspended animation. 

A while ago, a guy was fishing with a cast net off the pier and a Great Blue Heron was shadowing him. I wanted to see how close I could get before it flew. Looking through my camera lens I started inching up on it; had to keep adjusting the zoom out to keep it all in frame. So close I thought I’d step on its foot and then a croak that sounded really insulting. Sounded like, “What in the #!!# do you want?” in Heron-ese. It opened up its wings and stroked twice, to the other side of the boardwalk. Not exactly wildlife photography. I’m on my way north tomorrow. I’ll miss 70’s and sunshine but If I plan right, it will be meal time when I get to Memphis. 

RED WOLF

As the story goes, a young warrior had become separated from his tribe and was searching for them. In the dark of night he heard singing from over the hill and went to investigate. He found a Red Wolf singing and dancing on its hind legs. In the end the wolf told him to teach the songs and dance to his tribe. The story comes from Kiowa culture; songs and dance that honor warriors. It was part of the Sun Dance which was banned by the federal government in the late 1800’s. They feared young warriors would rebel and leave the reservation. If they went back to the old ways the army would have to chase them down and they didn’t want another Indian war. After WWII, American Indians began to reclaim their traditions, including the Sun Dance. In the 1970’s, the federal government officially rescinded the ban.

The ceremony associated with the songs and dance of the Red Wolf are manifest in the Gourd Dance. Over time, other tribes have created their own Gourd Dance societies and protocols vary from tribe to tribe. The Kiowa stay with the original theme while some others have shifted emphasis to honoring veterans. Some permit only Native Americans to participate while some allow non-indian veterans to dance as well. 

In Cajun Louisiana, the surname Richard is pronounced with the French accent; (RE-shard). My friend Larry Richard is more Indian than not and his blood lines cover the American Southeast to the Great Plains and up into Canada. I started hanging out with him twenty years ago. We are storytellers. I was interested in the Cajun-Indian connection and he was graceful enough to accommodate me. We were both in the military, the same decade. But I did one tour, in peace time. Larry did two tours in Viet Nam. He came home without any bullet holes but exposure to Agent Orange would catch up with him and he still lives with that. He has been after me for several years to come dance the Gourd Dance with him. The Pow Wow in Gonzales, Louisiana is small, allows any veteran to dance in the circle. This year I did just that. There is formal dress regalia, so to say; a rattle, feathered fan and a blanket of red and blue. You don’t need the trappings but those are the basic elements if you want to invest in the culture. 

The drummer-singers had started drumming a low, slow invitation. Larry gave me a rattle and told me to come in the circle when he signaled me. Dancers were in a circle with the drum in the center. Not a lot of footwork; they simply moved in place, working the rattle to the rhythm. Singing and drumming changed tempo and intensity. When the pace dropped off, the dancers inched closer to the drums and sometimes gave out a shout, in honor of the red wolf. At the end, they backed up to the spot where they began. There would be a short break and then do it again. 

About half way through the first round, he motioned me into the circle. I stood close enough we could communicate and tried to model his example. At the end, after the drumming stopped, men from the circle, in their wonderful costumes, walked by me, dropped folded up dollar bills at my feet. I was told it was a gesture of respect, that I had been called into the circle of warriors and the gift was a tangible sign. Larry told me to just stand still. Another man came across, bent over, picked up all of the dollars and gave them to me. “This is their token of respect for you,” Larry said, “you can do anything with it you like. You can keep it or you can give it as a token of your respect to the drum.” I stood at the shoulder of the lead drummer until he looked at me. Then I reached in, touched the drum and dropped all of the dollars on the drum head, just as I was instructed. Then I walked around the outside of that circle, shaking hands with each drummer. By the time I got back to the side lines, the low, slow drumming had begun again. 

We danced three more rounds. I learned quickly that you need to have some dollar bills in your pocket as new people are brought in often and veteran, warrior, Gourd dancers are honored frequently. I learned how simple it looks and how taxing it can be to keep the rattle and your feet in sync with the drums. After an hour, even with the short breaks, the subtle motions become almost too much. After I was honored with the dollar bills, the same dancers came back around to shake my hand. This time they all looked me directly in the eye an said either “Thank you for your service.” or, “Welcome home.”  From another generation, before the Gulf War in 1990, my brothers in arms came home to jeers and insults. Gourd dancers wanted to be sure all veterans got a deserved welcome home and thank you. 

I was moved and that’s unusual. Letting go of my military experience was easy. I was never in harm’s way and I had no desire to go there. But I knew going in, that was part of the deal. I was trained and I understood our mission. I was lucky enough to see it through before the killing began. My old unit, the 2nd 503 was one of the first units sent into the Mekong delta in 1965, when I was a sophomore in college. Regardless of how I feel about the politicians who sent them there or the ideology behind it, they were doing the heavy lifting while I was studying philosophy and biology on the GI bill. There are names on the wall in Washington D.C. that belong to guys I used to play cards with; not to mention the ones who came home broken, to nobody who cared. 

I’m a Gourd Dancer now. Larry told me, “This is for real.” It’s not about my fascination with Native American culture and it’s not about patriotism. It’s about a common bond that we shared then and ties that still hold. Yes, I was moved and it did surprise me. But you’re never too old to learn and it’s never too late to turn the page. 

ROCK ME BABY

It is ironic that I have been driving through Memphis, Tennessee for lots of years, staying on the Interstate, stopping only for gas. In July, I spent two days there and kick myself for not stopping sooner. I don’t think it matters which direction you come from, the roads all seem to lead downtown, to Union Avenue and Beale Street. Yesterday I got off the Interstate, onto Riverside Dr. to Beale and found an empty parking meter. It was rush hour with busy traffic and the space was tight. A rough looking, ragged man was standing by the meter. When I noticed him over my shoulder, he was already giving me hand signals, like the ground crew guys at the air port. I didn’t need the help, my car with the back-up camera has made parking easy. When I approached the meter with coin purse in hand he was pointing at the digital display. “You get one hour for four quarters.” He said. “If you need another minute, you have to pay for another hour.” He was humble and courteous. He couldn’t know how difficult it is for me to read small print, in low or bright light but his help was timely. I thanked him and fished out four quarters. “If you have any spare quarters, I could sure use some help.” Without staring, I sized him up. His haircut was reasonable and my face needed a shave as much as his. But his body language and rumpled clothing spoke to me of a street person. I told him that I didn’t carry much cash when I travel but I did pull out my wallet. I knew I had a $10, a $5 and a few $1’s. He sensed I was going to give him something. “It costs $6 for a bed at the shelter,” he said, ”and I only have a dollar and change.” I gave him the $5 and his “Thank you” sounded either well rehearsed or sincere. He started up the street as I turned to the crosswalk, across from BB King’s Blues Club. 

Inside, I was seated in front of the stage where a huge screen projection system was playing selected clips from BB King concerts, duets with other famous musicians. The service was fast and before you know, my small rib dinner was coming out of the kitchen. I don’t usually flaunt pictures of food. When I see that I take it at face value, believing first that the person was really feeling good and the food just made it better. It wasn’t the first time I’d had this meal and I knew exactly what to expect. You have to handle the ribs carefully or the meat falls off before you can get it to your mouth. I had to decide where to start; beans first, slaw then the ribs or . . . on the big screen BB introduced Jeff Beck and they took off together on “Rock Me Baby.” This is the point where you know how really good I”m feeling, good enough to post a photo of my food. I thought about the guy at the parking meter. I know that 9 out of 10 times, they will have a great story but spend the money on booze or drugs. I knew it when I gave him the $5. At that point it didn’t matter. I hope he slept well either way. Leaving the club I had to wait a moment for a couple standing in the door. They were in their 40’s maybe, both thin and hard looking, both in sleeveless shirts and full sleeve tattoos. They were deciding to come in or go somewhere else. They came in. I waited for the stop light to change, could see my car half a block away. In those seconds I thought about the homeless black man and the biker couple. My mom would have said to me, “There but for the Grace of God . . .”  I know, I know mom. The couple probably knew where they were going to sleep anyway, and weren’t worried about the next meal. They might be better off than me but I’m both lucky and grateful. I’ll be in the French Quarter tomorrow for more good music and sinful food. I trust the biker couple can take care of themselves but I have second thoughts for the homeless guy. I'll have to fall back on Joseph Campbell who said, “Participate in the sorrows of the world.  We can not cure the world of sorrows, but we can choose to live in joy.”

HOUSE FOR RENT

A big polar chill has come down through Canada with beaucoup snow in the upper midwest and hard freeze as far south as Louisiana. When that happens I retreat to the basement and make sawdust. The holiday season is almost here and gifts are on the to-do list. I quit worrying about what people want or need. What I know is that everybody needs a bird house. When I was teaching Biology in the early 80’s, I slipped in an ornithology unit. We learned bird songs from audio tapes and made coloring books full of bird's field markings. Then everybody had to go on at least two birding field trips either before or after school or on a Saturday morning. They grumbled at the time but in the following years, many kids confided that it was one of their favorite projects. I have been hooked since I was little; birds are special. 

Everything, everyone is special; but birds are absolutely, awesome special. Yes, they can fly and we can’t. We create flying machines but they are weak knock-offs for the real thing. I want to soar on uplifting thermals and I want to dive full speed into an oak tree, landing on a twig without a ding or a dent. I’d be happy eating bugs and seeds if I could do that. But my special isn't the right kind of special. All I can do is watch them and feel the joy vicariously. I love them all but woodpeckers are fantastic. When I hear one drumming, I’ll do just about anything to locate it, to set my eyes on it. Woodpeckers are experiencing a housing shortage. Development in cities and suburbs has reduced the number of suitable trees, with hollow cavities, where Woody’s nest. So I’ll build some woodpecker boxes. Maybe I can lure a pair of woodpeckers to the Ash tree in my back yard. The view is great and the rent is cheap.

My mother loved wrens. She had several wren houses in her yard and talked back to them through her kitchen window. When my brother was recuperating from cancer, wrens perched in a tree above his deck and chattered at him. He believed it was our mom reassuring him that everything would be alright. Now all wrens remind me of someone I grew up with and I make houses for them. I’m making wren houses for friends and family, gifts at gift giving time. I don’t think it will matter where it came from or how much it cost. It doesn’t need a guarantee or instructions. Just hang it in a tree and come April, listen for the rat-a-tat-tat, rapid fire notes of the wren’s song. They will complain when you come too close and discourage other birds, looking for mates and nest sites. Then if there's nothing else to chatter about, they can simply sing. I’ll be on the road soon enough and that takes me to another mindset but for now it’s wren houses.

HOME

I need to make the distinction between, “Home” a house and, “Home” the place that's more about your identity. I am at home right now, the house where most of my things live, most of the time. It belongs to me and I’m quite comfortable here, when I”m here. For me, travel is not a departure from routine, it is the routine. So when I’m home, it’s sort of like sitting in traffic at a red light. I check mirrors, adjust the volume on the radio, readjust my wallet so it’s more comfortable in my pocket, all the while keeping track of the light. There are times when I could use more time at the light but that’s another story. I will be leaving in a couple of weeks, for several weeks but for now, I am checking mirrors and my wallet.

I really like to cook, fix food. While I’m home I have a well equipped kitchen but nobody to cook for so I rely on the salad bar and deli for most of my needs. I decided a long time ago that food is not my friend. I need to keep a well defined emotional distance between friends and things that only make me feel good. Friends won’t beat you up just because you are vulnerable. When I do a good job of managing food, I eat well, sleep well, it tastes good and nobody gets hurt. Sharing food is near the top of the list for rewarding, social behavior and I love to go there. So I never pass a chance to fix food for my friends. I may indulge in too much or too rich but it doesn’t happen often and I understand the price I pay.

With cold weather coming on, stuck here for a while, I have a chance to cook for myself. Today I skipped cold cereal in favor of steel cut oats. Not like fu-fu, rolled oats that cook up in a minute or so, steel cut oats take half an hour on the stove top or hours in a crock pot. Near the end, I throw in a handful of toasted pecans, some dried fruit and a shot of honey. Breakfast was good with enough left over for lunch or a snack later on, or even breakfast in the morning. Last night I put lentils in the crockpot to soak overnight. This morning they are cooking with carrots, sweet peppers and curry. I’ll add some turkey pastrami later; whirl in the blender enough to juice it up and soup’s on. Strange, if I eat from a bowl, with a spoon, I don’t overeat. Finger food that comes from bags or boxes are not my friends. 

I got the leaves mulched the other day. Patio chairs and umbrellas need to come inside and I have several wood shop projects underway. It seems like there is always something more important at the time than practicing guitar and I need to change that. So while I’m sitting here at the red light, there are things to do. Last week I made a comment on FaceBook that, "Home is where the feet is." When I arrive in two weeks, there will still be “Home” work left undone at the house but my feet won't notice. When the light goes green you need to move along. 

DEER HUNTING

A long time ago, when I was attending writer’s retreats at Glen Lake, Michigan, I discovered Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lake Shore. It’s a stretch of lakeshore that reaches back into the eskers and moraines, left there from the last ice age. They are steep sided hills and ridges, covered with maples, oaks and ash and their flanks stretch  down onto the shoreline. I go there when I can and walk the slopes, talk to the animals and make believe I belong there. Once, for my small writers group, I wrote a piece about walking this one particular high meadow. I called it “Deer Hunting.” I was hunting deer, early in the morning before the fog burned off. I was wet from dew on the tall grass and had seen deer beds and fresh droppings. I explained how I finally found the deer and began shooting. Shot after shot I took aim and squeezed. In the end I revealed that my weapon was a camera with a big lens and that I had several trophies to take home with me from that hunt. 

Now, over a decade later, I’m still deer hunting every time I go to the “High Meadow.” Day before yesterday I was there in the late afternoon. I drove three hours to get there before sunset, that magical hour of low angle light. But clouds blew in and my magic hour turned into an ordinary cloudy afternoon. I still walked the meadow. I have a better camera now with an even better lens and I was searching for deer. Not even the animals can move through the grass without leaving a trail. You can tell which direction and how fast they were going and I got into a spot where there had been a lot of traffic. Then I saw the large, beaten down circle with a deer’s shoulder and leg. The hide had been gnawed away and stripped of flesh. Chunks of deer hide were strewn about but all of the red meat was gone. Across the way an eight-point buck’s head was set aside, undisturbed. Behind it in the grass was the ribcage and spine. Blood spills looked recent and the bits of flesh still left on white bones had not yet dried. I was fresh on the scene. I reasoned it was probably a mother coyote and her young; they would be six months and between them, they could take down a buck.        
A few minutes later, cresting a low ridge that rimmed a bowl shaped depression I had to look hard but there were five dark spots in the tall grass some two hundred yards down range. They were moving toward the trees. I thought immediately about my writing and about coyotes who were probably sleeping off their big meal. We get nostalgic with the Bambi concept and think of them as nature’s darlings but coyotes need to eat as well. Certainly, cars and highways are a new danger but the struggle to survive is timeless and grim as it might seem, the buck was just recycling the food web a little sooner than he might have wished, if he wished at all. Park Rangers protect wildlife from hunters with guns but the true hunters sleep in the same tall grass as the deer. The high risk business of survival is everyday stuff for the deer and the coyote. I live a charmed life, no worries about hungry predators outside my door. Our predators cheat us out of our money but we get to wake up in the morning.

MAN WITH A CAMERA

Grand Haven, Michigan; the beach is in winter mode now with rows of snow fence set up to keep sand on the beach instead of migrating to the street below the bluff. The light house may have some new paint but wear and tear on the pier itself can’t be covered so easy. Freeze and thaw eat away, little pieces, one at a time but the cracks and cavities are too big to miss. After so many years it’s easy to take the place for granted. The last time I was here there was a great festival going on. The beach was crawling with people of all ages. Sunset found the pier with tourists, shoulder to shoulder, waiting, watching the sun sink somewhere beyond the horizon, into Wisconsin. I'm by myself now, walking up and down the beach, out to the light house and back, then repeat the process again and again. Walking the beach should be worth college credit; you learn something important, every time. As much as it stays the same over years it changes minute to minute. Subtle changes in light, different angles, creatures in and out of the picture; I’m not sharp enough to catch them all but the lens doesn’t miss anything. 

There is an edge on the wind, just enough to push small rollers up onto the sand. Where the pier was full of people last time, this morning only three guys and a dozen fishing poles. The perch are there but nobody’s having any luck today. They are quick to remind anyone who will listen that a bad day fishing is better than a good day at work. Down the beach, gulls have congregated at water’s edge. Before I can check them out a jogger and her dog come up on them too fast and they explode into a flurry. Some settled back in the shallows while others circled for a few minutes and came back to the wet sand. As I got closer, hoping for another flurry and a chance to shoot them on the wing, they noticed me alright but chose to walk away rather than fly. In the sand, with a heavy camera around my neck they can walk as fast as I can so I headed back up to the rows of snow fence. There was a healthy dune behind the first row with wind ripples on top. The wind has packed the sand and that makes for easy walking. So I walked there, looking for lines and angles, color and contrast. Photographs don’t just happen, you have to look for them. Even then you have to figure out where you need to be when you trip the shutter. 

I have other things to do today but maybe I’ll still be in town when the sun gets low. If I can get a low angle sun in the same frame with the light house and be lucky enough to catch a few gulls flying through, I wouldn’t want to be somewhere else, doing something mundane. Fall colors are past their peak and I need to go up north tomorrow if I want fall photos. Some of you have been with me to the high meadow on M22, just up the road from Glen Arbor. That’s where I’ll be tomorrow when the sun comes up. If you haven’t been there, you need to go. 

FARMER

When winter starts to wain and the promise of spring gives you hope, you bring home with you, green growing things and great expectations. I do it every year. But this year I was far away, returned late in May. With perennials in front of the house I didn’t have to put much stuff in the ground but all of my containers were stored. Everyone I knew had their plants established while I rummaged through left overs at the lawn & garden store. There were some good buys, plants that weren’t perfect, passed over and now just hoping to drop their roots somewhere before being recycled in the compost heap. It was the fist week of June before my plants were all in. Two weeks later everything looked fine, except for the tomatoes. 

Flowers have always been good to me, give them a drink now and then and pull a few weeds. But my luck with tomatoes has been nothing but bad. If it’s not caterpillars or white flies it’s blossom-end-rot or mold. But they had great deals on healthy plants that should have been in the ground a month earlier. So I bought six, made them at home in 20 gallon pots. By the time they acclimated and got their roots in gear it was July. Everybody else had little green tomatoes and mine were still growing a root network. I figured they would come late but with a little luck, I would get some tomatoes.

In September, as green tomatoes began to turn, yellow first then into orange, I discovered that neighborhood squirrels had been watching them too. There was a yellow-pink tomato that would be just right in two or three days. When I checked again, it had been gnawed on, through the skin into the meaty flesh, just enough for flies to gain access and torpedo the salad I had planned. So I started harvesting firm, yellow-pink fruits keeping just ahead of the squirrels. They ripen on my countertop instead of vine ripened, like the samples down at Farmer’s Market. But I had tomatoes. 

So now it’s October, short days and cool nights, what’s left on the vines will not ripen in the sun. Plants aren’t stupid. They know, at least the annuals, when nights turn cool and sunlight goes away, they look in the mirror and say to themselves, “OMG, I’m so old. I don’t have much time left.” It’s programmed into the DNA, when the odds go against you and your time is short, reproduce. Bloom again, make new fruits; it’s all about the seeds. “If I”m going to perish, at least I can seed a new generation.” So that’s what they do and they spend all of their remaining energy on new blooms and whatever tomatoes are left, are left hanging like orphans. Then I come along and see the new blooms, tell the late tomatoes, in tomato talk, “You guys have been disinherited, you get nothing from now on. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll spread you out in the kitchen and you can ripen there, listen to the radio, watch me eat cereal in the morning.” They are smart enough, know that however their destiny plays out, they won’t be back in the spring. I collected all of my October tomatoes today, leaving the parent plants to fret over blossoms that will never set fruit. Between slicers and summer salad, my little harvest will last a week or so. The green ones may not make it to ripe; may have to do the fried green thing, dredged in garlic and pepper flour. If I had bib overhauls and a straw hat I could look the part. 

THE ROOSEVELTS

Every night for the past week I have been watching a TV documentary about the Roosevelt's, made by Ken Burns. Fourteen hours of photographs and film clips were enhanced by compelling story line, tracing a hundred years of a family’s legacy and a nation’s journey. Teddy Roosevelt, FDR and Eleanor were the main characters but it embraced their extended family as well. 

I remember when FDR died, I was five years old. Even though memory is subject to err I always understood that the name “Roosevelt” was larger than life. The program was about people more so than the history they lived. It brought up an idea that has been with me for a very long time. The question is, do people rise of their own volition to make history or does history propel people into the mix and their destiny simply plays out? It begs many questions. History, in the short term for sure, is written by the victors and they frame it in their own favor, whatever the case. We use dumbed down, sound-bite logic to explain cause and effect when it comes to big ideas and complicated stories. Most of what we come to believe is based on what we want to believe or what seems to validate our prejudices. The Roosevelt’s were very private people, thrust into a global arena and they lived up to their ideals consistent with how they had been shaped. Their place in history is fixed but their reputations depend on which side of the political divide you stand. Franklin and Eleanor were either loved or hated; they betrayed their own class in favor of a fair, just society that protected the weak and the poor. 

It is interesting how some families, over generations, accumulate not only wealth and power but also assimilate an overarching consciousness that extends beyond that wealth and power. In the Roosevelt’s case it was a responsibility to promote and advance the greater good. Other families amassed great fortunes but never stretched their own purpose beyond the acquisition of more wealth and power. 

Teddy, FDR and Eleanor all realized they were not only in a unique position to influence the path of history but were by nature and disposition, compelled to spend themselves in that cause. I can imagine what that might be like but I can’t imagine myself in their place. The idea that any person can rise to that level of readiness is naive at best. Somewhere in the balance between heredity and acquired personality, equality is an ideal. We are not equal. Dedication and worthy purpose are not enough to insure anything. It’s not that simple.

Franklin and Eleanor identified with and protected vulnerable people from exploitation by the rich and powerful. I don’t think it was a choice as much as it was simply, who they were. I believe we all do that, be who we are. I am simple and small but life has been good to me and mine. We will not make news or history but a hundred years from now it won’t matter. We were here and it was good. 

KEEP COMING BACK

     Back in the days of Kodachrome 400 film I spent forty dollars on a workshop, Photographing Nature. It was at a hotel on the Plaza in Kansas City. I have forgotten the expert’s name and most of what he talked about was beyond my experience. I didn't have a darkroom so that part didn’t help me and correlations between settings were too much to remember, even if I did understand.  I thought I’d take notes but that was naive of me. He had thousands of photographs and a Kodak Carousel projector that flashed images on the screen, one after another, on and on. They were awesome but he went too fast for me to appreciate the object lesson. My eye wasn’t seasoned enough. It’s notable how some sounds are so unique you never forget them. The projector was on a tall stand beside the podium microphone. Everything he said was accompanied by the sound of the cooling fan on the projector and punctuated by the anticipated, three syllable action of slides being changed and advanced. I can hear it inside my head now as if I had one here beside me. 

      In the end I absorbed a couple of good ideas which is pretty good for any workshop. Enough was getting through to keep my attention. When he finished there was an open ended, question and answer session. Someone noted that there was a particular tree that kept popping up in the stream of photographs. The photos were taken from different angles,  different distances; some with the tree a lesser element in the design and others it was the main feature. Even I had noticed the frequent reoccurrence of that tree. Off the cuff he said he had noticed the tree in Jackson Hole, Wyoming in the 50’s. He kept taking photos of it over the years and it gave him a chronological index on the same subject where he could see for himself, how he was growing as an artist. That really resonated with me. It’s when I stopped thinking of myself as a man taking pictures and started thinking about photographs as an art form. 

     I began to think, ‘That’s what I need, a special place to keep coming back.’ Now, thirty years later, I have several favorite places that present wide ranges of opportunity and challenges as well. I keep coming back. Every time, there are changes in the landscape, different light, new angles and the camera sees with new eyes. I spend as much time as I can, reacquaint myself with the setting and look for compelling elements; lines, shapes and color. I don’t know how many photographs I’ve taken of the beach and lighthouse in Grand Haven, Michigan, or in the high meadow just north of Glen Arbor on Michigan Route 22. At Crow Agency in SE Montana, Little Bighorn Battle Field is a powerful place. I’ve only been there four times but it’s on my favorite list and I’ll be taking photos there again. Then in Alaska, where the road splits to either Seward or Homer, Tern Lake is a spot I can not drive by, I have to frame it through my lens, look for flashes of color, reflections in the water or a new array of shadows on the mountain side. I keep coming back.

     North of the river in Kansas City I noticed a hillside that was groomed like a golf course with well spaced, mature trees but it wasn’t a golf course. Behind the hill was a seminary for wannabe preachers. I stopped and took photographs. That was three years ago and I now have a file full of those trees. The way the hill slopes in two different planes makes framing tricky. There is no horizon for reference and the tree trunks lean into the hillside; nothing vertical or horizontal to show level or perpendicular. The whole scenario changes from one extreme to another as the light changes, early to late. I went there this morning to get early morning light and late summer foliage. Someday I want to hang a grouping with that tree through the four seasons. Before I could get the first frame my socks were soaked and my shoes full of water. I made more noise sloshing than the traffic down on the street. Changing lens’ and shuffling things in and out of the camera bag was tedious at times but there were a few photos worth keeping and that’s a good start for the weekend. I be coming back again.

ROADHOUSE

When I’m on a road trip I pay attention to traffic and drive safely but I also look for photo opportunities. Like a moth to the flame I can’t resist lines and angles, something about edges and shapes layered over and under. When I notice something it’s usually too late for scrutiny or a second look. Sometimes I just drive on, other times I juggle possibilities with logic weighing the inconvenience of getting turned around, where to park and the value of the time I’d lose. A well conditioned gut reflex responds in parallel; “. . . was that as good as it looked or were there things in the frame that would spoil it all?” It can take a few seconds or several minutes; I let it go or we turn around and go back. Maybe half the photographs I take on go-backs are worth the trouble. Yesterday I went back. 

Mid morning I was making my way north between Forrest and Carthage, in the middle of Mississippi. Highway 35 is a good two lane with narrow shoulders and deep ditches. Farms and homes, neat and well groomed, you would think the area to be properly gentrified. Traffic was light and I was stretching the speed limit by a few mph. There it was, and there it went. A glance in my mirror didn’t help, too many trees. So began the dialogue; was it as good as it looked or do we keep on going? A mile up the road I saw a turnout in time to slow down. I am a story teller who plays with a guitar and takes photographs. A photograph is a razor thin slice of a greater story and it’s better than nothing but why settle for a slice if you can have it all?

There was a building near the road, under pine trees. It was well maintained but it was old, unpainted. It looked like the office to a camp ground or a store straight out of the Great Depression but there was no camp ground; only a blue, Pepsi Cola machine on the porch to suggest any commerce. A low roofed addition had windows that were boarded up and I couldn’t help myself. I remembered the movie, “A River Runs Through It.” Two boys, sons of a Presbyterian minister, growing up in Montana just after World War I. The older, serious and grounded one goes off to Dartmouth College while the younger, prodigal son (Brad Pitt) stays and becomes a rebellious journalist. Looking for the younger, they found him in a remote speakeasy where people of all races and classes mingled, where whiskey and poker were righteous and the saints left their haloes at the door. But this was Mississippi, nearly a century later. Still, it was all there. Come friday night, I can imagine music of Son House and Robert Johnson from the far end of the boarded up addition. Musicians of another generation but their legacy is still part of Mississippi’s foot print. Baptist deacons and Pentecostal Elders from neighboring counties drive long miles so they can tip long neck bottles and bourbon shots with local sinners. Everybody dances, nobody fights, girls go home with the guys that brought them and the devil’s in the deal. Sunday comes soon enough. 

If it’s not a road house, I still like the story. 

p.s.  Nearly two years ago I posted my first blog entry. It was from Peggy's Cove in Nova Scotia. Today, "Roadhouse" is my 100th blog post. I have several regular followers and I think of you every time. The website records over 5000 hits, from all over the world. I'm not sure how that works but those of you I don't know, I hope you like what you find here. 

NEWS

My radio comes on at 6:00 a.m. with news. I start thinking about the day and what I want to do with it. But the news is bad, always bad, really bad. It’s been bad for a long time and that’s a sad, sorry way to start the day. I have to beg the question; is the news all bad or is there just so much news they never get to the better news? I know that a 13 year old girl is pitching on a boys team in the Little League World Series and she is pitching very well. Beyond that, it’s all downhill. Some stuff sounds good but only because it’s counter point to terrible stuff. They have had some success treating victims of the Ebola virus but the virus itself is fatal in 2 of every 3 cases. The Israelis and Palestinians stopped fighting for a couple of days but they are killing each other again. Congress is on vacation but they haven’t done any work in years. They all understand how public opinion polls rate them worse than dreadful but they are all convinced that they are the good guys and it’s the other guys screwing things up. Big banks are paying astronomical fines for the crimes they committed in the housing fiasco of 2008 but the worst offenders have even more wealth stashed away now than they did before. Ferguson, Missouri was singled out as a great place to live only a few years ago. All it took to peel back that veneer was for a white policeman to shoot an unarmed, black teenager. To make matters worse, a grieving, angry community has been exploited by criminal looters and Jim Crow pushback, supporting use of deadly force and attacking the victim’s character. 

I’m getting tired of bad news. I remember, 40 years ago when CNN started giving us news 24-7. It spawned the age of News Junkies, people who couldn’t get enough Wolf Blitzer. Now it’s compounded by political hyperbole and propaganda on ridiculous talk shows. Now there are so many news outlets that you can pick your mis-disinformation as it be, from a wide range of outlets who are much more concerned about their ratings and advertisers than they are about unbiased reporting. So it all gets spun before it goes on air. Each one of us represents a demographic that has been targeted by producers who know what pushes our buttons. Even the weather channel, even PBS; they all frame language and stories to appeal to a well defined sensibility. Of all the news organizations, the BBC is probably the least-spun, unbiased news on the dial. 

I spend a lot of time on highways and Interstates. As I search station to station, I can recognize the tenor of background music and tone of voice so I don’t have to wait for a polarizing statement before I hit the “Skip” button again. Behind the visor on the passenger side I have a CD sleeve with a dozen or so CD’s. I don’t think I can listen to them all in one day. Switching back and forth between road noise, surfing the dial and music, I can hold out for several days. It beats bad news. It’s always a surprise when the radio goes silent and my dashboard comes alive with an amplified, cell phone ring tone. So I touch a button on the steering wheel and say, “Hello.” After we finish and hang up I can touch another button and my dashboard will ask me what I want. I tell it to call a different person. “Do you want to call this person?” it asks. I tell it I do and shortly the phone rings and I talk to someone else; never take my hands off the wheel or my eyes off the road. That’s pretty good news. I slept in the car at a Pilot truck stop in Bristol, TN recently. At 6:00 a.m. I walked up to the diesel fuel counter with my ditty bag and asked if I could have a shower. The young woman didn’t ask me for anything, just punched in a code an handed me a receipt with the assigned shower and pin number. She smiled a real smile and said, “Have a great shower.” That was great news. Shower are free to 18-wheelers but cost $10 or $12 for a 4-wheeler like me. I came out a half hour later, fresh scrubbed in clean clothes and got myself a cup of coffee. At the convenience store counter, I was behind a young man who was buying snacks, smokes and a cold drink. Something was not right, he turned and headed for the back of the store. The same young lady had changed counters. She watched him for a moment then looked at me, with my cup of coffee and a $5 bill. She had already keyed his sale into the register; she smiled the same, genuine smile as before, nodded her head toward the door and told me to have a great day. I thanked her, thanked her again going out the door. That’s good news. 

On my last road trip I bought four new T-shirts. Several light weight, white ones for the hot weather and one from the Martin Guitar Factory gift shop. My shirt drawer is full and I can afford to buy new T-shirts even before the old ones wear out. That’s great news. I got my camera back from the Canon Servicer Center in Virginia just before I left home. When I tried to take photos, it wouldn’t hold a charge on the battery. In Pennsylvania, I sent it UPS, back to Canon. When I got home two weeks later there was a notice on the door; UPS had tried to deliver it and would again the next day. When the bell rang I knew who it was. I signed the electronic receipt and took it inside. Reloaded, new battery, fresh sim card and I came back outside to see how it worked. I looked around for something interesting and the best  I could do was a late-summer grasshopper, perched on the garden hose on my porch rail. It’s that time of year, big grasshoppers only get big after a series of molts (instars) where they shed their exoskeleton, increase in size and grow another chitinous, outer coat. It takes lots of instars over the growing season to get big. This guy was maybe only one instar away from being the herd bull. I put on my macro lens and leaned right up next to it. Shutter-click, shutter-click and I had enough. My camera is working again and that’s great news. I’ve got fresh blue berries, strawberries, apples and tomatoes in the refrigerator. If I had peaches too, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. So there is good news. You just won’t get it from the news media. I shut the radio off in the morning as soon as I get the message. I’ll hear it all, soon enough. But it means I survived the night and that’s great news. 

OCOEE

I have friends who think that life doesn’t get any better than when you sit in a comfortable place, with sweet tea and a good book. Don’t get me wrong; I like all of those but it does gets better, it can get a lot better. I’ve been dabbling in White Water since I was a teenager. A friend and I cut up some large tree limbs, lashed them together and rode the Blue River in flood stage. Instead of life jackets we had plastic jugs tied together with clothes line rope. We put in where the river was narrow and fast but not too deep. As side streams emptied in, its volume increased and whatever control we had over our makeshift raft, vanished. We were just flotsam in a roaring stream that dragged us through treetops, sharing space with all manner of floating debris. With only a foot or two of clearance under a highway bridge, we knew we had to get out. The fact that we both walked away from it is testimony to good luck.

We didn’t tell anyone because it was a foolish thing to do. There is "Crazy" and there is "Stupid." Rather than impressing someone we would have only proven our stupidity. But I did get the “White Water” bug. Over the years, canoe floating in Michigan and Missouri has been great fun and risks were minimal. Then there have been commercial floats on the Arkansas, in Colorado. Plunging down into and coming up out of those monster hydraulics is better than any book I ever read. Each time, I promise myself that we’ll do it again. The last time was four years ago. 

In the Great Smokey Mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina, there are two, very special rivers; the Ocoee and the Nantahala. Both drop through steep, narrow gorges with channels full of boulders and outcroppings; the best white water east of the Rocky Mts. In 1996, kayak events for the Atlanta Olympics were staged on the Ocoee. I was there last Friday. There were a few shallow pools between rapids and a thin trickle of current here and there. At the White Water Center they told me, “. . . come back tomorrow.” Lake Ocoee is just upstream, behind the dam. During the week, they hold water back but on weekends, they send it down for kayakers and rafters to ride down the gorge. I did come back and the transformation was awesome. Hundreds of cars, kayaks, rafts and thousands of people, all pointed down stream. Ocoee was running 1,400 cubic feet per second, perfect for both safety and thrills. I watched for a while but had too many miles in front of me to linger. 

Next summer, my daughter and I are floating the Colorado; Lee’s Ferry to Diamond Creek in the Grand Canyon. That will take eight days but I can wait; I don't have a choice. But I’m looking for someone to go with me to the Ocoee, some other time, before I get too old to pull a paddle. I’ll always want to go again. 

OLD BONES

We went to Musik Fest the other day. In Allentown and Bethlehem, PA, it’s a mid-summer festival that stretches along the banks of the river, through two cities. Most folks park in a distant parking lot and ride a shuttle bus to the venue. It reminds me of the October, Storytelling Festival in Jonesboro, TN. All along the way there are circus size tents with different music groups scheduled in every hour or so. We sat in on a Cajun band from Baltimore. Nobody spoke or sang to us in French, not even an accent, and their play list had nothing to do with the “Bayou” talk they were trying to emulate. But they did have an accordion and one of the guitar players had a washboard he used on several songs. I told my son, “If the accordion player doesn’t dance or at least shuffle his feet, he ain’t Cajun.” He played o.k. but never got out of his chair. Then who am I to be critical? They were getting paid and I was listening. The music was good, the crowd got up and danced while we munched on soft pretzels. 

After checking out crafts booths and food vendors it was time to catch another shuttle for the ride across town to the venue in Bethlehem. I couldn’t tell when we crossed city limits but through the trees, you could see the skyline change. Next to the river, the black stacks of old coke furnaces were still intact from another generation, gone to rust. Bethlehem Steel had been the base for an economy here but not anymore. There is a grassy park by the river and things have been cleaned up but the buildings and furnaces are like fossilized bones of giant dinosaurs, left behind in a great, archeological dig site. Some building were still intact; red brick walls, arched windows and rusting, steel beams. Others had been torn down and the grounds cleaned up, leaving only stone walls with pillared archways. The festival was strung out along the main street with an athletic field and grand stands next to the old furnaces. A popular country singer was scheduled to perform there later in the evening. 

We went into a multiplex, theater complex where the local songwriters guild was showcasing their talents. A four piece band played original material and it was fun. The air conditioning in the theater was comfortable and the time went by so quickly, we weren’t ready to leave when the time came. The long walk past rows of concession stands and craft displays took us past the old furnaces, looming over us like movie props in a science fiction thriller. The ride back to the parking lot was uneventful and the idea of going home was a necessity more than preference. I’m glad I got to see the old steel mills and furnaces. I can imagine a time, in my lifetime, when the smoke was belching and steel was glowing, red hot on the foundry floor. Bethlehem Steel was building ships and selling steel in a world that was still blind to its environmental impact. So seeing the old bones of that industry begged the question. Is the aftermath worth the profit to begin with? 

C.F. MARTIN

C. F. Martin immigrated to New York City from Germany in the 1830’s. He was a luthier, made violins, lutes and ultimately guitars. His wife didn’t like New York so after a few years they relocated to Nazareth, Pennsylvania. Martin guitars are still made in Nazareth by another C.F. Martin, six generations removed. Visiting Allentown for the first time I didn’t realize how near we were to the Martin factory. My son suggested that I might be interested in touring Martin Guitars. He didn’t have to twist my arm.

Lots of history in Pennsylvania; everywhere you turn (you turn often) there are museums and namesake landmarks for famous people and events. The roads twist and turn, rise and fall along the same paths as game trails of past centuries, foot paths of indigenous people and two-tracks cut in the ground by wagon wheels. You never know what you will find around the next bend. Along a narrow street in a well kept, old neighborhood we turned right and there was the old, brick front factory with C.F. Martin painted in big white letters above the entrance. Inside, we signed up for the factory tour. In the hour that we had to wait, there was the guitar showroom where you can play guitars, a gift shop and of course a museum. 

Every company that makes good guitars has a museum. Business is business and they give complimentary guitars to the biggest stars; then use photographs of those stars, with their guitars, in advertising. But C.F. Martin is not just another guitar maker. It is the yardstick by which all other good guitars are measured. “Oh, you have this, or that; how does it stack up with a Martin D 28”? Anyway, the museum is loaded with memorabilia and guitars. Under a spotlight, behind glass, there is a life size photo of Johnny Cash with his Martin guitar. I don’t know why Johnny Cash rather than Elvis; maybe his musical legacy and celebrity are more current. In one case, the donors names read like an all star lineup. From left to right they were, Paul Simon, Neil Young, David Crosby, Steven Stills, Judy Collins and more. If Elvis is the king, then the royalty in his kingdom are equally wonderful and they all played Martin guitars. 

Guitars get expensive fast. Once you learn a few chords and start picking out melodies, you realize you need a better guitar. It’s no secret, the better the instrument, the easier to play, the better you sound. Martin quality and workmanship are as good as it gets. Inside the factory, the tour guide showed us the Custom Shop, where custom guitars are made. (Guitars that cost over $5,000 are considered “Custom”) He said that Eric Clapton had just ordered two guitars, exactly alike. That way if a string breaks in a concert, they can switch in the moment and continue without a hitch. For the cost of those two guitars you could buy a new Mercedes Benz and have money left over. They have a factory in Mexico now that makes guitars for the lower end, cheaper models. I have one of those; it’s a really small, backpacker model. It’s nice for sitting in front of the computer and feeling your way through music off the internet. My best guitar is a Taylor 412 CE Limited Edition. Taylor Guitars have their factory in California but their legacy doesn’t begin to go back like Martin does. But they make world class instruments and they have a museum too, with many of the same stars, with Taylor guitars. When other pickers hear my 412 they say, “Sweet; how does it stack up with a Martin?” If they play much they already know but I tell them, “It’s about the same as a D 28.”  I bought a tee-shirt in the gift shop. The tour guide gave everyone a token of the tour, the cut out disc from the sound hole that had the Martin logo burned into the spruce. We were the last in line and he gave me the leftovers, enough to make a set of coasters. 

VELODROME

Racing. . . ‘round & ‘round in circles; when it’s over, everybody finishes back where they began. Not long ago, Son #3 took me to the races. Open wheeled monsters roared around the track, sliding sideways in the turns, spinning mud and dust into the air, into the stands, so loud I had to wear a headset to protect my ears. In the late 70’s and early 80’s we went to stock car races often and we loved it but the best we could do was watch. 

We rode bicycles, really. In the early 80’s, bicycles were for the most part, toys but I took mine seriously. My wife wasn’t happy when I left the house for long stretches, leaving her to take care of her business and herd four kids as well. So I bought more bicycles and took kids with me. Sit-up-straight bicycles with knobby tires were toys for the driveway and yard, but down-in-the-grips bikes with razor thin tires, they were the real deal. In 1980, two hundred dollars for a 10 speed bike was a thorny issue. Whatever else we did without must not have been too important. You can tuck forward, down into the wind and ride for hours, miles on miles and still have legs left for the ride home. St. Joseph County, Michigan had a grid network of blacktop roads with an intersection every mile. There must have been thousands of sprints, to the next sign post or hedge row for nothing more than bragging rights and an excuse to burn off energy. I brought up the rear with Daughter #4; she didn’t like sprints or hills, even the downhill. She knew that another climb would surely follow. For safety sake, we practiced riding the edge, on the white line. Not much traffic out in the county; when you hear cars coming up behind, you ride a true line on the edge, not looking back, letting drivers know that you know what you’re doing. 

Bicycle racing was popular in Canada but in Michigan, the best we could do were local time trials in Kalamazoo and Battle Creek, sharing the road with cars and trucks as we raced against the clock. Son #3 could really ride, like the wind. I bought him a Nishiki racer and he left us behind, riding with the big boys on their aluminum frame racers; cruising at 27-28 mph. Interesting, he is the one who lost his passion for the bicycle and turned to giant tires, high powered monster, mud trucks. It was Son #1 who took me to the velodrome last Friday night. It is a half kilometer, high banked bicycle track, small enough, steep sided enough it looks like a miniature football stadium where the action goes on, on the steep banked part. Spectators are above that, looking down into the bowl. The bikes are all carbon fiber now, even the rims; aerodynamic, strong and feather weight. For a group of racers to sprint to the finish at over 40 mph is normal, equal to the fastest of the fast, thoroughbred race horses. 

Allentown, Pennsylvania has it’s race cars but interest and support for bicycle racing is equally strong. The velodrome is state of the art, not a bad seat in the place. We sat just shy of the finish line. As the chain of riders rolls around on the bell lap, the crowd gets excited and begins to cheer. The riders can hear it all, foot stomping in the bleachers drowns out the cheers but the track itself is silent. One rider, back in 7th or 8th place explodes with a burst of speed, passing on the outside, high enough so he can slingshot out of the turn, into the lead at the finish line. As they go by the crowd goes silent, the only noise a soft rattle of chain link fence, disturbed gently by the wind they make. 

I thought about the winged outlaws, roaring into the 3rd turn at Lakeside speedway; speed junkies and their machines, similar in some ways to the bicycles. I know that auto racing has it’s unique skill set but I don’t identify with it. They need to be strong enough to control the wheel with hand-eye reaction time of an athlete. But otherwise, they can be soft. The vroom-vroom crowd is something else. I was there at Lakeside and the people were nice but I didn’t fit the profile. I’ve never raced a car but I connect with lactic acid burn in the thighs and cramping in the calves. I know the vulnerability of no seat belts or roll bars. If you go down, it’s flesh against the hard surface, at any speed. Son #2 still rides, has Son #3’s racer now, the kid size Nishiki. We all hope someday one of his daughters might want to give it a spin. 

ROCK & ROLL HALL OF FAME

The R & R Hall of Fame started as an idea in the 1980’s and opened its doors in 1995. By he time the building was completed, on the lake front in Cleveland, Ohio, there were many rock & roll heroes already enshrined. I always wanted to go there and see the displays, the memorabilia and certainly the guitars. Yesterday I got to do that. By 9:00 a.m. people were already beginning to collect in front of the building. When they opened at 10:00, it reminded me of the line at Disneyland; lots of every-age, little kids, bent on rock and roll. 

I was by myself. Any enthusiasm was dampened a bit by the fact I couldn’t share it with anyone. Wall after wall was covered with display cases, filled with costumes, posters, musical instruments and awards. It didn’t take very long to realize, you can’t look at everything there’s just too much stuff. Some things were displayed by genre, others by time period or region, some individuals got a space for themselves. It’s a museum and there was nothing to touch. But at every turn, there were kiosks where you could watch film clips of past performances. There are two small and one larger theaters where you can watch past performances and in particular, past induction ceremonies into the hall of fame. 

I was entertained and amused especially in the room documenting famous preachers, ranting and raving to their audiences on the evils of rock & roll. From Jimmy Swaggart to Jerry Falwell, they pounded on their pulpits and cursed shimmy-shaking, body swaying and prophesied to doom of everything righteous. While Jimmy Swaggart was waving his bible and pronouncing God’s inevitable wrath, his cousin Jerry Lee Lewis was, “Rocking My Life Away,” on another stage. We were going to hell and couldn’t wait to get there. 

I loved the guitars, from Jerry Garcia’s Stratocaster to Bo Diddley’s cigar box, square body Gretch; I was in awe. They might be under glass in Cleveland but once upon a time, they were jamming under the lights to a sold out crowd. Naturally, some people are more special to us than others and there are nearly 200 rock & rollers already inducted and available at the museum. So you get to pick and choose which ones you dwell on. I walked into one theater while the film was in progress. It was a close up of the body of an acoustic guitar. It was gorgeous with abalone inlay on the sound hole and bindings. The hand on its strings was playing the bridge to a song I knew but couldn’t identify at the moment. Just as the camera began to zoom back, revealing the artist, I recognized, “The Sound of Silence” and there they were, two, old, gray headed dudes in HD on a stage in front of thousands. Garfunkel was recognizable with his high forehead and frizzy hair but Simon was just a little old man and I don’t know how long it would have taken to put a name on his face if not for the music. I sat there through 7 or 8 songs. Their voices weren’t all they used to be but neither are my ears. It was way-cool. 

The class of 2014 includes The E Street Band and Linda Ronstadt. The Boss made it in in the 90’s and his band has made it now as well. There are others and great as they are, just not my favorites. Linda Ronstadt on the other hand, I’ve loved her since the Stone Ponies. On You Tube there is a duet with her and Bonnie Raitt, from the early 70’s; "Blowing Away." I’ve played it so many times I know every detail, from the camera angles, to the cut aways to when eyes shift one way or the other. I love Bonnie Raitt too, she was inducted in 2000. The two of them together when they were invincible is worth watching again and again. 

Quotes from interviews at the ceremonies were great. Mick Jagger thought it was ironic that they were all on their best behavior when it was their bad behavior that got them there. Pete Townshend’s advice was, “Whatever you do, don’t grow old gracefully. It doesn’t become you.” I recommend the museum to any and everyone. The people there were as interesting as the displays. The ones I noticed most were old folks like me, sharing their enthusiasm with their grand children. One little girl was dragging her grandmother across the room, telling her at every step, “Grandma, it’s Janice Joplin, it’s Janice Joplin.” If one of my granddaughters ever took me by the hand and dragged me to where we could listen to Ruth Brown or Linda Ronstadt, I’d know I was in heaven.