"Time goes by so slowly..."

It's been awhile. The first thing I thought of to write was to quote a line from the mid 1950's song 'Unchained Melody'; "Time goes by, so slowly, and time can do so much...."

The song was composed by Alex North, who composed scores for Hollywood movies. In this case, the movie was 'Unchained'. The lyrics were by Hy Zaret, who refused the movie producer's request to put the film title in the lyrics, which is how that title came about. 'Unchained' is a little known (and little seen) 1955 film about a man in an experimental 'prison without walls' who struggles with a decision to escape and reunite with his family, or to finish out his sentence. Among the cast is Todd Duncan, the baritone who was hand picked by George Gershwin to perform the role of Porgy in 'Porgy and Bess'. Mr. Duncan was the first to record the song, by the way. In once scene, filmed at the experimental prison in Chino, California, Dexter Gordon can be seen playing his saxophone. He was incarcerated there at the time, for possession of heroin. His playing was dubbed by Georgie Auld.



The shoreline by our campsite at Little Tupper Lake.
It really is a lovely spot.

There were a number of loons about, including 13 of them
together. That's not a common occurrence, by the way.

I'd been thinking often about getting back to this blog, without doing so. Today, as I was looking something up, this page opened of its own accord. Perhaps I hit a shortcut button, I don't know. It seemed like a good suggestion, so here I am. Since the last entry here, I've managed to keep myself busy, as usual. This year, it took forever to put the garden to bed, as the season extended into November. (I made a ton of pesto which I froze and am happily consuming.) I went off on another adventure camping/canoeing trip to a wilderness area of the Adirondacks (a bit stressful this year, as the old friend with whom I go camping spent the entire week being most disagreeable). And I started up my radio show again after almost a year and a half's sabbatical, etcetera. Christmas was a bit of a bust; the largest dinner I think I ever made was cancelled when friends declined to travel due to snow. Extreme cold a few days later ended up freezing the pipes, which translated into losing heat and hot water. The loss of essential services was not an auspicious start to the new year. What was possibly my personal all time best Christmas tree, and decorating job, was destroyed, destroyed again, and yet again while being moved for the accessing of heating pipes. I could go on with a litany of slights and challenges from the universe, but I've little desire to do so, and I doubt that anyone cares - including myself.

Here's a few of my garden photos, all taken in mid to late October.

I was about to go on about the state of the world, my country, my friends, movies in general, watching a Fred Astaire movie last night, the projected Stephen Spielberg remake of 'West Side Story', spinning this or that fantastical tale along the way (all too true, however), tying it all in with concepts of time, and life as an open air prison; but I've just noticed the hour, and I've already spent too long choosing which photos to post and getting this far. I probably won't be able to get back here for a couple of days, but I do intend to do so. There's so much to note as we sink into the abyss.

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.

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.