tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13856019960241643662024-02-07T12:51:27.046-08:00WatershedRussell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-13319534082325960922010-05-28T08:15:00.000-07:002010-10-29T16:11:14.408-07:00New outpostI've migrated! You can now view my posts at <a href="http://russellpowell.co/">Russell Steven Powell</a>. Please follow ...<br /><br />RussellRussell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-38949391595687769522010-05-14T03:41:00.000-07:002010-05-14T03:46:50.859-07:00Special Town Meeting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDk9ImDx8xEnpuJoqf8SEJSIqd4Q4ZUCLTvRMs3RrJz_-d_g-Dq8iqIq_Fp0g_LYFpRH7t7shNtsIbez4ptCGI5RKOSZOlGzLh5MTI3qAVvgwkHHez10GxnOxmLy1FZ39mIZo2ka18DP4/s1600/IMG_0700.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDk9ImDx8xEnpuJoqf8SEJSIqd4Q4ZUCLTvRMs3RrJz_-d_g-Dq8iqIq_Fp0g_LYFpRH7t7shNtsIbez4ptCGI5RKOSZOlGzLh5MTI3qAVvgwkHHez10GxnOxmLy1FZ39mIZo2ka18DP4/s400/IMG_0700.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471074894748563826" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'times new roman', serif;">Buffalo Bill’s son (minus hat), with florid face and cream-colored hair slicked back,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">a country western legend, perhaps, or NASCAR granddad; </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">or a fur trapper woke up on the wrong side of the world</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">in the wrong time who, lacking a good saloon</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">where he could rest his mud-caked boots, drink rotgut and wait for a shootout,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">came to town meeting, both barrels blazing against bureaucrats and taxes.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Fading purple banners drape the gym, heralding the school’s athletic heights.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">At a humble angle, a basketball hoop glows above the aging moderator’s head.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Pony-tailed, neck-tied in leather jacket, he once ran wild on this shiny hardwood.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">People here still remember when the gym erupted</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">the night he scored in overtime, or strained silently on folding chairs</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">to hear his narrator’s lines in “Our Town” on the dusty stage where he now lords.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The chair of the selectboard sits nearby,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">who never commanded this space in high school; she sang off-key, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">was too fat and couldn’t act, but now looks out imperiously.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Assessors, finance committee, and those paid to be here — </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">clerk, counsel, highway superintendent — ask for votes </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">in monotones to move money between accounts</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">and pay unemployment for the math teacher and librarian laid off last fall,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">recorded for posterity and the brittle-boned:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">videoed by a pale, redheaded teen directing his first shoot,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">reported for the local daily by a bored transient doodling bleacher notes.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The rare townspeople who speak saunter Sammy Davis-like </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">to sing their fondled poems at open mike, and some make encores:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">a solemn, short-haired woman quoting procedures,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">a former selectman who endorses articles as though it's expected of him,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">and big-bellied Buffalo Bill, opinions sharp as mutton-chop whiskers,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">alleging backroom deals, irritated, still, by the paltry sum </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">the town gave him when it took his land for the sewer line a dozen years ago,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">exercising his right to be heard, reading amendments in his slow, flourishing hand,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">to put on the ballot or at least table the proposal to send out quarterly tax bills.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">2008</span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-90450554720328102432010-05-08T07:23:00.000-07:002010-05-10T03:56:51.208-07:00A religious experience<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLA6BCup55ND91gHYOVBPNNoiyW09jSOVArz8d36M-G7h3Y2IJhPHFnjRkuvWvYcNc7IvgqEcmOnpkl98mU2pY4R3hXkP3ykKLMiZqPHjMtUinz9JeHnNUvEJ3o-COjydJVTYwoY13l4w/s1600/DSC02325.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLA6BCup55ND91gHYOVBPNNoiyW09jSOVArz8d36M-G7h3Y2IJhPHFnjRkuvWvYcNc7IvgqEcmOnpkl98mU2pY4R3hXkP3ykKLMiZqPHjMtUinz9JeHnNUvEJ3o-COjydJVTYwoY13l4w/s400/DSC02325.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468905178814051202" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Last night I went to church. I’ll admit, I’m not nearly as devout now as I once was, but I’ve been going to the place off and on for more than 40 years, and I am still impressed by its spectacle and pageantry, and find its rituals familiar and comforting. Mine is one of those mega-churches—typically there are more than 35,000 of us in the stadium-like cathedral. It’s impressive and humbling to be in the middle of a crowd this size gathered together with a common purpose. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Last evening’s service began with a surprise, as three helmeted angels descended into the church from the sky, adorned in battle fatigues, with pink smoke trailing from their army boots, landing on the soft grass of the nave to the amazed cheers of the congregation. What a weird and riveting way to introduce the magic and the mystery of it all! </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Generally, though, there are few surprises, and that’s what is so reassuring. The hymns, for example, never change, and always happen at the same point in the service, beginning with “Oh Say Can You See,” that soaring paean to bravery and patriotism, just before the priests enter.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Next, well into the service, comes that lilting call to community, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” and then, an “inning” later (we divide our service into nine sections of varying lengths), the love song, “Sweet Caroline.” Until you have stood in the middle of 35,000 parishioners, drunk with adoration, standing, swaying, singing <i>a cappella</i> Neil Diamond’s hypnotic melody, “reaching out, touchin you, touchin me, Sweet Caroline, good times never seemed so good,” you can’t truly grasp the miracle of faith.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Okay, so this is not your stereotypical church. Take communion. We’ve substituted hot dogs and beer for bread and wine, with ample amounts of both, not just a wafer and a sip. We combine communion with the collection; as people approach the front of the long lines to receive their blessing, they give the acolytes a generous, prescribed offering. It’s a good thing we can economize in some places, as the service itself is rather long, generally more than three hours. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">We emphasize rituals, but they are unique to our church. The Bouncing of the Beachballs; the Human Wave, in which the crowd participates in a moving display of praise, raising their arms heavenward in a spontaneous, yet choreographed, progression around the perimeter of the church; the prayer-like chants (they’re Latin, I think, or Greek: “lets goh red sochs” and “yan kees suc”); and strange characters like the possessed Kazoo Man, exhorting the crowd in his wild garb, a waist-length white robe with red piping, red strips of handkerchief drooping from either side of his navy hat, resembling a beagle’s floppy ears. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">A giant video screen overlooking the church displays helpful insights about the service, as well as the Ten Commandments (Thou Shalt Not Smoke, We Shall Smite Thee if Thee Approach the Altar, Love Thy Neighbor, et cetera). And let’s face it, running a church of this size is not cheap, so its walls are covered with colorful reminders of our sponsors, Saint Gulf, Saint Volvo, Saint John Hancock, among others.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The youthful priests are many, but mute. They communicate with their bodies, from a distance, presenting a kind of visual hieroglyphics that unfolds like a play. It’s often slow and meditative, forcing you to focus on the smallest of acts. At other times the priests run around chasing the chalice, throwing it among themselves, batting at it with a short, thick staff.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">There are rules and rituals for the priests, just as there are for us supplicants: chalk lines that, apparently, must be avoided at all costs, chess-like movements around a mystical, green-grass square, and choreographed exchanges at the altar between priests wearing different-colored robes (white or gray, usually, tight fitting to accommodate the motion, topped with a brimmed cap). Four priests in black direct the service, led by one wearing a kind of masked mitre, who plants himself at the head of the altar.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Their meaning is not always clear to the uninitiated, but there’s something universal and deeply satisfying about the priests’ motions. Their movements express what it means to be fully human, alive in a body, muscular, sensual, at once joyful and solemn, hard-working yet playful.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The service is as slow as the revolving earth, interspersed with cosmic bursts of activity, a metaphor for our own struggle with mortality. At its heart, the service evokes our highest aspirations to infuse our lives with passion, to sustain our capacity for joy, to not be defined by the imperatives of survival. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">In my religion, you win some, you lose some. When the service is over, I can’t say I completely understand it. But I do know this: religion is not a game. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-2407809357644558752010-05-06T03:56:00.000-07:002010-05-06T06:37:00.402-07:00The Great Saunter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5zPSTMcSv9Hia27lMrPf9_z01YTYZcT_OnjNaX-CRYcL1tK6vRRu005oQ9oEf_nXGiPlMj0pTfm_hQgo_mgnH7cOE0iJk5_YlTihL3Nfxn2RsorRiXZgGf9c9nVEZovFRn4URDJgba-w/s1600/DSC03506.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5zPSTMcSv9Hia27lMrPf9_z01YTYZcT_OnjNaX-CRYcL1tK6vRRu005oQ9oEf_nXGiPlMj0pTfm_hQgo_mgnH7cOE0iJk5_YlTihL3Nfxn2RsorRiXZgGf9c9nVEZovFRn4URDJgba-w/s400/DSC03506.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468110487202424034" border="0" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">We all had health concerns. M was recovering from two back surgeries less than a year earlier to remove cancerous cells in and around his spine. E had surgery on her Achilles tendon in December, and was in such discomfort two days before that she didn’t think she even would be able to start with us. B had to stop at mile 12 on our longest training walk due to knee pain. A knee injury I suffered in the fall seemed healed, but I had not put it to such a test.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Just four athletes in their 50s, beginning the 25th annual <a href="http://www.shorewalkers.org/">Great Saunter</a>, a 32-mile walk around the perimeter of Manhattan, on May Day.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Happily, B, M, and I all completed the distance, and E felt fine for the first 10 miles (when she left for a family function). It took us 12 hours to complete the loop, beginning south of the Brooklyn Bridge at Fulton and South streets, up the west side along the Hudson River, across the island south of the Harlem River, and then back along the East River. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">It was not as physically challenging as I had feared it might be, although my legs and feet were extremely sore the last couple of hours from standing so long. Three days later, I’m still hurting, though, from a matching pair of blisters on my toes, stiff legs (especially when I get up from sitting), and an aching right foot that forces me to limp. <span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">More than 800 of us started out on a day warm enough for shorts and T-shirts, hot enough for sunscreen and extra fluids. I’m not sure how many finished—the ending was rather anticlimactic—but a number of walkers we saw several times on the west side were not to be seen beyond the George Washington Bridge.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The entire walk was low key. We wore numbers, but there was no start, per se; we simply noticed that some people had begun, so we decided to do the same. Along the route there were only a handful of volunteers, and we saw the same ones in several places. There were unmarked forks in the woods at the northern tip of Manhattan; fortunately we were near some experienced walkers who knew the right way. There was just one water stop along the entire 32 miles, despite the warm weather.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">At the finish, we were simply handed a brownie, a T-shirt, and a blank certificate to which we added our name. The Great Saunter ended where it began, outside the Heartland Brewery, and I expected a party there Saturday night, but it was business as usual. B and I downed a pint of oatmeal stout and returned to our hotel room, and I hobbled out for some ibuprofen and food. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The walk, though, was glorious. Manhattan was ringed in green, and bubbling with children, on ball fields, in parks (we passed through more than 20 of them), running, walking, walking their dogs, and on bicycles, and there were many adult children as well doing the same activities.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The narrow strip of land between the Hudson River and West Side Highway was not only green, it was filled with well-tended flower gardens, with a lot less litter than I encounter on my walks in rural Massachusetts. M and B snapped away with their cameras. As we walked, we occasionally updated family and friends on our cell phones.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">We walked at a moderate pace, and we seldom took breaks. We grabbed some sushi and juice from the Fairway Supermarket when E left us at 125th Street. We stopped beneath the George Washington Bridge to get a picture of the little red lighthouse on the Hudson’s eastern shore, and helped a bicyclist who had taken a bad spill trying to avoid a walker. On a shaded bench in Inwood Park, we ate a lunch of onion-olive focaccia, cheddar cheese, yogurt, and apple cider from a nearby farmers market. A young woman walker there told us she had signed up for a bicycle tour of New York’s five boroughs the very next day.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Turning south, we walked for 20 blocks or so in the middle of Harlem before angling over to the East River. To this point, we had mostly visited among ourselves, but now two middle-aged men and a woman veered off the main path, telling us that they were taking the “more interesting,” traditional route; the new one kept to the middle of the city for another mile-and-a-half, they said, to avoid some narrow stretches and street crossings. We decided to follow them.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The two men were from Poughkeepsie, where they work for IBM and belong to a walking club. This was their fourth Saunter. The woman lives in Brooklyn, and twice a week she walks the nine-and-a-half mile commute to and from her job as a bookkeeper on 57th Street.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I soon noticed a woman following us, and gradually drifted back and began a conversation. Maria was from Monterey, Mexico, and spoke limited English. She had become separated from four friends who began the walk with her; the five of them had traveled to New York to see “The Lion King” on Broadway the night before and then make the 32-mile walk. They were returning to Mexico Sunday.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Maria walked as if her feet were sore, so M offered to carry her backpack. She refused at first, but he persisted, and finally she relented. For the last third of the walk, M carried Maria’s backpack, though we were not always together—there were times when she was 100 yards or so in front of M, but she never once looked back. Her trust was gratifying. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The people we met were friendly, if a little bemused. Some older men by a street corner asked us how we liked Harlem River Park. When we answered that we had enjoyed it, one of them became animated and, introducing himself, said, “I started that park!”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Although the water looked murky, people were fishing all along the East River, poles bungeed to the metal railings above the water. We watched as one man reeled in an 18-inch eel, yelling, “I got a snake!” and warning the gathering crowd to not get too close because they bite and sting. “But they taste just like scallops,” he said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">We caught up to two nuns wearing beige-colored habits, one in sneakers. I turned to speak to them, expecting to see two older women. To my surprise, they were both in their 20s. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">For the last few miles it was just B and I walking side by side, mostly in silence, with M and Maria a little behind. It was pleasant, but we were weary, and the remaining distance seemed elastic, expanding with every step. But it was an experience of New York unlike any I have ever had, or am likely to have.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The historic rivers and bridges; the ancient tulip trees and wooded paths juxtaposed with bustling sidewalks, cooking smells and traffic sounds; the mix of friends and friendly strangers; the exercise; even the exhaustion—all contributed to a unique perspective of this great city. Sore feet and all, I would walk it again.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-72644739740248083032010-04-25T15:55:00.000-07:002010-04-25T16:02:41.819-07:00Splitting time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuuvl0i5NjplK6cH5jMoib4SomnJvIiMtQ7xrcRH32EWtzCVYd1INHNUWCebEFhec8_Yd3-LoG8BdXYoGh61LytRxe-BOKaEr9JGw_FzU6eXCbHicuX9zirqQ0PGXvz5S1VpqVDyFndmQ/s1600/IMG_0709.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuuvl0i5NjplK6cH5jMoib4SomnJvIiMtQ7xrcRH32EWtzCVYd1INHNUWCebEFhec8_Yd3-LoG8BdXYoGh61LytRxe-BOKaEr9JGw_FzU6eXCbHicuX9zirqQ0PGXvz5S1VpqVDyFndmQ/s400/IMG_0709.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464213205798244066" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Splitting logs is payback, sending shockwaves through my body, transferring thin slabs of dense wood to reedy muscle. The two tall, red maples behind the garage were still alive; I made the decision to execute them because they were terminally ill and I chose not to invest the money necessary to make their last years comfortable.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">They each must have been 75 years old—older than I am—and their thick trunks and wide canopies dominated their immediate landscape. These trees survived the insurance company with the son, now in his 70s, who threw wild parties as a teenager; the car mechanic with the daughter who loved horses; the cow rescued from the nearby swimming pool; the lady who died of cancer; the musical family with two young girls; and the couple who had legendary shouting matches; before us.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Now the lilacs can breathe, the hemlocks can branch out. No more dead or dying limbs, no more cables to keep them from splaying. For now, we will not replace them.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Their heavy remains will help warm our house or, more accurately, provide ambience, for the next several winters. The fireplace is inefficient for heating, but satisfying to watch, smell, and listen to, profound and primal as breaking ocean waves. A pile of dried logs licked by flames can be hypnotizing, calming, absorbing, regardless of season.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">But now, the log lengths cover parts of the greening lawn, and they need to be split and stacked so they can dry enough to burn next fall. Sledge and maul come swinging down again and again with great force, though I am out of shape and have thin arms.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">It is a familiar, fluid motion, like swinging a baseball bat, but vertically, and much heavier. Legs planted firmly, left arm extended, left hand gripping the wide base of the maul handle, I swing the maul up, slowly gaining speed. There is the briefest pause at the precise top of the upswing as my right hand grabs the handle above the left before exploding downward, powered by a sudden shift of weight through the fulcrum of the hips.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The result is either a dull, ringing thud, as less than an inch of the maul’s blade is buried in a thick log, or a satisfying crack, as two fireplace-size pieces fly in opposite directions. If the maul is wedged in the wood, I repeat the swing using the sledge, pounding the head of the maul like a pile driver until it cuts through. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I split a little more every day, until my shoulders tire. This is not a job that should be done when I am fatigued—I could take my leg off with a glancing blow. Such is the force that my energy must muster. Afterward, my upper body aches for hours, until a glass of white wine before dinner.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">There are machines that can do this splitting, and the widest sections of the trunk may yet require one. But, like the Plains Indians that used every last shred of the buffalo they killed, I feel I must somehow acknowledge and take responsibility for the lives I took, utilizing all that I can from their corpses.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">There’s the old adage about wood keeping you warm twice: once when you stack it, once when you burn it. While it doesn’t heat the house, the woodpile offers some security. If the power fails next winter, we could huddle around the fireplace and not freeze to death. Seeing three stacks of wood gaining height slowly from my effort feels akin to stocking the food pantry, a hedge against loss, unhurried and fragrant as rising bread dough.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The lily of the valley should recover. It has been covered for weeks with thick, fireplace-length logs. I rolled several logs away from the area, uncovering a number of pale, pink stalks tipped with yellow, trying to find the light. A few days later they had greened up, but I noticed a few more of the translucent spears poking up around the edges of the next log. I had to move half a dozen more logs to expose the full patch of lily of the valley.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I’m not sure what to do about the gnarled stumps. Striking them with the maul requires all my strength, just to crack a small wedge, and the effort makes my shoulders ring, vibrating my whole being, right down to my organs and bones. These trees will not go gently.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The largest log is about eighteen inches high and three feet in diameter. It will make a perfect table on the patio, but it weighs a ton and will have to be treated with some kind of preservative. I’ll need help to turn it on its side and roll it across the grass to its final resting place. It will be a lot more durable and attractive, though, than the chintzy, rusting table it will replace.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">At my current pace, cleaning up the two trees will take until summer. I will be physically stronger from the work of splitting and stacking, with a deeper, visceral understanding of the land on which I live. The stumps and some sawdust will remain. It will be years before evidence of the trees will be gone, rotting into the ground, or turning to ash in my fireplace.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-14572607746103295212010-04-13T16:06:00.000-07:002010-04-13T16:19:25.350-07:00Fiddleheads<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQOv79O5yZadFSQf2YojizzdlNvbXxlCP6MG1wJ_06vg1y80e7HFYbKNXIE6WakqVMFXFlhcFaQD3IJ_yMD1b6OEVe0P8_4LgwdY3kJbs4VLnvo-eV-FV849-OAf1LcguNgcdz8Ut7-Co/s1600/IMG_0926_2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 323px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQOv79O5yZadFSQf2YojizzdlNvbXxlCP6MG1wJ_06vg1y80e7HFYbKNXIE6WakqVMFXFlhcFaQD3IJ_yMD1b6OEVe0P8_4LgwdY3kJbs4VLnvo-eV-FV849-OAf1LcguNgcdz8Ut7-Co/s400/IMG_0926_2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459764256890920306" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;font-size:6;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:19px;"> <!--StartFragment--> <!--StartFragment--> </span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;font-size:6;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The fiddleheads are here! Like apple blossoms, they are appearing earlier than usual by a couple of weeks due to the unseasonably warm weather.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This poem originally appeared in the 2004 </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Berkshire Review</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Fiddleheads</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Eight years after Yettie died</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Rolando still sniffed the house </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">for boiled cabbage and bacon grease</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">lingering in the corners</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">he seldom swept or wiped.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">He sat up sleepily,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">gripping the bed on either side,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">trying to recall her warmth and shape</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">lying next to him 51 years. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, serif;font-size:medium;">Scratching his head,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">he looked down at his spotted legs</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">and was struck by how skinny he was,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">although his belly sagged.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Today was May one.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">He pulled himself up.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This was the day to get fiddleheads.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">He dragged a comb across</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">his still thick, cream-colored hair</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">and threw his jacket on.</span></span></span></p><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Rolando walked by their small stand </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">of tightly budded lilacs</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">on his way to the garage</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">and climbed into the car</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">he’d driven eleven years</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">that still ran well with minor repairs,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">a cream-colored wagon like his hair,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">and drove a mile or more</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">on dirt roads through new potato fields</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">until he came to a spot by the slow river </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">where the ferns annually unfolded.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Yettie wore a faded cotton dress</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">that seemed full of her life</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">like no other perfume.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><i><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">She would set her line for yellow perch</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">while Rolando hunted through the wilds </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">of broken bottles and new growth until he</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">filled a bowl with the tender, tightly-wound scrolls.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">They’d mix their catch that night,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">fried with butter and a small onion</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">then simmered with milk into a thick stew </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">which they’d make three times</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">in the next two weeks</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">and then not at all for fifty-two.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Rolando turned the radio up </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">because who was he bothering</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">at this hour and in this place?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">and inched along the road, avoiding the ruts,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">thinking about the years now long ago</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">when he supervised two men in a greenhouse</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">growing half the pansies in western Massachusetts.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The moist greens and violets and golds </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">blossoming in a thousand rows</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">beneath acres of glass while outside it froze</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">kept his spirits up and his sleeves short</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">no matter how cold it got.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">But the day picking fiddleheads</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">marked the change from plants sown indoors</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">to those that stirred from roots or seed </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;margin-left: 1in; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">directly under wind and sun.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span><p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"> <!--EndFragment--> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-24195568343990713252010-04-11T11:10:00.000-07:002010-04-11T11:20:58.103-07:00Inconspicuous Consumption<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-qdli9s3_HcllgL63gIjHCxy9-xNfd7ILf-WtlVKc_Sg-NLFS_CuSrCm0bQFFC1ijRqRs177bcYWynhIH7ku9ScUYhcDCcFFxJBN1cQKFIqzT_wDpk8Ly0w8ofqhCWICZsFm9yh539Y/s1600/DSC02305.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-qdli9s3_HcllgL63gIjHCxy9-xNfd7ILf-WtlVKc_Sg-NLFS_CuSrCm0bQFFC1ijRqRs177bcYWynhIH7ku9ScUYhcDCcFFxJBN1cQKFIqzT_wDpk8Ly0w8ofqhCWICZsFm9yh539Y/s400/DSC02305.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458944742479972722" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, serif;">When it comes to trash and recycling, I’ve always thought of myself as a conscientious consumer. But it’s hard not to make a mess.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I’ve been diligent about recycling for years, thanks in large part to having lived in communities that provide lots of recycling options, in a state with a bottle bill. But there is a large category of waste material about which I have been thoughtless until recently, and that has made me look more closely at my overall consumption of packaged goods.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">My meals yesterday took a lot of protecting. At breakfast I emptied a plastic milk <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>jug and opened the next, a cardboard carton with a plastic o-ring beneath its cap, protecting its spout. Both, at least, are recyclable.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I ate my cereal reading the Saturday newspaper, the thickest of the week, as it is always jammed with inserts. Yesterday’s had ten, plus <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Parade</i> magazine and a television guide. All of them went directly to my recycling bin without a glance. The best argument I have heard yet for Kindles, iPads and online journalism is environmental, sparing not only thousands of trees on a daily basis, but the vast, energy- and resource-consuming infrastructure of press and ink, and delivery trucks fanning out to countless stores and home delivery.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The middle of the day was light on garbage, thanks in part to a five-hour walk on which we each consumed two granola bars wrapped in thin, mylar-like substances, which came packaged in a cardboard box. For lunch, I opened the plastic wrapper around a bar of cheddar cheese, and placed the unused portion in a plastic sandwich bag. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Supper was the killer. For a lasagna-style casserole, I used a plastic jar of tomato sauce; a plastic tub of cottage cheese with a protective plastic skin beneath its plastic cap; a plastic container of tofu; a plastic box of mushrooms wrapped in plastic; a head of cauliflower wrapped in plastic; spinach in a plastic bag; and pasta in a cardboard box with a cellophane window. The containers and box were recyclable and the bag reusable. The skin and wraps were not.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I finished a small, glass jar of capers and a plastic tub of black olives. I microwaved a plastic pouch of frozen peas (not recyclable) that came in a cardboard box (recyclable). We drank wine that came in a glass bottle (recyclable).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">These are only the ingredients that, on this day, I used up and had to dispose of their containers. The jar of green olives, the cereal box, the plastic cups of blueberries and rice pudding will be recycled another day. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I’ve begun reusing aluminum foil, plastic cups and plastic bags until they are dirty or otherwise unsalvageable. Not so long ago, I would have thought of this modest effort as silly, unnecessary, or unsanitary, if I thought about it at all; quaint economies my grandparents made, persisting today only among the world’s poor. But more and more I am trying to model the behavior I expect of others, and I deplore the thoughtless trash that dots my landscape.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I am looking for ways to be fully engaged in the world I live in, and that means being accountable, not just abdicating responsibility to faceless governments and nations for the global problems to which I contribute. That requires me to look honestly at my own appetites, my role as a consumer in all its complexity.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">In the final analysis, I can only change myself, do what is in front of me. I don’t know fully how using less can make a difference, but it is the surest weapon I have. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-27938131968915060082010-04-06T16:55:00.000-07:002010-04-06T16:58:10.052-07:00iPad, or pasta?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFls6xzYOckhh84e3PUB9ueZpEx6mo8phrk7jrQIpeXyln-Ny2nrpDruWidRbZHf4kTgRmfS4ztJwCxFwwtTL_6wawoxBeF2IkGtOJpjr9t7GQUE993pFagxVv4yETguryx7WUJ8_jYU/s1600/IMG_0711.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFls6xzYOckhh84e3PUB9ueZpEx6mo8phrk7jrQIpeXyln-Ny2nrpDruWidRbZHf4kTgRmfS4ztJwCxFwwtTL_6wawoxBeF2IkGtOJpjr9t7GQUE993pFagxVv4yETguryx7WUJ8_jYU/s400/IMG_0711.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457178072155188306" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, serif;">I was one of the last people in the western hemisphere to get a cell phone. I was always practical, waiting for other people to vet new technologies. More to the point, I resisted the marketing strains that seduce vacuous consumers to part with their money over anything labeled the Next Best Thing.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Yet there I was, at 8:55 a.m. on a Saturday in April, in line with 100 or more people outside the Apple store inside the Holyoke Mall, waiting to get my iPad. The marketers at Apple had not only convinced me to pre-order, they had threatened that I would forfeit the chance to get my new machine if I were not there between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m.!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">It was an impressive display of mass marketing. There was free Starbucks coffee and bottled water for people in line—two lines, actually: one for those lucky ones like me who had pre-ordered, one for those hapless losers who stood enviously waiting to order, hoping for the opportunity to spend their money on the cool promise of the much-hyped machine.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">There was irony galore. The line was opposite a Borders bookstore, and security staff had to instruct us several times to move away from Borders’ doors. The teenage boy behind me uttered comments like “I’ll never buy another book again.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I called two friends to help document this historic moment. The first was duly impressed, but the other was too sleepy to appreciate it. There was no common denominator to my compadres in line, no universal demographic—young and old, male and female, geek and non-geek all gathered together to be the first ones on their block to bring home the latest from Jobs and Co. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">It took 45 minutes for me to reach the head of the line. A pleasant young woman in a blue, short-sleeved crew-shirt crossed off my name from a plastic clipboard and announced through her headset that “Russell” was ready. I was then allowed to enter the store. I was greeted by my first name by more young people wearing blue crew-shirts. This cutting-edge technology was uniform, but with a human face! </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The rest was anticlimactic. I was handed my machine, paid for it and left in a matter of moments, without fanfare. But like Woodstock, years from now I can say I was there.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I can’t yet tell you much about the new machine. It looks like fun—that is a given, I suppose. An iPhone on steroids, and probably much, much more, depending on how much time and money I invest in it, adding applications to the basic package that came with the machine (part of the Apple master plan).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">But whatever it is, I will know about it now, not a year from now, or by reading about it. For the moment, at least, I am on the cyber frontier.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">It is far too early to know if the iPad will deliver on its promise to transform our communication lives, or to speculate over whether it represents our doom, or salvation. But the people in line, including me, were betting on the latter. Driving this merchandising machine is hope that technology is a force for good, and can lead us through myriad challenges. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">A week earlier, while walking with my housemate and our dog, we passed a yard sale, unattended and unattractive. But there, amid a blanket of forgettable items, was a stolid Royal typewriter.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I have not owned a typewriter since the early 1980s, when a student borrowed my portable electronic model and never returned it. That typewriter was a gift meant to encourage me to write, but it was light enough that it often jumped when I hit the carriage return, and it became obsolete when I bought my first IBM computer.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Since then, though, I have often wanted a typewriter in my repertoire. Its unique quirkiness is compelling: the smell of oil and inky ribbon; the sound of the bell announcing the end of a line, and the hand-crank of the carriage return; and its heavy bulk and unyielding keyboard that requires muscular finger strokes. Faster and more flexible than hand-writing, the typewriter nonetheless forces the user to think before putting words to paper, lest the letter, essay or narrative has to be typed all over again.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The Royal on the pavement was dusty, but otherwise appeared in great shape. I tested it, and it worked. A man in a woven navy cap, plaid shirt and chipped tooth came out and made light conversation, telling us a slow, sad story of a wounded heron. We never exchanged names. The heron finally breathing its last breath, I asked him what he wanted for the typewriter.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">He said his mother owned it, and she was moving to Arizona. He put the question back to me: what did I think it was worth? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I was thinking $20, but I didn’t say it, instead batting the question back to him, telling him I had no idea, and what did he want for it?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">He paused in the manner of any good salesperson. “Well,” he began slowly, hands in pockets, “I have to think it’s worth …” here he paused again, hand to stubbled chin, “… at least a buck,” looking up at me hopefully over his wire-frame glasses.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I tried not to accept too quickly, but paid him the dollar. He was glad to get rid of the Royal. One less thing to cart away, and a heavy one at that. Said his mother probably hadn’t touched it for years. I believed him, doomed heron and all. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The ancient typewriter, despite its weight, is in some respects like the sleek iPad. I can’t yet say exactly how I will use either of them, but both feed my desire to communicate with others. It feels a little like opening my pantry door in January and taking comfort at the canned goods and boxes filling the shelves.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">If the power goes out, I’m protected. In any event, I have choices. My larder is well stocked, with dried mushrooms and cornichons from France and staples like pasta. No storm, no wind or snowdrift, can leave me hungry, or isolated, for long.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-24271618044069367722010-03-30T16:21:00.000-07:002010-03-30T16:50:24.818-07:00Fighting Fear<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8NITEwA83w7E-h9yuvZ3-UIURwXpksxlCrABn5AY7_D_e12q5NQ8652FZOjTa7hSKIfSCZklVARJee1qqWPaUWwzZBdpLjsogKsCNh0nzKVD3IE-8j-n8Jp2rvPbyFLmFQL_C7Oonnsg/s1600/IMG_0741.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8NITEwA83w7E-h9yuvZ3-UIURwXpksxlCrABn5AY7_D_e12q5NQ8652FZOjTa7hSKIfSCZklVARJee1qqWPaUWwzZBdpLjsogKsCNh0nzKVD3IE-8j-n8Jp2rvPbyFLmFQL_C7Oonnsg/s400/IMG_0741.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454576978001078754" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, serif;">A little anger in the body politic is not such a bad thing, generally, especially when the alternative is apathy. Democracy, we know, is sometimes messy. But rarely has fear been more naked than in the current “debate” over healthcare.</span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">There <i>is</i> no debate over healthcare. Consider:</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"></p><ul><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Everyone wants healthcare for themselves (especially when they become ill or injured). </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, serif;">Selfish as we Americans sometimes can be, we don’t really want our friends or neighbors to go without healthcare, either (Immigrants? Well, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>that’s another story.).</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, serif;">No one believes the status quo is working, or sustainable.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, serif;">Flawed as the current healthcare bill may be, the opposition presents no alternative (After half a century of inaction, “starting over” is indefensible, and it does not constitute a contrasting program.).</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, serif;">By their own admission, the people who most passionately oppose the healthcare bill don’t really know what is in it.</span></li></ul><p></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The small business owner from Utah who traveled to Senate Majority Leader <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Harry Reid’s home in Nevada to protest passage of the healthcare bill, one of several opponents interviewed on NPR, said she feared the provisions of the bill would force her out of business by making her buy health insurance for her employees. Told by the reporter that the bill includes subsidies and tax credits for businesses like hers, the woman scoffed, saying that “no one” knows what is in the bill. Presumably, she includes herself in that statement.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">If her business was a profitable one, if she felt secure about the future demand for her product or service, I doubt that she would spend the time and money to fight legislation she knows nothing about. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">This is about fear, pure and simple.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Fear of a world that is changing too fast.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Fear of a black president, and the larger truth he represents (as writer James <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Baldwin uttered 30 years ago, “The world will never be white again.”).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Fear of an economy spinning beyond our control, of losing our national superiority and our material ease.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Fear of the transition from fossil fuels to something more sustainable, as yet unknown, of becoming casualties of the slow, uncertain and painful process of having to retool major industries like automobiles and energy.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Fear of being held accountable for our nation’s past sins against nature.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Fear of wars waged in two places that lack shape or common purpose and drain our nation’s resources like twin black holes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Fear of not fighting these battles, powerless against an evasive, unseen enemy.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Fear of a bomb going off in our midst.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Change, we know, is inevitable. We cannot still our brains, even if we wanted to. As a species, we are in perpetual motion, relentless as the passage of time, and subject to its rules. That’s why, thousands of years after dwelling in caves and living from meal to meal, we take collective action to feed and clothe ourselves, to travel between destinations, to gain knowledge and new skills, to defend and protect ourselves, and now, to take care of each other when we are stricken by injury or disease.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">No amount of fear can change this. But fear can wreak havoc along the way.<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, serif;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;font-size:6;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:19px;"><br /></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-84119687093835243392010-03-28T11:18:00.000-07:002010-03-28T11:28:14.615-07:00All arms and legs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zmeOVNNq_kxIb2Jc5WjblJvGGvRHGSLyfQemmgvaEfUFBsCy1FIFNTJEZNw9_RSrK2Lulq2m7ySv5E_Ycba_iXfVGEMpH0Mhj67WiavmoInULyYwCHkd4GOXWmJ-GLG6mER4e_zsJnk/s1600/IMG_0703.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zmeOVNNq_kxIb2Jc5WjblJvGGvRHGSLyfQemmgvaEfUFBsCy1FIFNTJEZNw9_RSrK2Lulq2m7ySv5E_Ycba_iXfVGEMpH0Mhj67WiavmoInULyYwCHkd4GOXWmJ-GLG6mER4e_zsJnk/s400/IMG_0703.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453752095933497666" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Running or painting, it’s all about mediating energy. During both activities, mind and body process energy like oxygen, ingesting it involuntarily from an invisible, omnipresent force and transforming it, first animating our living cells, then expressing it—“</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">to make known the opinions or feelings of (oneself); to represent by a sign or symbol; to force out by pressure,” according to Merriam-Webster—</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">in a new form.</span></span></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Running (or throwing or jumping) and painting (or drawing or carving) are both physical, solitary acts. We may run in a pack or paint in a class, but the experience is largely our own; to the runner and the painter, teamwork and collaboration are attainable, but they begin as largely abstract concepts.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Unlike team sports such as basketball or crew, the challenge of running is intensely personal. We are testing our physical limits, finding our threshold of maximum exertion, trying to hold concentration and relaxation together in perfect balance under intense conditions. It is a supreme experience of energy, powerful, and extremely difficult to sustain.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Unlike video or film, painting, too, resists collaboration. Even the act of writing, while largely solitary, lends itself to editorial input from others, and the words on the page can be changed at any time, and then changed back again. Painting is less easy to revise.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To either run or paint well requires a seeming paradox: discipline and control to produce fluidity and freedom. Harnessing energy to release it.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Running and painting are both sensual acts, but running is macro and external, painting micro and internal. Running engages all of the senses, a rich immersion in the physical world. But the sensuality is impersonal. Runners—and more generally, athletes—are to be seen, not touched.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Athletes are their own paintings, perpetual-motion sculptures. Runners are physically fit, and good running form is graceful, pleasing to the eye. We run in nothing but shorts, exposing our thin arms and muscular thighs, but the pleasure is distant and ephemeral, not sexual. Like the painting in the museum, the runner is to be admired from afar, not felt.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Painting, by contrast, is intimate, even erotic, soft and fluid, curvaceous, filled with color and light. The motions are smaller than running, though the experience can be as exhausting and intense, as the flow of energy through the arm is equally strong as through the legs.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Unlike running, when painting is done, something remains; energy is fixed. Running is like firewood, burning brightly and generating great heat for a limited time; painting is like the steel forged in the fire. Neither, of course, is truly permanent, but painting leaves longer traces.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My experience of energy is passing from athletics to art. Muscle strains and knee pain have prevented me from sustained or intense training in the past year or so. I have slowly come to accept the reality that I will have to be a more casual athlete from now on, recreational rather than competitive, running for my general mental and physical health, not as a primary means of self-expression. I have already given up sports like basketball and softball for fear of injury, as I feel neither capable nor interested in slowing down my approach. The game remains, but not the same force of energy.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At the heart of my love for athletics has been my experience of energy. It borders on the electric. I almost become another person when I step across the foul line onto the softball field or walk onto the basketball court, hyper-charged with an energy that feels as if it originates somewhere other than in myself.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But while my legs are no longer capable of channeling energy in the same way, the flow remains, entering my body involuntarily and eventually needing to find a way out. Fortunately, I can engage my arms, hands and wrists in the act of painting, where I can process the energy, energy which I am drawn to but do not fully comprehend. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-34627592658566978652010-03-18T04:01:00.000-07:002010-03-18T07:20:57.267-07:00Twilight Zone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-AE6gc1GRDWU23Y_wFe7qY0LiYU58ifoYQY_wYUcEbGGJ-X6_ji4xGiJeGuasOLu6JSyuSbaDDqIAouVnfAP4tjwxBRsWYHaG2g5yhLmjvgctyUNLsrDX35rRJvzveAq_tbdsPm9flY/s1600-h/IMG_0828.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-AE6gc1GRDWU23Y_wFe7qY0LiYU58ifoYQY_wYUcEbGGJ-X6_ji4xGiJeGuasOLu6JSyuSbaDDqIAouVnfAP4tjwxBRsWYHaG2g5yhLmjvgctyUNLsrDX35rRJvzveAq_tbdsPm9flY/s400/IMG_0828.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449929090774428482" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-family:Arial,serif;" ><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Time is a photograph.” <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">— David Byrne</span></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">For many years, with the aid of Vinny, a gentle but persistent Siamese cat, I would wake up sometime between 5 a.m. and 6 a.m., roll out of bed and go for an hour-long walk (after feeding Vinny). I would leave before breakfast, and usually before coffee or tea <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">—</span> just lace my shoes, throw on coat and hat (depending on time of year), and go, jerked like a water skier behind my motorboat black lab, Mickey.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">In the fields and off leash, Mickey’s concentration on tennis ball or stick was absolute, and I could relax (one morning I spotted a bear about fifty yards away but Mickey was, thankfully, oblivious, flipping a stick in the air with his nose and catching it). I was self-employed during these years, so even in the darkest days of winter, I could leave as late as seven o’clock and still have plenty of time to get ready to begin work at nine. The walks gave me ample time to appreciate my surroundings, get my bearings and contemplate the day.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I love the morning; no matter how much or how little sleep I have had, I am at my freshest, and there are few distractions during these early hours. It is solitary, quiet, and there are often spectacular sunrises that otherwise would go unnoticed. When I returned home I felt as if I had earned my breakfast, and the exercise and fresh air laid a solid foundation for whatever else befell me during the day. No matter how stressful work or life might get, I had already done something good for myself. I even got used to the cold during winter, shrugging it off, even embracing it, following Mickey’s example.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Now my rhythm has changed, and I walk late afternoons into evening. I still get up early, but spend the time writing, reading or doing household chores rather than walking. I now put on my walking shoes when I get home from my day job, around five, and I have come to crave the slow, sensual transition from sunset to twilight to stars.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I was a late convert to digital photography, for reasons that seem foolish now, if I even can recall them. Something about the added degree of difficulty associated with film — digital looked too easy (never mind that traditional photography is a facile, mechanical shorthand for drawing what we see). In any event, I held out for a long time, with a vague, if naïve, belief that it had something to do with artistic integrity.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Silly me. During these twilight walks, I can take photographs without a tripod or flash that would be impossible using film. A whole new world has opened before me, expanding, not compromising, my experience of taking pictures. It has been several years now since I have shot with film, and I am still a neophyte with digital. But these twilight walks encourage me to push the boundaries of what can be captured on camera.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Today I began my walk shooting tobacco barns in slanted, late-afternoon light, then gingerly crossed a narrow slat bridge resting on the surface of the swollen Mill River. I arrived at the Connecticut when its expanse was a shifting blend of blues and apricot. The sun had disappeared; it was twilight, but I kept shooting. The light was so subtle and rich that it felt like time was suspended, or that it filled the air rather than simply passed through it. The light lacked a specific value, but infused everything in sight with a dense, yet transparent, hue.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The camera flash had still not gone off and I had nothing to lose (more advantages of digital—low light, low cost and instant access), so I tried the moon next, a thin crescent pointing skyward, poised over the silhouette of a tobacco barn that jutted above an orange horizon seeping above the tree line. The pictures might not come out, but who cares? They might communicate the moment, if not the literal image. When we walk, after all, things look blurred at times as our head moves in opposition to our feet at varying speeds on uneven surfaces. So what exactly is literal, anyway?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">No matter which way I walk to the river, the return from my walk brings me to town, where pedestrian electric light contrasts with moon and stars: the ghost-like reflections of television sets undulating on walls; the steady red eye beaming from a small metal box affixed to a telephone pole; warm, incandescent lights of kitchens and dining rooms as people sit down to eat. At this hour, I am straddling worlds — the semi-wilderness from which I return, and the human habitation at the end of my journey. I feel kinship with both; a double dose of longing, and belonging.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Once back on Maple Street, I heard a car slow down and stop behind me. It seemed an odd place to pull over, between driveways, but I just kept walking, not bothering to look around.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">A minute later, the car went slowly past me, and once again came to a stop by the side of the road. Perhaps the driver was lost and, having searched a map unsuccessfully a moment ago, was going to ask me for directions. Or perhaps, I thought, remembering being hassled at night in small towns sometimes as a teenager, someone was going to give me hard time. Either way, I didn’t feel much like talking.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">The door opened, and the driver slowly got out as I neared the car. But instead of looking toward me, he turned and faced the direction I was going, took something from his coat pocket, and pointed it at the sky. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">It was a digital camera. He, too, was still shooting, aiming to capture the sliver of a moon in the deepening indigo evening. I opened my mouth to offer encouragement, but closed it before speaking. A picture says a thousand words.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-26674952067246677302010-03-15T04:23:00.000-07:002010-03-15T06:21:00.677-07:00Mud Season Redux<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLyKjRIvek4RJ2-4M0InduK5a_5E90V3bZq8QTIXRKL8GJ6qt9cT-pka5hjQOoxJuE33o5OYGSUYFiUHW4E1jNhMBBQWx0gjLEWnBwg8eF-puaqcRIgewhoVJtr0tql2h1xrtgyyf9w4/s1600-h/IMG_0706.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLyKjRIvek4RJ2-4M0InduK5a_5E90V3bZq8QTIXRKL8GJ6qt9cT-pka5hjQOoxJuE33o5OYGSUYFiUHW4E1jNhMBBQWx0gjLEWnBwg8eF-puaqcRIgewhoVJtr0tql2h1xrtgyyf9w4/s320/IMG_0706.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448822047178268530" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It’s quarter of one on a Saturday afternoon in March, and I’m ready for a nap. I’ve been up since five, as our still-young dog, Molly, apparently miscalculated and had to get up to pee. By the time I am dressed and stand with her outside, I no longer feel sleepy, so I stay awake, but it is catching up with me now. With Molly, too—she is curled up on the sofa fast asleep—and my housemate, who has a bad cold and, after a restless night, has wisely gone back to bed.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I’ve been paying bills, which always leaves me feeling stressed out, even after a good night’s rest. It’s vaguely satisfying to know that everyone has been paid, but the effort leaves my head spinning. It’s time to lie down or take a walk.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">With temperatures in the low 40s, gusty winds and gray skies, it seems like a no-brainer: take the nap. But the weekend forecast calls for heavy rain, and it is only sprinkling now. Between this morning’s rain and what is predicted, this may be my best window of opportunity. That angelic-looking dog will be totally wired when she wakes up in a few hours if she does not get some exercise. So I chose to walk.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In certain respects the landscape now resembles the starkness of the Cape Cod dunes. At first you feel as if you are in a world of a few broad, monochromatic bands. But once you have been there awhile, your eyes adjust like night vision, and you see details within each band you missed upon first or second glance.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">At a distance, it looks as if a fine red scrim drapes the leafless trees. The blue foothills of the Berkshires are shades of purple and slate gray. The dead grasses covering the fields, dull and uninspiring in sunlight, are a vivid gold, as an ember glows brightly before expiring.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Along the perimeter of the fields, a profusion of maroon and pink blackberry canes arch gracefully in every direction, inspiration and a crude model, perhaps, for the invention of fireworks. I have no doubt that the abstract shapes and lines I paint have their origin in nature. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Rain at this time of year does a better job at coaxing green from the earth than the sun—it always looks brighter after a spring shower. Today is no exception. The fields are noticeably greener than during the previous week of sunny weather.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The earth is deceptively solid in places, like a breached whale before it descends back into the murky depths. It won’t last. Before the end of the walk, some of last week’s puddles have already reappeared and, if the forecast holds true, Monday the land will be submerged again.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">While the whale-backed field will temporarily disappear, the flotsam remains. A sea of beer, bottled water and Gatorade is consumed in and around these fields, and their detritus is everywhere. In addition to the cans and bottles, there is industrial waste, from tires to plastic jugs to rusting metal. There are abandoned mattresses, and appliances: a refrigerator, an air conditioner, a toxic computer left, not to rot—they are made of too much plastic and non-biodegradable material—but to permanently (or as close as we know it) scar the landscape.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Many of us experience odd moments when we feel like aliens. My friend Peter, a casual sports fan, tried to make conversation at a Super Bowl party a few years ago, in between plays and during the ads. The dismayed gathering mostly ignored him, and at that instant, he knew he was an alien. There are many places this awareness can happen in modern America (like fast food restaurants, or watching television).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">That’s how I experience this garbage. I just don’t get it. It’s not judgmental; I simply cannot understand why anyone would be so careless or indifferent as to violate the beauty of this space. This cavalier attitude is foreign, er, alien to me.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">But the world here is too big for the trash to ruin my experience. Lately, my partner and I have become members of a silent resistance, bringing trash bags with us on many of these walks and hauling out as much of this junk as we can carry. It may not amount to much, but it feels better to be engaged than passive </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The elements, though, are too daunting for that today.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I reach the end of the dike and pause at the river before turning toward home. The wind now is in my face, and the rain has picked up, needling my cheeks. I have to keep my head down and hold on to my hat. Before long water is dripping from its brim, my glasses are spotted with raindrops, and my hands are red with cold. The wind in my ears is a constant roar; when it briefly lets up now and then it merely allows me to hear it blowing further away, through the trees or across the river.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Molly is unaffected. To her, this could be the most beautiful day of the year. She runs around in mad circles, chases the birds wherever they land, sniffs everything in sight. I see a muskrat swimming in the Mill River, am startled by the brightness of a bluebird. There are deer prints in the mud near the river. Three stoic Hereford cattle lie chewing their cuds, two beneath a lean-to, one in the rain. Until I am back in town, these are the only living creatures I encounter.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The rain lets up once I am on Main Street. We walk swiftly home. Once there, I take a long nap.</span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-82050370012933459212010-03-09T04:00:00.000-08:002010-03-09T05:02:37.039-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBTHjM0rgvthAgwC_t8C3JiSYIwcQy3QACgwahkaML3Eq63zfh6O4jvrmdwsAC8OXkh300ShDjZWD81mI9Z41I2yuwLhUwblFkaBYqQXxiI9hi1-eiBVKZkl_6Qr_yY-4B4Zg6gL84lo/s1600-h/IMG_0760_2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBTHjM0rgvthAgwC_t8C3JiSYIwcQy3QACgwahkaML3Eq63zfh6O4jvrmdwsAC8OXkh300ShDjZWD81mI9Z41I2yuwLhUwblFkaBYqQXxiI9hi1-eiBVKZkl_6Qr_yY-4B4Zg6gL84lo/s320/IMG_0760_2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446604126672354226" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Mud Season</span></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">As certain as lambs being born or maple trees being tapped for sap, in New England the transition from winter to spring is marked by mud season. Depending on the amount of snowpack that has to melt and the amount of new precipitation that falls during this time period, the season can last for six weeks or more, from mid-February into April.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Mud season is generally an underappreciated time of year, for several reasons. It is often cold, or windy, so hat and gloves must remain handy. On even warm days, winds can gust or temperatures plummet, making you wish you had brought the extra layer that seemed superfluous when you started out. </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The earth stinks—literally—a stench so foul and putrid in places that it borders on dead animal. The earth is a giant stewpot of rotting grasses, sweating off months of inactivity and ice to prepare the soil for the new life to emerge. Mud season is wet and dirty, as its name implies. You can’t go anywhere off road without having to slog through an unpredictable and unstable sheet of mud.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It helps to have a dog at this time of year, as they embody the truism that there is no such thing as a bad walk. To dogs, walking is as essential as oxygen, supplying sensory nourishment to their brains that they digest like kibble for hours afterward deep in sleep, reliving each step, occasionally twitching their eyelids or legs.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Most dogs are, at least, indifferent to mud. The vast majority relishes it. Their communion with the planet’s surface in all weathers is how they know they are alive.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">With or without a dog, if you accept the traces of cold, register, if not actually enjoy, the smells (the odors, after all, help locate us in this particular time and place), and develop a short-term tolerance for the awkward and somewhat unpleasant sensation of your feet sliding through mud, mud season has a quiet beauty.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">There is the exercise, of course, true of any walk, but a little more demanding and involving more muscle groups at this time of year due to the shifting ooze beneath your feet. You can’t take balance for granted.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">A mud season walk brings a fresh experience of sun and air after a winter spent mostly indoors, a return of color to your cheeks. It brings a heightened awareness of the natural world, including not just the returning geese, ducks and other migrating fowl, but also the local bluebirds, skunk and possum. Since so many people avoid it, the muddy walk offers an extra measure of solitude, increasingly hard to find, and a silent camaraderie (if you walk with someone, and/or bring a dog).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Mostly, though, mud season provides a uniquely compelling experience of the earth. It is a wet world, filled with puddles and vernal ponds and rushing streams that will vanish by spring or early summer. Most last only a few days.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">When you walk through the fields at dawn or dusk at this time of year, the quality of light is unparalleled, reflected off of a thousand bodies of water ranging in size from a tennis ball to several acres, mirroring sunlight in dazzling shades of peach, crimson, blue, yellow, orange and purple. At times it is as if you are not mired in mud, but floating on a speckled sea.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">So unlace those mud-caked boots by the back door, and towel down that wet, dirty dog before letting her back inside. It’s part of the ritual. You never regret a walk, I like to say, and that is especially true during mud season. If the rare beauty doesn’t move you, there’s always the prospect of some fresh maple syrup waiting inside.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-79052993122826504072010-02-27T05:32:00.000-08:002010-02-27T05:51:12.058-08:00Andy of Mayberry, compulsive liar<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTW1MQrnxqV5FLwZd2w4xGta5OGVr7gxhlCosWJjTdCSqWYAHx9i-9fHCJkgUlhJaF77wW6E9CTTFrTRc8I1_cg-55txKhUyK48Lf69OO8kEQN72tTs9CbH7Fc0sFysnRCZUXS0lQsvMU/s1600-h/DSC02290.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTW1MQrnxqV5FLwZd2w4xGta5OGVr7gxhlCosWJjTdCSqWYAHx9i-9fHCJkgUlhJaF77wW6E9CTTFrTRc8I1_cg-55txKhUyK48Lf69OO8kEQN72tTs9CbH7Fc0sFysnRCZUXS0lQsvMU/s320/DSC02290.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442917127278458434" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Andy Taylor is a liar. Seriously. I’ve been watching episodes of the show evenings this winter, from its early black-and-white days featuring Barney Fife to its four-color evolution with prominent roles for a cast of small-town characters: the frumpy, fastidious worrywart Aunt Bea, the earnest, fastidious accountant Howard Sprague, the fastidious school teacher Helen Crump (Andy’s bland girlfriend), and two goofballs: Floyd the barber, and Goober. Andy is a constant, of course, as is his son, Opie.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Several of these characters can be annoying or uncomfortable to watch at times, especially Aunt Bea, Goober and Helen Crump. Aunt Bea can’t relax, and Goober is so stupid at times it is painful rather than funny. And Helen—what writer came up with the name of “Crump?” What stylist that butch haircut? She brings little to the table other than a bland pleasantness. Her “romance” with Andy is tepid, she’s neither beautiful nor funny; most of the time she seems no more important to the story than a piece of furniture. When she is featured on occasion, it is usually to be petty, jealous or untrusting of Andy.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">With good reason. Almost every episode revolves around some deceit by that man—the sheriff, no less! He is always lying: to Helen, about that blonde attorney he spent the day with in Mount Pilot, or his old high school flame (the two of them couldn’t sleep and met up in the woods in the middle of the night, but of course it was all on the up-and-up). They make up at the end of the episodes, but the stories pivot on Andy’s conviction that Helen will be unable to handle the truth.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Andy lies to Aunt Bea about Opie visiting the sheriff’s office after school, against her wishes, or about who is doing the cooking and cleaning when Aunt Bea makes one of her rare trips out of town. These are presented as harmless, even humorous “white lies,” as acceptable ways to avoid conflict.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Andy manipulates his friends to get them to overcome their petty grievances, getting Aunt Bea and her friend Clara to make up after an acrimonious vacation to Mexico, or tricking Barney or Goober, Floyd and Howard by pretending to take the side of the bad guys (a developer who wants to evict a family, a barbershop franchise that briefly takes over Floyd’s homey shop) to get his desired outcome. The businessman castigates Andy for being cruel and reverses his position, allowing the family to stay; landlord Howard and tenant Floyd agree to split a proposed rent increase so Floyd can remain on Main Street, angrily chiding Andy for failing to see the role of the shop as a community meeting place. Andy takes the heat and smirks when they look away, his secret preserved.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The themes of lying and deception dominate. Barney is terrified of a criminal on the loose and through a series of slapstick moves manages to apprehend him, and Andy conspires to make it look like Barney was a brave hero, so as not to wound his ego. The town is filled with simpletons, er, simple folk. When people complain that Barney is acting too officious, a straight-faced Andy starts telling everyone that he’s going to fire Barney and bring in a replacement, and hearing this the townspeople rally to Barney’s defense. Aunt Bea fools one potential suitor (a clergyman, no less!) by wearing a wig, and pretends to be a “swinger” to turn away another.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">These lies are presented as incidental to stories that on the surface appear to be about people’s good hearts and pure intentions, about a close-knit community where everyone pulls together. But even when the virtue of honesty is the theme of an episode—like the one in which Opie breaks a bottle of perfume at the drugstore where he works, and pays a fortune to replace it rather than own up—the moral is undermined by the show’s compulsive lying. The resolution of this supposedly clear-cut tale is compromised when, to make Opie feel better, the store’s owner breaks a bottle of perfume deliberately when Opie is not looking. One lie begets another, but all in a good cause.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">No one talks to each other in this supposedly warm portrayal of small-town America. People routinely are dishonest, and Andy is unwilling to treat his friends or family as equals, condescending to them, treating them like children. The town father as sheriff knows best. But his benevolent hand requires constant deception, and he pays an unacknowledged price. For all the laughs and despite appearances, Andy leads an emotionally empty life—there is no one worthy of his respect, no one his equal.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, serif;">This originally appeared in the 2004 <i>Margie: The American Journal of Poetry</i>:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"> <!--StartFragment--> </span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><p class="MsoNormal" align="right" style="text-align:right"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";font-size:10.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style=" Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";font-size:14.0pt;">Fathers In Black-And-White <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">I was raised in black-and-white.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">My father often worked,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">seldom spoke, but furnished me with a TV.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Dick Van Dyke<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">What an athlete.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">See him tumble and get right back up— <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">in suit and tie!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Handsome as a geek, proof that goofballs<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">can get great jobs and a beautiful wife.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Perry Mason<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Raymond Burr.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">One’s an actor. One’s a lawyer,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">carrying justice on his broad shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">People murder to cover themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">People murder for love.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">People murder over family wealth.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">It doesn’t matter.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Perry unmasks them with his dagger eyes, his tidal voice,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">always taking the exact same time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">My father always worked,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">never spoke, but provided me their teachings.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Ward Cleaver<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Thinks like a cleaver. Acts like a cleaver.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Cleaves his sons. Cleaves his wife.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Ward seems like an easy-going guy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Just don’t get on his bad side.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Andy of Mayberry<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Bit of a hayseed, but always does the right thing,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">even when it’s hard, saving Barney Fife from his stupidity,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">answering when his bird of a boy shrieks, “Pa!” Pa!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">He doesn’t like locking anyone up <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">in his harmless birdcage,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">but will if he has to.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">That’s his job. That’s the law.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">My father sometimes watched with me,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">but let them do his talking.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p></span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-69250823330240545222010-02-27T04:22:00.000-08:002010-02-27T04:25:29.243-08:00Getting the mail<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTW2lt5Y_bFT8aB93cJua8BO-j_cqk8Y6jcEwYLQR9iS7BBLflSAm02qpg99S34XYA4fjFRF_t03vlrRqNO3ZrnMpT4PWnXho1N9w2IFUG22p7xqvCHz4lOsPUhF5nWkUZ9PX_nZ4qwY/s1600-h/DSC02310.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTW2lt5Y_bFT8aB93cJua8BO-j_cqk8Y6jcEwYLQR9iS7BBLflSAm02qpg99S34XYA4fjFRF_t03vlrRqNO3ZrnMpT4PWnXho1N9w2IFUG22p7xqvCHz4lOsPUhF5nWkUZ9PX_nZ4qwY/s320/DSC02310.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442898327721608082" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I’ve sent and received dozens of emails and Facebook messages in the past week, but no written communications have been more satisfying than a four-page, handwritten letter and a homemade card and note I received in my mailbox.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">They were terribly inefficient. The letter came from a Southern state, the card from the Midwest, and they were sorted, driven and flown to my local post office by numerous, anonymous people. A letter carrier in a fossil fuel-powered mail truck delivered them to the metal mailbox at the end of my driveway. From there, they were carried to the house and dropped in a wicker basket by the door, which is where I found them when I arrived home. The process from beginning to end took days. I cannot defend this long and sloppy chain of events on ecological or capitalist grounds, and the speed was turtle-like compared to the cyber alternatives, or even the telephone.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">But they were such gifts. There among the bills and junk mail was something real, intended just for me, particular in its look and feel: hard-earned news from a friend. The frequency and ease of e-communications is astonishing, but their speed and scope diminish the importance of individual messages compared to hand-written pieces (or “missals,” as the late Jim Bledsoe used to call long, handwritten letters).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Cyber news is short and sweet, and often grammatically incorrect or filled with misspellings. We may choose to save these messages, but they are ephemeral, quickly obsolete. There is usually nothing to distinguish them but the moment. They all look the same, and exist in one dimension. (And let’s not forget that, like the posted letter, the delivery infrastructure of cyberspace is also hidden from us, and requires both people and energy.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">A handwritten communication is unique, with an intended audience of just one (or at most a few, a household). A mailed piece requires considerable thought and work on the part of the sender, from setting aside the time to write, organizing one’s thoughts prior to putting pen to paper (so as not to have to rewrite), addressing and stamping an envelope, then taking it to a mailbox for posting. Add the work involved in making a card, and the letter or note symbolizes a gift unrecognizable online: the gift of time. Someone is actually thinking about me—warm thoughts—and they want me to know something about their experience and what they are thinking.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The letter takes time to read, too. Its font is unique, not just to the author but to his or her emotional state, even to the choice of pen or other writing implement. The paper, the envelope, and the stamp on the envelope are distinctive (stamps are an underappreciated, miniature art genre). The handwritten letter or card arrives infrequently—it is impossible to replicate the speed of the keyboard and communicate with many people simultaneously—adding to its unique value. It is special, uncommon, to receive a letter by surface mail (now </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">there’s</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> a term worth unpacking!).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Like most everyone these days, I do most of my writing online, including this blog and word processing some of the snail-mail letters I write and post. But this week brought two treasured reminders in my mailbox that the time invested in sending cards and letters is always worth my effort, and handwriting should always be a part of my communications repertoire.</span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-49227936931417649992010-02-17T03:51:00.001-08:002010-02-17T15:26:27.134-08:00Systems and stories<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhsT7x7n_2qht7pP6Mb7wRYYGhuSLtMti5cmV8cQKWVdImPS4Gcg48mBKqI9xnrizUkuorl0RCYP0vWiPtCDOKC0WNcVfHy88y-65xA1nobSPYVMBtGme6IgIPw_X3vPoJnjpFQ3DFsoQ/s1600-h/DSC02288.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhsT7x7n_2qht7pP6Mb7wRYYGhuSLtMti5cmV8cQKWVdImPS4Gcg48mBKqI9xnrizUkuorl0RCYP0vWiPtCDOKC0WNcVfHy88y-65xA1nobSPYVMBtGme6IgIPw_X3vPoJnjpFQ3DFsoQ/s320/DSC02288.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439180244845595922" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">There are limits to the appeal of miniaturization. While the trend toward smaller and smaller audio and video recording and playing devices continues, there is still something to be said for the grand gesture, the big screen. As much of the appeal of the new technology is sensory, we will always be drawn to large imagery as well as small.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Our communications tools and devices continue to dazzle. The new pocket video cameras, to cite just one example, are amazing for their ease of use and clarity of image, and they are inexpensive. It is unnecessarily convenient to call up a Van Gogh or a movie in your hand on an iPhone or Blackberry, but it means we are never alone, never apart from a vast and growing encyclopedia. The weather, the sports score, the breaking news, directions, games, and, of course, a network of friends and colleagues, can be available to us anytime, anywhere.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Every new piece of hardware can accommodate more and more applications, whether we need them or not. The delivery systems already in place are breathtaking, and more are on the way. The world flows our way: we barely have to stir from our cars or living rooms.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">But we still need to learn how best to use these new devices, and to develop content as rich and sophisticated as the technology that delivers it. It is true that we often cannot conceive of the uses of new tools until we begin using them. But after the initial magic wears off, we still must confront the fact that we exist in real time on a real planet divided into 24-hour days. We still must live meaningful lives filled with activities to justify all of this hardware, unless we become resigned to being passive consumers of a small, elite culture of people who value experience, action and expression over passive consumption. The computer is made by and for real flesh-and-blood people, who may or may not have something to say.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">The new iPad is the latest example of technology outracing, and attempting to redefine, need. The early reviews expressed disappointment that the iPad is not more spectacular; people close to these developments wanted to be wowed by it, presented with something they had not yet imagined on their own, that had the power to transform lives. The debate continues, even before the iPad becomes available to the masses, as some maintain that it will, in fact, be revolutionary in its impact. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">The larger point is that we didn’t necessarily need or want it. It may bring something new and useful to the table, it may shepherd in a new era of cyber-traffic, it may successfully impart new rules for creating and disseminating content. But it will still depend, as all technologies depend, on the people who animate it, and they in turn must eat, sleep, deal with global warming and a war in Afghanistan, be happy or disappointed, fall in love.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Without the atomic, cellular world, we will have no stories to tell each other in cyberspace.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-44828519723618793102010-02-14T05:24:00.000-08:002010-02-14T05:30:20.966-08:00Valentine's Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dV5isUkcdwQEQpkvKMiPjL8vdLQmw4nLj54_o5SYiLNGPVqN7tDaRs4YKAYZqDYU2Nty9jK7lBCOl8HqVrT4lE3acdTlJW2h4BDCOgdgIUNfbMkFXUDc2mThpE0M6Vyyxmh1pXiCcMQ/s1600-h/DSC02268.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dV5isUkcdwQEQpkvKMiPjL8vdLQmw4nLj54_o5SYiLNGPVqN7tDaRs4YKAYZqDYU2Nty9jK7lBCOl8HqVrT4lE3acdTlJW2h4BDCOgdgIUNfbMkFXUDc2mThpE0M6Vyyxmh1pXiCcMQ/s320/DSC02268.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438090552746100962" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style=" Gloucester MT Extra Condensed";font-variant:small-capsfont-family:";font-size:14.0pt;">Love Poem<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">“Come with me,” you said, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">warming my hands with your breath,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">“and bring your bag of bones.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">With that, we scrambled up the stone-dry banks<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">of the glacial lake that once filled this raging valley,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">mountain goats or pack mules on our path to discovery.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Guided by wildflower flares, mauve, then gold, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">on a wilderness of leaves, one by one we rubbed our dull bones <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">before returning them to the soil.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Your eyes a wildflower, jade, then blue, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">through a steady rain of words and protozoa, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">birch ridge on tiptoe, whispering to hemlock, moss, echoing woodpecker.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">Your thoughtful gaze and yielding skin<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">warmed away the hours, blanketing the cold<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">and bringing us back to the sweet realization<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.0in"><span style="Gloucester MT Extra Condensed"font-family:";">that we had returned to the place where we began.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-13174975223925639102010-02-08T03:28:00.000-08:002010-02-08T04:36:36.338-08:00Time for literature<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8r0x4e2vuAiwme648OldLLWZW5HrYqKZ2W2YhHCCsnTT7gGTePv7R3xGKweKqmXUZ2YuhFHAvY57rooV4FBTLYhiSX8zEqCHfUp6SfiNr-bvPRNWiuHNSbX0En71yNRhjpIHl1dQYiGk/s1600-h/DSC02293.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8r0x4e2vuAiwme648OldLLWZW5HrYqKZ2W2YhHCCsnTT7gGTePv7R3xGKweKqmXUZ2YuhFHAvY57rooV4FBTLYhiSX8zEqCHfUp6SfiNr-bvPRNWiuHNSbX0En71yNRhjpIHl1dQYiGk/s320/DSC02293.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435843208844207874" /></a><br />What are you reading? With all the books in the world that I would like to read one day, I still go through stretches where I am not actively reading any book. This is one of them. By my bedside I have <i>The Brothers K</i> by David James Duncan, which I have already read before, and which I am now reading aloud, slowly, with my partner, a few pages a night on those nights when we choose it over music or a crossword puzzle; <i>Drawing Lessons from the Great Masters</i>, by Robert Beverly Hale, which I love but read sporadically, a little at a time; <i>What I Talk <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>About When I Talk About Running</i>, by Haruki Murakami, a memoir, half read for weeks now; and a few volumes of poetry. Most nights lately they sit unopened as she and I work on the Sunday <i>New York Times</i> or <i>Boston Globe</i> crossword puzzles.</span></i><div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure why. This is, after all, midwinter, which is usually the ideal time to hunker down with a good book. It is not about opportunity: yesterday I had the entire day before me to do what I liked, and I did not chose to pick up a book. I cooked and did laundry, took a long walk with the dog, watched a movie, <i>Out of Africa</i>, on television, followed by the Super Bowl. It was a literary movie, and I loved it, just as I enjoyed <i>The English Patient</i> on film the night before. I had not seen either one of them before. Both movies were captivating, and it was easy to absorb them in visual terms, in only a few hours. But their basis was print: they required a memoir and a novel and written scripts to be realized on film.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last book I read was a biography of John Cale, last month, during a trip to the Midwest (in it, John is described as a voracious reader, reading more than 500 books a year, on nearly any topic. He does not collect books, though, instead donating them annually to the New School). The last novel I read? T<i>he Tie That Binds</i>, by Kent Haruf, but that was also read aloud. Before that, quietly, on my own? I cannot remember. <i>The Comedians</i> by Graham Greene, I think.</div><div><br /></div><div>Though none of his novels made my deserted island list, Greene is one of my favorite authors, and I have have several of his sitting on my shelves, unread. Perhaps he can jump-start the process. (The 1950s Haiti Greene describes in <i>The Comedians</i>, by the way, is remarkably like the culture of corruption and instability I experienced there in the late 1990s, and makes me doubtful that the country can recreate itself in the aftermath of the January 12 earthquake, the latest in a series of human and natural disasters ranging from Papa Doc to Baby Doc to the massive, destructive 2008 floods. But that's another story).</div><div><br /></div><div>It's not that I don't read. I thumb through at least two newspapers a day, and subscribe to several periodicals. I almost always read something from <i>The New Yorker</i>, which remains my favorite magazine, and I thoroughly enjoy many of its long feature stories. I read things online daily as well, although it is a kind of <i>USA Today</i>-style reading: short bits, amply illustrated. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm always picking up something to read, always looking up something. I write for a living, after all, and am a champion of the printed word. But like many of the other things we value or love to do, such as painting or exercise, reading literature is a discipline, a habit, and it is missing from my life just now.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-36213782521341374532010-02-05T03:36:00.000-08:002010-02-08T05:56:48.523-08:00Top 5 books<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMda-U2vHDiuLnk0B4-neJMCAxf-ah6odTwbjswpQPh5f7YD995bzyaMMOFxo7OhYEOLOFAtPvApbdWE2UWA2xJse110OplgQhZOYkbF49MrTLDvUkuX-RNI6T1cIfZqQMHNhiENdRPI/s1600-h/DSC02307.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMda-U2vHDiuLnk0B4-neJMCAxf-ah6odTwbjswpQPh5f7YD995bzyaMMOFxo7OhYEOLOFAtPvApbdWE2UWA2xJse110OplgQhZOYkbF49MrTLDvUkuX-RNI6T1cIfZqQMHNhiENdRPI/s320/DSC02307.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434729884880560338" border="0" /></a><br />Years ago several of us were sitting around a small fire in the backyard on a fall evening, listing the five books each of us would take if we were forced to live on a deserted island for the rest of our lives. I only remember two responses. The first was from Jim Bledsoe, an older, gay man visiting from New York, who named <i>The Complete Works of Jane Austen</i>. I think we were startled by his choice, not knowing that Jim was a Jane fan, or maybe because we thought he was stretching the rules a bit (could you pick the <i>Complete Works of William Shakespeare</i>, for example, or any author? hmmm ...).<div><br /></div><div>The other choice which generated some surprise among the group was my choice of the dictionary. But I loved then, and love now, to look up words, and can be endlessly entertained by thumbing through the dictionary. I find that I regularly consult the dictionary in my work (mostly online now, Merriam-Webster), looking up words that I think I know to get their precise meaning before I commit them to writing, whether in a poem or essay. I know the general meaning of a lot of words, but sometimes a subtle shift in meaning can send readers off in a totally different direction from the one I intended. So I look the word up, and learn not just its meaning but its roots in the process.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was in this spirit that I went and looked up "Luddite" after I used it in yesterday's post. Anecdotally, I knew it to mean someone who resists technology. That is true, but here is the rest of what I found:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;font-family:'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif;" ><div face="'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif" size="inherit" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Main Entry: <strong style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: arial,verdana,sans-serif; font-size: inherit;">Ludd·ite</strong> <input onclick="return au('luddit01', 'Luddite');" class="au" title="Listen to the pronunciation of Luddite" style="border-width: 0px; margin: 0px 0px 4px; padding: 0px; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: inherit; background-image: url(http://www.merriam-webster.com/images/audio.gif); background-repeat: no-repeat; cursor: pointer; height: 11px; vertical-align: bottom; width: 16px; background-position: 0% 50%;" type="button"></div><div style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: 'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif; font-size: inherit;">Pronunciation: <span class="pr" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;font-family:'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif;font-size:inherit;" >\<span class="unicode" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;font-family:'lucida sans unicode';font-size:0.9em;" >ˈ</span>lə-<span class="unicode" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;font-family:'lucida sans unicode';font-size:0.9em;" >ˌ</span>dīt\</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: 'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif; font-size: inherit;">Function: <em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: 'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic;">noun</em></div><div style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: 'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif; font-size: inherit;">Etymology: perhaps from Ned <em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: 'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic;">Ludd,</em> 18th century Leicestershire workman who destroyed a knitting frame</div><div style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: 'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif; font-size: inherit;">Date: 1811</div><p class="d" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: 'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif; font-size: inherit; font-weight: normal; line-height: 20px;"><strong style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: arial,verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 0.9em; color: black;">:</strong> one of a group of early 19th century English workmen destroying laborsaving machinery as a protest; <em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: 'Times New Roman','Times Serif',serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic;">broadly</em> <strong style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: arial,verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 0.9em; color: black;">:</strong> one who is opposed to especially technological change</p></span></div><div><br /></div><div> In just a few short lines I am given not only the meaning of the word but the name of a real person, where and when he lived, and what he did that, apparently, gave rise to the word we use today. I love it! The dictionary remains on my Top 5 list today. The others:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>The Complete Works of William Shakespeare</i> (only kidding)</div><div><br /></div><div><i>The Four Adventures of Richard Hannay</i>, by John Buchan</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Collected Poems</i>, Stanley Kunitz</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The Poisonwood Bible</i>, Barbara Kingsolver</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Paradise Lost</i>, John Milton</div><div><br /></div><div>On reflection, this is an impossible task. If I am being whisked out the door and have to grab five volumes, these would be good choices, but so would many others, especially bound collections like <i>The Complete Sherlock Holmes</i> by Arthur Conan Doyle and, yes, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. </span>Novels are an especially tough choice, as there are so many good ones, and it's hard to know which ones would sustain my interest the most over many readings. But I think I could live with these comfortably for some time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Your five??</div><div><br /></div>Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1385601996024164366.post-12527312374476045282010-02-04T03:50:00.001-08:002010-02-04T04:52:08.645-08:00Embracing communications technology<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87zp-u6CiGuEuiLlkeoqpP8ASlBRfuv-hBMYtZcRt4AKMPYSJqKfpaf9zpcrJOdHwb_XjJRVE5_TbN3SMKNbE0k4oEweSFu3eSSGTkeg4WrFTy6z0u4mI05co0yVV2k1RoOdvhBhvq60/s1600-h/DSC02277.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87zp-u6CiGuEuiLlkeoqpP8ASlBRfuv-hBMYtZcRt4AKMPYSJqKfpaf9zpcrJOdHwb_XjJRVE5_TbN3SMKNbE0k4oEweSFu3eSSGTkeg4WrFTy6z0u4mI05co0yVV2k1RoOdvhBhvq60/s320/DSC02277.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434370135849534578" /></a><br /><br />I'm no Luddite, yet 18 months ago I did not even own a cell phone, much less a Blackberry, I had a barely active Facebook account, and was not LinkedIn. I was only beginning to use a digital camera. More and more of my professional work centered around website development and I used email and the Internet regularly, but I resisted the onslaught of new communications technologies. I resented the culture of obsolescence which not only valued new technologies over old ones, but seemed determined to replace other means of communication, rather than add to them. <div><br /></div><div>I continue to believe that there is value in keeping an array of communication tools in our repertoire. The physical act of handwriting, for example, compels us to organize our thoughts in ways not required by composing on the computer, and the end product is unique to us, communicating something timeless about us as well as providing insight about our emotional state at the time of writing. I would even like to buy a typewriter for its smells, its bells, its manifest mechanics! </div><div><br /></div><div>So I embrace the new technologies as additions, not replacements, for all that came before them (knowing that they, too, will become obsolete in a matter of years, if not months). The creation of this blog and a flip camcorder arrived in my house in the same day, and both promise to expand my possibilities for dynamic communication exponentially. It is an exciting time, and bound to become more exciting.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, nothing beats sitting down with you in real time, face to face.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Russell S. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10059741710122515616noreply@blogger.com0