Waiting for the fog to lift...

It's one of those gloriously foggy mornings, the kind that one gets in my area in late September or early October as the morning air cools over nearby warm water. It's late November, though, and it's the time of year when older lady cousins should be wiping frost from windowpanes, smiling, and declaring it to be 'fruitcake weather'. The fog, and the obscured road ahead, function as metaphor.

It's been quite awhile since I last worked on these pages; it's the longest break I've taken from these meanderings since this project was started. It's a kind of obvious cliché to note that much has changed during my absence from this - this - this what? Diary? Forum? Longer form Social Media? (It's probably best that I not get into a discussion of Facebook at this point, except to note that any entry over a couple of paragraphs in length goes largely unread. The same is true for linked articles, except that people will respond - at length - in high dudgeon to the assumed content from merely reading the title.)

an end of summer garden visitor

Aside from the usual cheery transformations of climate and politics (not unrelated), I've had a personal development of some significance. I've removed myself entirely from the low power Community Radio station I helped create. It's the usual story of frustrations with an all volunteer Board of Directors (I was the President, for a second time), the volunteer staff of 60 some persons, and attempting to manage both. All as an unpaid volunteer. Things erupted over the July 4th weekend; after two sleepless nights in a row, I realized that I just couldn't do it anymore, and resigned. I also walked away from my radio show. I figured that if I weren't easily accessible, I wouldn't be called upon to do things, or, for that matter, feel that I should participate. I'd assumed I was putting the show on hiatus, and would return after a nice rest, but I no longer know if that will happen.

Angel's Trumpet and Russian Sage

The weather this past summer was hotter and more humid than I could take. I spent a small fortune, close to $300.00, for a portable air conditioner. (My rented studio has no windows, just a sliding glass door to a balcony.) As I once passed out from the built up heat in this place, I felt the expense for something I'd only use for a couple of months a year was justified. The heat and humidity also made it difficult to work in the garden. I take care of the much larger Solar Hill gardens; with time at a premium most of my work on my own spaces went to the vegetable garden. The flower garden suffered from neglect.

 

 

The late fall crop of raspberries was wonderful, heavily producing over an extended season. I delightedly made an unconscionable amount of raspberry jam, even though I abandoned an entire picking for a week's wilderness camping via canoe trip.

Paddling between Little Tupper Lake and Rock Pond in the Adirondacks.

One of several beaver lodges on the same passage - taken on the way back a few days after the above photo.

Sanity has been maintained through the video projector and many, many movies. Of course, I'm upset with myself for failing to note them. While I'll remember Kay Francis in 'Mandalay', I'll never be able to remember much of the other Kay Francis titles from a Turner Classic Movies DVR binge. Mandalay, by the way, is a hoot. Francis played a good girl sold into white slavery style prostitution by a traitorous boyfriend. After surviving and escaping her time as "Spot White", she ends up killing the traitorous tormentor, falling for an alcoholic ex-doctor, and trudging off with same into the jungles on a mission of mercy to relieve the suffering of plague victims.

 

Kay Francis as Spot White in 'Mandalay'.

How could I not note a WWII era western, 'Cowboy Canteen', in which Jane Frazee's ranch is turned into an entertainment venue for servicemen stationed nearby? Charles Starrett wanders about, two rollicking numbers are provided by an impossibly young Roy Acuff and his Crazy Tennesseans, two numbers are contributed by Tex Ritter, plus there's couple of numbers from Jimmy Wakely and His Saddle Pals. Add in Vera Vague, plus a few turns by a number of country and western vaudevillians. The toppers (for me) were the two songs provided by 'ranch hands' The Mills Brothers, "(Up a) Lazy River", and "Paper Moon"!

 

The Mills Brothers, fresh off their farmhand duties (in
spectacularly ill advised costumes), 'rehearse' their hit "(Up a) Lazy River".

Roy Acuff (on the right), and a few of the Crazy Tennesseans,
as they perform "Wait for the Light to Shine". 

I am remembering such things with a little more clarity than had become my custom. I was reading an article on the internet, clicked on a link, and saw a reference to drugs which cause memory problems. I followed the latter link, and found the statin I've taken for years for bad cholesterol listed. I stopped taking it for a couple of weeks to see what would happen. My memory improved! My vocabulary, which I admit I'd downplayed and dumbed down after being told I intimidated people, began to return to everyday use. I'd had episodes in which I'd be doing a tribute show on the radio, and at station break be unable to name the person being saluted. I even heard myself on one show's recording credit Louis Armstrong when I meant Louis Jordan. Things are much better now. The memory isn't as sharp as it once was, but where recalling a bit of once well known information was taking 20 minutes, that action now takes anywhere from 10 seconds to a few minutes. It's not consistent, but it is a definite improvement. It's been six months since I stopped the statin; my doctor went along with this experiment provided I took another cholesterol test after 6 months. The improvement is enough that I'm concerned, lest the test put me back on the damn pills.

Early morning mist obscuring an island with pine trees, reminiscent of a Turner painting, Rock Pond, Adirondacks.

 There's a lot more movies to note, more life events to note (this is a sort of diary, after all), but my late breakfast of oatmeal (with maple sausages, the entire concoction drizzled with maple syrup) is ready. Now that mornings (when I usually do this kind of thing) are no longer spent at the garden, I am going to try to get back in the habit of writing. He said, as the fog lifted.

Autumn in Vermont

Becoming unstuck in time is one thing. Losing control of it is another. In other words, I'm still having a problem getting much of anything done. Perhaps it is a lack of ambition to do things that is at the root of the problem. Perhaps the problem is that my perception of accomplishment is askew. I mean, I did get the dishes done. I could go on in this vein for awhile, which would eventually result in my admitting that I actually do a heck of a lot; it's just that it is so seldom as much as I want to get done. I know I have slowed down. I don't really mind. Perhaps the real problem is that the world seems to be going by faster that it used to, relative to my position in it. At times it feels like autumn has been slowly unfolding. Some days I think it is rushing by too fast. There is so much to note, so little time to drink it all in, to observe, to appreciate, to hold in heart or memory. Autumn, like Spring, goes by too quickly. And the effect seems more pronounced every year. Perhaps it has something to do with aging.

A bit over a week ago, a friend drove the two of us around a small portion of our state. Every now and again it is refreshing to be a tourist in your own area, your own state, on the paths you tread every day. Doing so is like a leaf revealing its colors in the fall.

Therefore, a presentation of totally unremarkable photographs, taken with a small point and click fits in your pocket style digital camera, published here without any adjustments to the originals. In others words (for friends from away) this really is how it looks - as the cheap digital sees it, anyway.

The pumpkin arrangement honors one of our state's US Senators, currently running for the Presidency.

The Connecticut River separates Vermont from New Hampshire - the view is of the New Hampshire side.

Route 5 is the old highway that passed through small towns, superseded by an Interstate that passed them by.



The village center and Common of Thetford. It's typical of this area - there really isn't any there there.
Even so, Thetford has a population over 2,600 which makes it larger than my hometown, which had an active Main Street.

Since the owners were nice enough to perfectly place the pumpkin to balance photographs,
I couldn't find it in my heart to pass up taking the shot.

Just a couple of homes to the left of the above.

At the center of the "T" formed by the shots near the library and the homes with views, the oldest continually used meeting house in the state. The congregation was organized in 1773. The building dates to 1787. It was moved form the other end of the common to its current site in 1830. A somewhat similar story to the Congregational Church in Brattleboro (where I live).

The Quechee Gorge was formed by glaciers 13,000 years ago. We're looking down 165 feet from the roadway. This is just a small part of what is visible. There are many hiking tails. I took a few pictures within about a 4 or 5 minute span of time, and everyone is different due to the changing light. This is by no means a spectacular shot, chosen only for color.

Federal period architecture always gets my attention; the village of Woodstock has it in abundance.
The main business of the town is a very large, very expensive, Inn owned by the Rockefellers.
p.s. I love the smell of money in the morning.



Woodstock's in-the-center-of-town covered bridge.



Just the side of another building by the Woodstock Common.

A hill near Plymouth Notch (which I visited at the beginning of July.)

I can't quite remember if this is Echo Lake or Lake Rescue. One follows the other, both alongside of Route 100.

Okay, I've spent enough time posting, I must get on to other things.

Here's last Saturday's radio show (October 17th), in which songs were played for autumn, and for the birthdays of big band jazz singer Anita O'Day (Oct. 18th), hot jazz era bandleader leader Roger Wolf Kahn (Oct. 19th), and drummer Cozy Cole (Oct. 17th). The aging mental case who hosts the program forgot to credit the 2nd song after the opening sequence - it was Cozy Cole's All Star Band performing "Just One More Chance".


  
 As always, I hope any listeners enjoy the show.
          

Life in an autumn garden...

Once again it seems I have let time fritter away. Not that fritters were involved, mind you. Fritters are fried balls of dough stuffed with anything from apples to a cornmeal mixture. Now I'm wondering how the idiomatic expression got started. The oldest reference I just found with a quick internet glance was in a Dickens novel. At times like this I can't make up my mind if the internet is a blessing or a curse. Just a few years ago I would have to drag out the Oxford English Dictionary, get out the special magnifying lens.... in other words, depending on the day and mood, I'd probably just move on and continue writing. Now I can look it up through several online sources within seconds. Hmmm, it never occurred to me before, but the internet may be an ADD nirvana dream.

It has been a few years since Monarch butterflies visited the garden. There used to be so many of them.
Yesterday I was stunned to see three of them at once. I hope they are making a comeback.

Life has once again been careening mildly out of control. In attempting to write the paragraph above I fielded two phone calls. It isn't even 8:30 in the morning. It is, however, a morning with a gloriously slow rain, the kind that leaves a slick shine to roadways and autumn leaves; the kind that has a delicate hint of mist peeking through the yellow orange green that provides a perfect visual accompaniment to sipping coffee (or tea, or hot chocolate, or an aged single malt scotch, or....).

 

The wet discourages any thoughts of doing further work to shut down the gardens. I've spent most of my time working on Solar Hill's beds. I'm the sort of gardener who won't cut down the peony over there because its leaves turn a crimson that illuminates the light blue asters or a view of the broken bench propped up with rocks, which is currently framed by the fruit hanging from that Japanese dogwood and the turning colors of a stewartia.

I never got the time to post my radio show from October the 3rd, so this post will be another twofer. Let's get that one out of the way right now. That show played a couple of songs welcoming the arrival of autumn, and that day's birthday of lyricist Johnny Burke. Then the old Philco's tuning dial was spun a few times as it centered on October the 3rd, 1945 for The Spotlight Bands show, which that night featured Artie Shaw. We also put a few nickels in the jukebox that month.

In my own defense, I should note that my excuses for not posting also include dealing with the problems and affairs of the all volunteer community radio station I manage. The past couple of weeks have been particularly vexing. With over 60 DJs of varying age, egos, and temperament, anything which happens on our floor is automatically blamed on us. There were a few problems with our landlord. Somehow, an original bannister in a 150 year old historic office building was broken. As one of our shows had a live band (which generated a very late night noise complaint from someone working in an office space underneath of our studio) we were blamed - the musicians must have done it. It seemed logical. Until I found out that the musicians were two skinny young guys whose entire equipment consisted of a banjo and a guitar. Last Thursday was our non-profit's annual meeting (and potluck). I should point out that I'm the President of the Board; and that I dislike most meetings for no other particular reason than that I've been to one too many between my days toiling in the fields of Mammon and places like the radio station (which used to be run by its DJs, but is now run by the non-profit's Board). There was a new edition of our print schedule to get ready and send off to the shop to coincide with our on-air fundraising week. There was Windows 10. And Mercury retrograde. There was one period not so long ago when I wasn't running the station or  the Board. Over that year and a half, there were almost no meetings to attend. It was wonderful.

The garden year is nearly over, yet the colors and unexpected pairings are as distracting as Spring.

The last two weeks also saw a few adventures with my neighbor. I live in a building which has one wing where the apartments are, well, apart. There are two of us with studios whose entrance is off of a balcony in the back. My immediate neighbor is a troubled young man in his 20's. Since he moved in a couple of months ago, he's been a fairly constant source of aggravation. At the beginning of last week, he had another episode. It started with a lot of yelling and screaming of vulgar words and less than appealing terminology. He was throwing out someone he was letting live there, almost broke the front balcony's railing throwing out the roommates mattress and clothing, etc. A short time later the ex-roommate threatened to kill him. So did the women who live upstairs. I should point out that we both live on the 2nd floor of a two story building, and there was only one voice yelling and screaming. This young fellow has no telephone and uses mine to call the hospital when he's messed up his meds, or the police when someone is threatening him. There were a couple of days of the police coming, and slowly calming him down to the point that he would go with them. Then wherever they took him inexplicably let him go. He showed up at 2 am and proceeded to have a physical fight with someone on our building's front lawn, but he was the only person out there. At 3:30am he finally called the police (using my phone). He was home within 6 hours or so. He is not getting the help he needs. All of the police know him, and say he is much better than he used to be.

Well, I've rambled on quite a bit; the length of this post will soon rival an Epistle to the Ephesians. In todays world of electronic social communications, anything longer than a few sentences seems antisocial as it is too long for anyone to read. No wonder the music of today is mostly a beat with incomprehensible lyrics; few seem to have an attention span capable of comprehending the lyrics to a 3 minute song. It's music for an ADD world.

Which bring us to Saturday's show (October 10th) which played a few for Columbus Day, fall foliage, and the birthdays of singer Lee Wiley, composer Vernon Duke, bandleader and songwriter Johnny Green, and the wonderful Red McKenize. Mr. McKenize, one of the early jazz practitioners, used to play the comb - with a sheet of paper over it to modulate the sound. He was also a vocal artist who could make an ordinary piece into an art song. Not that he sang ordinary pieces.

As always, I hope any listeners enjoy the show(s).

Swimming uphill in a sea of angst

Oh, good God(dess) (of your choice)(not that you have to make a choice or have a God or Goddess), I have been remiss in posting again. I never got last week's radio show posted here, and now I'm going to have to have a twofer again.

There is a rational explanation.

Well, perhaps 'rational' isn't quite  the best choice of words. Was it rational to upgrade my computer during Mercury Retrograde? To Windows 10?

While I often have a little but of fun with the idea and concept of blaming electronic communication oriented debacles on this particular planetary singalong, experience does seem to bolster the validity of the concept.

And this week has taught me that Experience may not be the best teacher. When I clicked on the "update" button to replace Windows 7 with Windows 10, did I consult my mental diary of upgrade experiences? Nooooooooooo. Of course not. Instead, I bought into the "all your programs and settings will be there" assertion of obfuscating advertising-copy novelists. That claim had about as much validity and relationship to the concept of truth as a Republican Presidential candidate approaching primary season. (Sorry - I suppose that last bit is from a deep-seated need to vent a buildup of spleen. The state in which I reside is geographically located next to the sate of New Hampshire, which is often in a state about something or other, and has the 'first in the nation' primary. The general area is currently lousy with Republican candidates pushing a worldview which has little resemblance to the world as it exists. Lest anyone think I exaggerate, please remember that there is ample record proving that many of the Republican candidates either deny, or shillyshally around, the basic truths of evolution, and global warming. I don't know why I find this so undefensively reprehensible; after all, these folks have yet to accept that Regan era  "trickle down" economics didn't work to lift the masses into financial nirvana, and aren't going to do so. (Speaking as the possessor of an XY chromosome set, I would share my knowledge of 'trickle down', but I don't wish to be vulgar.) As the New Hampshire primary is in February, and as the tv stations hereabouts (from Vermont and Massachusetts) cover New Hampshire, the profusion of political advertising makes it unsafe for those who value either their sanity, or an even temperament (or both), to turn the damn thing on. It's akin to advertisements for Christmas goods blaring at one in June.

But I digress. And I shall do so for another minute - I saw not just Christmas advertising, but Christmas themed tv movies on cable channels at the end of May. People have been joking for a few years now about the mixing of Halloween and Christmas items at the stores. A few weeks ago, I saw an advertisement for Halloween costumes or candy or something. The backdrop against which the live action was displayed was of evergreen trees with lights in them. There is no escape.

The writing of this entry in the blog has been interrupted several times. I had an unexpected ride to my garden (normally a 40- 45 minute walk) where I worked on the sad task of shutting some of it down for the season. I also got to enjoy the new addition to the garden this year - the Chinese Asters. I'd never grown them before, and thought they would be a little taller. The seed was only available as mixed colors, which I usually don't like. But these are just wonderful. I don't know if they will seed in, but I will definitely be putting these end of season bloomers in the garden again next year.

I haven't yet started in on Windows 10. For now, I am going to assume that Microsoft is in league with the bureaucrats who designed the current Medicare system.  It's either that, or they are in league with Satan. I've run out of time to try to expound upon their attempt to drive me insane.

So, here's the radio show from two Saturdays ago which, after a slight nod to the (then upcoming) change of seasons visited September 1938 as the Latchis Memorial Theatre was about to have its grand opening, which was thwarted by the Hurricane of 1938. I don't have the time now to post any of the newspaper articles or pictures - there are a several over three posts on the radio show's Facebook page. Use this link to check those out - you'll be able to click through each post,  but you won't be able to "like", or comment, etc.
 https://www.facebook.com/Recycled-Radio-621059471269529/timeline/
The show's finale is a half hour "Camel Caravan" with Benny Goodman originally broadcast September 20th, 1938.



Last night's show (September 26th) fell on George Gershwin's birthday. It seemed fitting that the show be devoted to his music.



As always, I hope anyone who is kind enough to listen to my little efforts enjoys the shows.

A Webb ring.... (or, Camping on Lake Lila)

 

Where to begin? A couple of months back, in early July, I posted a few pictures from a visit to the Shelburne Museum which was the creation of Electra Havemeyer Webb. Her father in law was William Seward Webb, who was named in honor of New York State's onetime Governor, who was also Abraham Lincoln's Secretary of State. And the man who bought Alaska. He was a distant cousin of my family, a connection observed in the choice of my uncle's middle name.

William Seward Webb

Lila Osgood Vanderbilt

At any rate, William Seward Webb was from a wealthy land owning family. He married Lila Osgood Vanderbilt, the grand-daughter of railroad magnate Cornelius Vanderbilt. After some trouble with one of their holdings, the Vanderbilts asked Mr.Webb to take over one of their railroads, which led to its expansion and the opening of upstate New York to commerce and travel. The general area includes Lake Placid and Saranac Lake, famous for its tuberculosis treatment. My great-grandfather had TB three times. He went to Saranac Lake back when. There is a family rumor of his having smiled at one of the nurses, causing a bit of a row with my great-grandmother. Part of the holdings Mr. Webb assembled included a 1,400 acre lake he renamed in honor of the missus. It was there he built what they used to call a "great camp" on the shore of the lake, part of his private 7,200 acre wilderness park. The family compound had its own private railroad station, which still exists in a state of splendid abandonment. The land was acquired by New York State in the late 1970's. Part of the deal called for the state to remove the lodge. The lake is now a wilderness camping area.


The Webb's family vacation home 'Forest Lodge' at Lake Lila - a vacation home away from their vacation home in Vermont.

Not long after I moved to New York City (November 1972) I became friends with a co-worker at a bookstore. We understood each other. It turned out that he had spent several of his growing up years in a town very near mine in the southern part of New Jersey. Rich has been trying to get me to go camping with him for about 20 years. Now that I'm retired, I was finally able to do it.

The area surrounding Lake Lila is still privately owned, mostly by the Whitney's from what I gather. Access is by a 6 mile plus dirt road posted with numerous 'Private Property' signs which also state a warning to travelers to not get out of their cars. One arrives at a parking lot with various other signs, a registration book, and a .3 of a mile portage to the lake. No motorboats are allowed.

A mutual friend gave Rich a huge tent, big enough for a family of 5. We've both (ahem) grown a bit over the years ("expanded" might be more appropriate); this tent promised plenty of room. Rich had studied the campsites using maps and online satellite images and settled on one as our goal as it seemed large enough to host the tent. We hugged the shoreline looking for it, which made the initial canoe trip a long one - it's a very big lake. As we were approaching our desired campsite, Rich pointed towards an old dead pine tree on our left. Sitting at the top was a bald eagle. We reached our site, and after checking it out decided campsite 16 was indeed suited to our needs. As we began to unload the canoe, I looked back at the eagle. Something else moved. "What's that?", I asked. At that moment, the something else lifted its head out of the water. It was a huge bull moose. In rutting season. I grabbed my little digital camera, wishing it was my trusty old 35mm with my telephoto lens attached. Here's a detail from the larger photo:

I can not express how wonderful it was to be out camping again, away form the noise of modern life. My little studio apartment is on a very busy road. Even in winter the sound of cars going by can drown out the tv or the radio. Speaking of which, there were no sounds of someone else's tv or radio. There were no drunks or drugged outs arguing with colorful terminology. There were occasional sounds of airplanes, and one day a park warden's helicopter. Otherwise, it was the sound of windblown waves lapping against the shore, the rustle of leaves, the crackle of the campfire, geese flying by, one lone loon (which I saw one evening at twilight), an occasional songbird, and a rather angry red squirrel.

I forget if that is Mount Frederic or Mount Frederica. We never got to hike to the top. I hope to go back and do that one day.

A visitor to our camp's shoreline

There were many gloriously misty mornings.

 



The strip of beach at our campsite.

Canoeing on Single Shanty Brook - accomplished somewhat warily, as this was where the moose headed.
Sadly, we were so busy scrambling over a number of beaver damns that I didn't take any pictures of them.

Moose tracks

That little sliver of beach just right of the center of the photo was the site of the moose tracks above.
This was a very short walk from our campsite. 

My shoes drying out after scrambling over beaver damns and the like.
This was at our campsite - look closely and you can see the ropes we used to hang food so bears wouldn't get at it.

I posted several of these photos on Facebook, where people can click on a "like" button.
Based on that informal poll, the above was the most popular picture of the series.

Rich's selection of Lake Lila for camping had two main purposes - both concerned identifying and judging portage sites used for what canoeists call "the Whitney Loop". One was a right of way around a privately owned (and blocked off) portion of Single Shanty book. A recently opened access to Harrington Brook (above - flows into or out of Lake Lila) was the other - but the portage to access it is still under development and too much of a hurdle for aging gentlemen.

Saturday it rained. A lot. Sometimes quite hard. Made for some good idle time picture taking, though.

On Sunday the rain stopped and the skies cleared. Rich used his radio to get the weather report. On Monday and Tuesday (the day we expected to leave) more storms were expected. Crossing Lake Lila back to the parking lot would be too dangerous, so we decided to break camp while we could. While we were hiking one day, we met a group of guys who had arrived for a few days of camping. They were leaving at the same time. After our first trip to the parking lot, we were on our way back to the put in when they came by carrying our canoe and most of our supplies. Thanks again guys. 

 

The return to our modern world has been a bit disconcerting as I find myself once again engulfed by the sounds and the noise of other people's living. Thanks, Rich, for keeping after me for all these years to do it, and Thanks for all the trouble you took as part of the process of including me. Next time we've got to get to the top of the mountain, and find that railroad station.

I look at these photos now, sitting at my computer, cars whizzing by in the rain, and they seem a remote dream. A dream I long to dream again.