Just an Analog Guy in a Digital World

"De Buzzard Done Got Um"

2010-10-23T13:01:00.013-04:00

Since Labor Day my life has been a blur.

I have made two trips to Atlanta, a wedding and then a funeral, unfortunately involving the same family. In the middle was a week in Richmond with Cousin Jack doing history. Returning that week-end I attended the North Carolina Chapter of the Sierra Club's 40th anniversary gathering near Washington, NC. It was great seeing old friends again. There was also another funeral, this time in Virginia, one of my oldest and best friend's mother. She was a wonderful lady I always enjoyed visiting. On that trip I spent time in the UVA medical library learning more about my great-great grandfather Dr. Lemuel, time well spent. While this was going on the hot summer weather broke, providing opportunity and incentive to finish household projects. I can now walk around our garage without putting life at risk and the rails on the back porch are finished. My to-do list from six months ago is considerably smaller, although far from finished.

And last week much of our extended family met in Hilton Head, SC for our annual week get-together, a tradition started by my mother years ago. This year we forsook the middle of summer at Duck, NC, ~~but~~ and found the beach at Hilton Head in October wonderful, the water warm, the weather perfect. We had very nice accommodations, plenty to see and do, good restaurants, and off-season crowds. Everything was "no problem."

It was great hanging out with the family, especially the two grandchildren, Wil and Lily. But what I will remember from that trip is the tour we had of nearby Daufuskie Island ("the only place in the world where nothing normal ever happens.") and our guide, Roger Pinckney, he of the previous quote. Here is a photo of a dolphin along our bow on our way to the island.

As I am less than 24 hours from heading out on a two-week road trip that will take me to the banks of the Mississippi River and back, I don't have time to gather my thoughts about that tour. From the homemade tape of remembrances made by the Captain of the boat that took us to and from the island - a boat by the way that recently ran from Reedville to Tangier Island - to the stories of the Gullah inhabitants and the tangling up of developers and Dr. Buzzard, the tour was as perfect as the resorts on Hilton Head strive to be - but in a completely different way.

"Dr. Buzzard?" For those curious, link here, here, and/or here. You will then understand why I enjoyed that trip to Daufuskie so much.

Pool Boy, Part Three

2010-09-26T22:56:00.000-04:00

My memories of days spent at the Chase City Community Park pool were triggered this spring by my current role helping maintain the community pool where I live. Yes, I am a pool boy again. No lifeguard responsibilities this time, no pay, just volunteer pool maintenance and cleanup.

Some things have changed in 50 years, others have not. There are many more rules to ensure the public a safe pool. On balance, a good thing. The public, however, has changed little. That subset of unnecessarily messy adults and their annoying brats are still with us.

As our pool season ends this week, it is time to bring this mini-series to a close with a first person account of the most memorable morning in my lifeguard career.

At Deercroft we routinely test the pool water every morning for five or six chemical attributes. To keep the water safe and pleasant we have a variety of chemicals that can be added to maintain acceptable parts per million of whatever. In the early '60s all we had were 55 gallon drums of granulated chlorine (probably calcium hypochlorite), a bucket, a simple ph test kit that always seem to register the same results, and the burning eyes of small children.

Working drums of chlorine were kept in the concession area near the basket racks. Every morning one of us would place a bucket next to the drum, remove the metal lid, and, with a new paper cup that would otherwise be used for vending soft drinks, would fill the bucket. After closing the drum and throwing away the cup, the chlorine would be dumped into the pool, rendering the water bit more sanitary than before. This procedure had been passed on from one lifeguard to another for years. Old drums would be recycled as trashcans around the Park, although we would have not used the word recycle back then. We kept one such inside the concession stand on the other side. No problem.

There were, even in those days, warning labels on the drums, lots of small print basically advising care should be taken to keep contaminants out of the chlorine. Bad things could happen. No problem.

This particular morning I opened the drum to find a cup already lying in the chlorine. That sometimes happened; one of us would forget to throw away a used cup. This morning, in the interest of time or laziness, I picked up that cup, scooped some chlorine, and began filling the bucket. After about three scoops as I reached down into the drum a glob of something fell out of the cup and into the chlorine. It started to pulse a bit and then took on a deep blue glow. I bent over into the half-full drum, to get a closer look at the electric color. Within a few seconds a wisp of white began to rise from the glob, almost like smoke. The blue glob became yellow/red around the edges. Marveling, I stood up and turned, calling to Patsy, my fellow lifeguard. I wanted her to see this!

Patsy, who was already in the concession stand, started to walk toward me. Then she stopped mid-stride. Her face froze, her considerable tan started to blanch. For a moment I wondered why she had stopped. Then I heard and felt what was happening beside me. I turned to see large globs of white exploding from the drum shooting towards the ceiling; there was heat, smoke, the smell of chlorine, and a roar coming from the drum.

We probably set some sort of record for vacating the premises. I took the short way over the countertop, I think. For maybe a minute we just watched as molten chlorine was ejected into the concession stand all the way to the roof. Boxes of snacks stored above the shelves starting smoldering. I had never seen a volcano, but this was close enough.

Snapping out of my daze I ran to hook up the water hose. Soon a spray of water had joined the finally diminishing chlorine being ejected from the drum. I noticed the drum had turned black from the heat, the warning labels burned to a crisp. Layers of white chlorine smoke filled the concession stand.

When the drum had stopped erupting we carefully went back inside. Any danger of fire had passed, although the wet white globs were still too hot to touch. Having determined that this morning’s events were beyond keeping to ourselves, I headed for the phone. My father was president of the Community Park that year, I would call him.

The phone had been very close to the drum. It was a standard black, rotary dial phone. The black plastic was now melted. Salvador Dali would have been pleased. I picked up the still warm receiver with two fingers. A dial tone. God bless Western Electric. The only number I could remember was my own, so I called home. I told mother with as much cool as I could muster that there had been a chlorine accident at the pool and to call dad. It was a very short conversation as I was determined to clean up as much as I could before he could get there. I already had some practice at this. Besides, it was close to noon and we opened at 1. Then the fire truck arrived.

Living in a small town has its advantages. Keeping bad news quiet is not one of them. A neighbor had seen the smoke and called the fire department. Under most circumstances I would have been happy to see them. Except we had no fire and all this mess was both my responsibility and my fault. About the time they were turning to leave, a little disappointed it seemed to me, my father arrived. The place looked pretty rough.

After explaining that no one was injured, there was no lasting damage, and we would get the place ready to open on time (I was probably talking REAL fast) I noticed that I was having problems breathing. The harder I tried, the worse it got. I then thought of the chlorine gas I had been breathing and something about WW1. Keeping cool - I was a lifeguard after all - I walked down to the pool to lay down, trying to make it easier for anything in my lungs to leave. While I was doing that, my father walked about assessing the damage. After about 5 minutes I stood up, pronounced myself cured, and grabbed a broom and tried to look busy.

Dad left, in character, saying little. We cleaned up and opened at 1. The place still smelled like chlorine, there were charred boxes to dispose of, and there were - and a few years ago remained - scorch marks on the wooden ceiling. For the remainder of the day and that summer season I answered questions about the incident. Using glass coke bottles I even replicated the chemical reaction on a small scale for the amusement of small children. The phone company guy replaced the phone, no questions asked.

What had happened was easy to reconstruct. Someone had mistaken the working drum of chlorine for a trash can and tossed in a cup with a small amount of a soft drink still in it. It had landed so the liquid was still in the cup when I started scoping the next day. I had mistaken the cup for a dry one used the previous day, never considering what might be inside. I had had only a short window of time to scoop out the glob as it smoldered, but I played empiricist. Had I not decided to share my discovery my head might have been still in the drum when it erupted violently. Remember children, it is nice to share.

I did not bother applying for a job at the pool the next year; it was time to move on. So I spent the next summer packing blue jeans at a local cut and sew factory. More money, much less pleasant working conditions, and extra motivation when I left for college that fall.

I don’t remember visiting the Community Park pool much thereafter. After I went away to college I devoted summers to seasonal jobs, summer school, and golf - not necessary in that order. Our local country club by then had built a small pool which satisfied any aquatic desires I had. But to this day I cannot visit a pool without looking about for drowners, wondering about what kind of filter system it uses, and where they store their chlorine.

The Community Park pool closed sometime in the 1970’s. The circumstances of its closing has been mercifully forgotten as it likely reflected the unsettled racial politics of the times. It was soon filled in, the diving pool corner later excavated and used to expand the adjacent baseball diamonds. The Bathhouse/Concession stand still stands, renovated for storage, recenty painted but a bit worse for neglect.

Here are some photos I took this past summer. The first photo was taken from the approximate location of the lifeguard stand. The small addition on the west (left) side of the building is a storage room was built after that fateful summer in 1962, mainly to safely store chlorine. I doubt anyone thought to name it after me.

The second photo shows the little remaining evidence of the pool. In the foreground is the area where the baby pool was and a small fragment of concrete apron. The baseball field is to the right.

Finally, below is the portal through which a generation of Chase City youth once streamed to learn to swim, hang out with their buddies, show off, and blissfully wile away summer afternoons. Few now remember how much has been lost.

Floydfest 9

2010-07-31T10:19:00.026-04:00

Shuuuch! Don’t tell anyone. Floydfest was - once again - simply wonderful. Don’t pass it on.

The cool, damp, and small music festival in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia is no more. It has been replaced in the past couple of years by a festival of sunshine, dust, and much larger crowds. However, the mountains, relaxed vibes, and great live music - at least for the time being - remain. Every year Across-the-Way Productions has improved the facilities, ironed out kinks, and managed well the growing numbers in attendance. But scaling is seldom straightforward or fool-proof. If the cheek-to-jowl camping and the Saturday evening crowds are prologue, Floydfest is quickly approaching a crossroads of size and, unfortunately, purpose.

Having attended the last seven of the nine Floydfests, I am noticing a declining percentage of attendees who seem to be there for the music. (It seemed over 90% early on.) Many give the impression of buying their tickets to party in the mountains with their friends; others are there to see, and be seen. These are long-standing and honorable human desires; they have their place. But it remains an open question if Floydfest can maintain the main attraction that drew me there in the first place: accessible, first-class live music of all descriptions in a relaxed friendly environment.

This year - besides the cast of thousands - it was only me and Anita. She had been unable to attend last year due to a severely mangled toe; but despite having a knee operation this year only six weeks earlier, she toughed it out, icing her swollen knee at every opportunity. Missing this year was my daughter (she of the food processor and home-made baby food), who blogged about it anyway, Donna The Buffalo, and A Joyful Cup, vendors working from a converted school bus who had provided early morning coffee and smiles as far back as my Floydfest memories extend. Not exactly replacing them, but a welcome addition, were the folks of Floyd's Red Rooster Coffee Roster. They provided free high-quality, fair trade coffee behind the stage and joined the festival vendors near the Garden Stage entrance. Nice folks. I bought some beans; you can too.

We camped near the main stage just a few feet from the loop road, aided by Anita’s Handicapped tag. We had driven up Wednesday night and stayed in a B & B in Floyd to get an early shot at a camp site with as little up and down as possible, close to potties, food, and the music. That turned out to be a very good idea. We were quickly surrounded by this year's new friends, tent stake to tent stake.

Before I launch into the music, here is a visual example of what makes Floydfest and the people who put it on so special. This is the Pink Floyd Garden Stage. Notice dead center a few feet out is a tree. Most folks would have cut it down to provide a better sight line for both the performers and audience. But it remains. It was there first, does not really interfere with the music. So they let it be. Where else but Floydfest?

For me this year’s main music lineup attractions were The Levon Helm Band, Railroad Earth, and GPN. I had heard of, and wanted to hear, several others, including The Budos Band, my nephew Kevin's excellent recommendation, and Old Crow Medicine Show, my daughter's Don't Miss! suggestion. As usual, most performers were complete unknowns to me. But first...

My old friend Tom - since elementary school - owns an electronics store in Johnson City, TN. On my all too infrequent visits he invariably takes me into his high-end listening room to sample some amazing musical recording. This spring he surprised me by playing a homegrown cd by a local group of ETSU college students. They played both traditional old-time mountain music plus originals based in the same genre. He liked it. I liked it too. He showed no interest in parting with the cd. He told me that he had talked with the fiddle player and found that she grew up in North Carolina, north of Durham, not far from where we had spent our youth in southside Virginia a generation earlier. Back home I found their website and learned they were scheduled to be at Floydfest. I was delighted. So Friday morning when The Barefoot Movement opened the’s Workshop Porch, we were there. Their music was as good, bright, and fresh as I remembered.

They played three more times, all on the VIP stage to a smaller crowd. I talked with various band members several times over the week-end, learning that Noah, the fiddler, had attended Floydfest 2 when she was a high school freshman and wondered at the time what it would take to get behind those Performers Only signs. Now she knows. Her story - to me at least - is a fulfilled promise of Floydfest, passing on the music. They were recording their first full length cd this past week. I wish them well; may the Movement continue. I hope to see them at Floydfest 10. Here is a video I made of them on the VIP stage...

Returning from two years ago were the Rockridge Brothers, who describe themselves as Sweden's "Old Time Appalachian White Collar Punks." What a bunch of guys from Stockholm are doing playing traditional Appalachian music, I just don't know. But they are playing it with skill, care, energy, and obvious respect. They are much more confident on an American stage than two years ago when I first heard them, working on more than their English. They opened the Hill Holler Stage Thursday at 4. Fun too. Listen/Watch them on YouTube.

Returning from last year was Jesse Chong. I voted for him as best artist in the Under the Radar Contest last year. This year too.

Kevin's Budos Band rocked the main stage with their "Staten Island instrumental afro-soul" sounds mid-afternoon Friday. They were much more musically worthy than Thursday night's closer, Galatic, about which nothing more will be written.

Railroad Earth, about which I have blogged numerous times, closed Friday night. It was the first time I had heard their new bass player. While it will always seem odd not to see Johnny Grubb on the stand up, the new guy - Andrew Altman - fits in quite nicely. As usual they stretched out a bit musically Friday night for the Floydfest crowd. Earlier in the day RRE minus Todd and Carey played a bluegrassish set on the Workshop Porch. The boys then beat it to upstate New York to play Sunday at Donna the Buffalo's Finger Lakes GrassRoots Festival.

Saturday was full of surprises. First were the freshened mountain winds that had been mainly absent the first two days. The constant movement of air helped moderate the effects of the unusually warm, sunny weather. Second was the strong progression of performers all day on the main stage. Sol Driven Train, William Walter, The Hackensaw Boys, Adrienne Young, Bearfoot, Bassekou Kouyate & Ngoni ba from Mali, J. J. Gray & Mofro, Old Crow Medicine Show, Kat Mills, and The Levon Helm Band. And joining Spiral this year was Miss Kitty. Here was the price of admission in one day, in one place. I am truly at a loss as how to blog about this Saturday lineup. In different ways, all just lit up the stage. Amazing. I slept well that night, probably with a smile on my face.

Occasionally the moment transcends the music. Floydfest had such a moment Saturday night when Levon Helm took the stage. His place in American musical history has been long secure, his contributions well noted. And even though the throat cancer that could have easily killed him a decade ago has taken away his distinctive Arkansas tenor, one can still find him at 70 years old behind a drum kit, time suspended, leading his band on a Ramble. Seeing his smile and sharing that stage with him Saturday night is something I will not forget. An aside...

I never saw The Band, but I have seen all of its members. They were the Hawks, backing Bob Dylan on November 28, 1965 when I saw him at the old Washington Coliseum. Helm quit the band after that show citing the continuing hostility to Dylan's new electric music. He returned after about a year of working on oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. Good choice. All I have now to remind me of that show is a handbill for Dylan's upcoming show in Norfork I picked up on the way out. The closest I will come to seeing the Band was last Saturday night.

Sunday for me was striking camp, Tiff Merritt, and getting ready for Grace Potter who was to close from the Hill Hollar stage at 4. I have blogged before about GPN, with growing amazement. I had seen Grace live twice since Floydfest last year (Wilmington & Richmond) and I have found myself down front each time. Since last year GPN has truly been swept up in the starmaker machinery, to borrow a phrase from Joni Mitchell who knew what that meant. Rolling Stone has discovered them. Hollywood Records (Disney) is heavily promoting GPN and the new record. They are all over YouTube. They have recently been "musical guests" on Boob Tube talk shows (Leno, Kimmel, Good Morning America, Ellen). GPN's cover of "White Rabbit" was featured in Tim Burton's version of Alice in Wonderland. Disney again. And probably by design, even though the newly enlarged band is starting to sound like The Nocturnals w/Grace Potter, on stage she is heating-it-up. Writers are straining to find comps. My current favorite is from Amazon.com,

"Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are like a modern-day version of Tina Turner stroking the microphone in a spangled mini-dress while fronting the Rolling Stones circa Sticky Fingers."

Well, that certainly clears up things.

Grace is certainly on "Some Kind of Ride." With all the energy sapping attention of her band's growing stardom I can only hope she manages to keep her head together, remembers that at the bottom it is the music that matters. I hope she makes the time to write, what I consider her most basic strength as an artist. I wrote almost a year ago,

"I don't know if Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are the future of rock and roll. But if the music has a future it will be someone like Ms. Potter who keeps it alive. "

I still think she can pull it off. She's "Got the Medicine."

So Sunday I was down front again. GPN came out and again there was no place on earth I would have rather been. The band looked like it was having as much fun as the audience, maybe more. Grace was not quite as steamy as on Brown's Island, but the sun was still shining and there were children about. I did get a few shots of the band, enough to fill up my memory card. Here is the best of the lot. What a way to end the week-end.

The musicians highlighted above were probably less than 10% of those at Floydfest I would have enjoyed hearing. Every year my biggest Floydfest regrets revolve around thinking of those I missed, and some of my friends and family not there to share the music with me. Maybe next year. Which leads me to...

I had the opportunity to chat briefly with Erika Johnson, Co-founder and Director of Floydfest behind the main stage Saturday. She said they were planning something special for next year's 10th anniversary. Maybe a Best of Floydfest. I wonder if she is considering adding a hurricane, fog, or a power outage;) Better get your tickets early. I will.

By acclimation the Best Camper award this year goes to Mr. Scott, Anita's new Prius. The spaceship hatchback comfortably carried us and all our gear, the SatNav provided directions (which proved unexpectedly useful), and the mileage was exceptional. He endured the four-day layer of dusk with dignity and even found a rainstorm to drive through to wash it off before we reached home. One smart vehicle, one great week-end.

Then There Were Two

2010-07-08T07:33:00.012-04:00

When I posted about South Africa several weeks back football's World Cup was just in its opening group phase. Despite being the world's most widely-viewed (popular, important, followed) sporting event, it remained to be seen whether the quality of play and the unfolding of events would make this Cup entertaining as well. With only the results of championship match between the Oranje and La Roja in doubt, that question has been answered. It has been magnificent.

The team from the United States played well, to be commended both in qualifying for the Cup and making it to the round of 16. But that was as far as they went, and as it should have been. Despite the growth in the sport's participatory popularity, the U.S. still does not field a first-tier national team. This year we were gutsy and lucky rather than excellent; others were all three - and that is what it takes to move on. The U.S.'s time is coming.

But three teams with far more talent and experience failed - very publicly - to get that far. The English side, with amazing individual talent, failed to become a team. The Italians, Cup winners four years ago, just played poorly. But for drama no team could top Les Bleus; they simply self-destructed, their quest cut short by a player's simple suggestion at halftime that the manager, "Va te faire enculer, sale files de pute!"

On the other side was inspired play from teams from South America not named Brazil and Argentina, emotional and exciting play from the teams from Africa (whose time is coming as well), and good showings from asian teams. Yes, there has been a moderate amount of controversy on the field - cards given or not, an offside call blown now and then, and one goal unfortunately missed. But, so far nothing resembling the Hand of God or a brutal head butt. Drama? How about Uruguay/Ghana.

Even South Africa's criminals seem to be on holiday.

The story lines have been interesting and the play of high quality with a minimal amount of rough-housing or on-field theatrics. Two very worthy sides who have never won a World Cup will be playing each other on Sunday on a continent hosting it for the first time. Ah, this time, it has been The Beautiful Game.

I'm already looking forward to 2014, when Brazil hosts the World Cup.

Pool Boy, Part Two

2010-07-04T11:53:00.003-04:00

As a rookie in 1961 I was fortunate to fall under the influence of two lifeguards who put up with me and taught me everything I needed to know about running a pool. For a summer they gave me the illusion of having two - quite different - older brothers.

Carl was the Manager. He was quick with a smile, always in good humor, and full of stories - some repeatable. With Carl a bit of mischief was never far away. His recipes for Purple Jesus and other like refreshments served me well in college. He seemed to enjoy life, good times, and working at the pool; but he took being a lifeguard very seriously. For you girls from Chase City who would like to see Carl without his shirt just one more time...

Andy, the other lifeguard, was the smart one. Of the three of us, he was the most quiet, the one who seemed to be always thinking about something. Yet ever so often he would hold forth at volume and length, sometimes on topics neither Carl nor I fully appreciated. I remember one extended monologue about the Infinite, a topic that seldom came to my mind in those days. Another morning he mused as to why men had nipples, again searching for answers to questions no one else seemed to be asking. He drove an ancient, black, Model A Ford that bounced and rattled as if it was going to fly apart as it approached the speed limit; the faster it went, the bigger his smile. But sometimes that smile seemed to be coming from someplace far away. No surprise, he became Dr. Andy, a professor of psychology and university administrator.

For what I learned that summer I should have been paying to work there.

Much work around the pool, as I said, was custodial. We had to keep the water clean and chlorinated. The grass needed to be cut, the trash picked up, the changing rooms and toilets cleaned. But once the door opened our attention turned to the customers, mainly the youth of Chase City. Grownups actually in the pool were a rarity. At its most basic we were supposed to keep the children from drowning, hurting themselves or each other, and following the pool rules. Other than that they were free to have as good a time as their imaginations would allow. Being a lifeguard turned out to be great preparation for my years as a teacher and principal.

Precious little swimming goes on in your average public swimming pool. They are wet, dangerous playgrounds. Usually when children injured themselves it was because they slipped and fell down. The consequences of running on wet concrete are thoughts which seldom rises into the consciousness of young people. Thus our customers were always in motion, often screaming for no apparent reason. One loss of balance or unusually rowdy incident and stories would be told at dinner tables around town that evening. A major thread within these narratives was how the lifeguards handled the situation. For as we were watching the children, parents were watching us. One learned to be easy with the whistle, quick with the stare, and plentiful with the "Yes, Sirs," and Yes, Ma'ams."

I learned from Carl and Andy one could not watch everyone all the time. Accordingly patrons were divided into two rough categories: Swimmers and Drowners. Because we tended to see the same children throughout the summer, lifeguards quickly knew how well most of the town's children could swim, who was getting in over their heads, literally or figuratively. Thus, we naturally focused our attention as we scanned the pool on those most likely to sink. Strangers required special attention until we could tell how well they could swim. Made-for-YouTube moments like jumping into the pool and pulling out someone were seldom called for. In fact, if you were doing your job, incidents like that could be avoided by intervening early with a struggling swimmer. Only once in my two years on the stand did I need to jump in and pull out swimmers as the Red Cross classes trained me to do.

Brothers I had never seen before joined a crowded pool one week-end. The elder was about 13 or 14, the other about 9. Both were weak swimmers, but seemed not to know it. It was that second observation that bothered me; they became Drowners. About an hour after they arrived the older brother jumped off the diving board. His little brother jumped in behind as he came up. He swallowed some water, panicked, and grabbed his older brother from behind, knees gripping his back, arms tight around his throat. The older brother gurgled and both sank like a stone. By this time I was already going down the lifeguard stand. It was too late for Reach or Throw; it was time to Go.

I found them at the bottom hardly moving. I approached from behind. Grabbing the younger boy underneath his armpits, I used my feet to pry him off his brother. Rising to the surface I pushed him to the side of the pool. By then the older brother had bobbed up. I pulled him to the side also. Bystanders helped them out of the water while I took the pool ladder. As I walked by I squatted down and calmly suggested they take a break for a while before going back in. The normally noisy pool had become almost silent. Someone handed me my prescription sunglasses which had gone flying. As I climbed back up the stand and started to towel off I felt people staring at me. Then, as things were getting back to normal for everyone else, I noticed my legs were starting to shake, my knees felt like jelly. My breathing was shallow and more rapid. No telling what my pulse was like. Patsy, the other lifeguard, came by to take her shift. I waived her off for a few minutes until the adrenalin rush subsided. I was not sure if my legs would take me down the stand.

If that incident was the high point of my career as a lifeguard, the low point would occur soon after, one morning before the pool opened.

TBC

Pool Boy, Part One

2010-06-30T19:51:00.021-04:00

In the mid-1950s, when it was probably as prosperous as it would ever be, the civic-minded of the small town of Chase City, Virginia decided to build a swimming pool. A non-profit was formed, money raised, a loan taken out, and construction begun. Soon they had a place for their youth to learn to swim, boys and girls to show off as close to nekked as local standards of decency and fashion would allow, and mothers to ~~dump~~ drop off their children - to be relatively well supervised - for a few hours of peace and quiet at home. During the summer it was Chase City's afternoon center of youth culture, from one to nine, seven days a week. It was the Chase City Community Park.

The design was straight forward, three pools. The center main swimming pool varied from 3 to 6 feet of depth. At one end a baby pool was in front of the covered area at the top right in this 1961 photo. At the other end a 10' deep diving pool was to the right of the lifeguard stand which faced the cinderblock building containing the entrance, changing rooms, and concession stand. The pool water filter was located underground, just behind the lifeguard stand. This photo was taken from the diving board.

Operating the pool on a daily basis was a staff of local teenagers. There was a manager/chief lifeguard, an assistant lifeguard, and someone to oversee the admissions, changing rooms, and concession stand. The pay was low, the hours long, and the work contained a large janitorial component. But it was as close to Baywatch as could be found in our part of southside Virginia. Accordingly, there was no shortage of job applicants, most reasonably qualified. I was among the fortunate; during the summers of 1961, '62, and '63 I held each of the positions above in reverse order. I was a pool boy, with a whistle.

My assent to the lifeguard stand was a bit unlikely. My mother, a non-swimmer, was afraid of the water; she did her best to pass on her fears. On the other hand she wanted me to learn to swim, driving me on summer mornings what seemed like many miles for lessons at Clark's Pool. I managed to ignore the mixed messages and became as a minnow, one-with-the-water by the time I was about twelve. After taking the regular Red Cross sponsored swimming classes all that were left were for lifeguard. So I signed up for those as well.

In the summer of '61 when I was fifteen I was hired to operate the Community Park's concession stand. Although I was all of 5' 6" and weighed - dripping wet - 100 pounds, I was already a Red Cross certified Senior Lifeguard. (I may have lied about my age... OK, I lied about my age. Practice for buying beer a few years later.)

The photo above was taken two years later, after I had shot up six inches and gained maybe 30 pounds.

It was my first job, fifteen dollars a week. Averaging ten hours per day, seven days a week, I was making about 21 cents an hour, and worth every penny. That summer I had a learners permit in my wallet and a job at the pool. Life was good.

But this post is not about aqua-phobia or minnows, job descriptions or wages. It is an introduction to why I did not work at the Community Park in summer of 1964.

T.B.C.

Grace Potter - "Low Road"

2010-06-26T12:06:00.002-04:00

South Africa

2010-06-22T18:56:00.006-04:00

In the early morning of November 13th, 1967 I rose early and went up on deck for my first look at Capetown, South Africa. This is what I saw.

I was a college student, among ~525 undergrads aboard the S.S. Ryndam, leased to Chapman College’s World Campus Afloat program. We were about a third of our way around the world, excited to touch land for the first time in 10 days, but we were apprehensive about our reception. Ours was a mixed race student body - we had a handful of non-white students - and we were about to step ashore into the land of apartheid. Some thought we should not be stopping at all. Probably none of us knew at the time that we had just passed an island in the harbor where Nelson Mandela was being held prisoner. He could have seen us arrive.

This afternoon I watched two matches of the 2010 World Cup, live from South Africa. As I watched the sides play on I could not help remembering my experiences in Capetown - and Durban a few days later - experiences that helped shape my view of the world, and myself.

Our voyage had not been scheduled to visit Africa south of Egypt. But in June of 1967 war closed the Suez Canal creating the opportunity to visit Morocco, Senegal, South Africa, and Kenya. The Mediterranean was out, Africa in. I still haven’t seen Marseilles, Rome, Athens, Istanbul or Cairo, but I would not change a thing.

Of course the South African government knew we were coming. Already somewhat a pariah among nations because of their racial policies, the country’s white rulers must have seen our visit as an opportunity to put their best face forward. I do not know what agreements were made between the college and our hosts, but all of our student body members were made whites for the duration. So all of us used the white’s only facilities, store entrances, transportation, parks, and beaches. If anything this added a surreal element to what was then a most unique educational experience. But for me, who had lived all of his short life in Virginia, the segregating signs were not the shock they were to most of my classmates.

Just to insure all would go well we were met first thing that morning by a launch which brought newspaper photographers. By the time we landed the Cape Argus was on the streets with two of our black students prominently shown on page one.

Our visit went well. Even though we were 60’s college students and were beginning to get adventurous the more we traveled, we were good guests, the South Africans gracious hosts. I am sure this was to the great relief of all concerned. This is not the place for details - my personal experiences - but I sailed away with three dominant impressions. First, the South Africa I saw was take-your-breath-away beautiful. Almost paradise. I could live there in a heartbeat. Second, Capetown was a thoroughly modern city, the equal of any I had seen. Last, my heart cried for the people, all of the people. Apartheid was damaging all it touched. Like many, I did not think it would end well; and it would end.

So years later, in February 1990 when Nelson Mandela walked out of his prison I watched my TV from the top of Mineral Spring Mountain and thought of Table Mountain with a lump in my throat. I watched him later become the country’s elected President and guide his people - all of his people - through difficult but relatively peaceful transition years. The feared bloody chaos did not happen. And while South Africa continues to have many problems as a nation, it is probably still just as beautiful as it was that morning in 1967 as it hosts this month the largest sporting event in the world.

So, here is to the South Africans, black, white, colored and Indian, who made it possible for me to get that lump in my throat again.

Mattaponi Queen

2010-06-09T18:45:00.012-04:00

Last week through a Library of Virginia email I learned of a new book, Mattaponi Queen by Belle Boggs. It is a prize winning collection of short stories set mainly along Virginia's Mattaponi River that separates King William and King and Queen counties. On its banks in Walkerton I lived for four years in the 1970s. I was intrigued.

King William County is my Edwards family's ancestral home, at least 10 generations and over 300 years worth of family history. It is also the focus of the book(s) I am writing. With so little in print about the area I immediately ordered a copy from Amazon and googled the author. It only got better.

Not only did the author live in Walkerton for a while - her parents still do - she attended King William High School where I worked for five years. Further, she currently lives in North Carolina about an hour north of here and her day job is a school teacher. That resonated. And she was beginning her tour of bookstores, giving readings and passing out promotional homemade jams, jellies, preserves, and pickles. Maybe it was the canned goods that sent me over the top, but I just had to meet her last Sunday when she was to talk in Charlotte. I sent her a quick email of self-introduction, told her I too had lived in Walkerton and was writing about King William. She graciously replied, agreeing to meet with me after her presentation.

After a very pleasant and well-attended reading we talked over a late lunch about King William, people and places we had in common, and writing. I came away from the time we spent together with admiration for her maturity which belies her age and the slightly disconcerting feeling that, although taking different paths, we still were on the same trip. We parted agreeing to stay in touch and assist each other in our writing. I was thrilled. At last someone else who cares to write about a place I love. What I had not done was read her stories.

Our UPS driver delivered the book two days ago and I read the first story I found when I thumbed open the book, Homecoming.

I have not a clue what readers who have never lived between the Pamunkey and Mattaponi rivers imagine as they read Belle's work. Literary types certainly appreciate her skilled writing.

“Strongly imagined, finely controlled and well-crafted. These stories are good because they are true, true in that way that only good fiction can be,"

wrote Percival Everrett, the fiction judge who awarded the work the 2009 Katharine Bakeless Nason Publication Prize for Fiction.

But for me her stories, especially Homecoming, sliced all the way to the bone. I was quickly back among my people, back along the banks of the Mattaponi, for better or worse, back at my high school. Belle Boggs has been paying attention and she gets it right. At her age I could have never written Mattaponi Queen, less because I lacked the writing chops than because I did not have her sensitivity, vision, and her understanding of that rich, multi-layered community we lived in. I hope I sound a bit blown away. I am.

I have not finished the book. I found I must set it aside after reading a story. Like fine whiskey or a rich chocolate cake it is best savored in small amounts, the characters and events thought about for a while. I suppose that is what good writing encourages.

Jim Cramer's Suggestion

2010-06-04T08:01:00.008-04:00

Jim Cramer may be right or wrong, but he is always entertaining. His showman persona on Mad Money, while grating at times - well, frequently grating - sometimes obscures his considerable knowledge and experience in and around Wall Street. He certainly knows more than I do; so I sometimes pay attention to what he says.

Here is his yesterday afternoon's blog post. As it seems to be available only by subscription (I will be happy to remove it upon request Jim) and in the interest of full disclosure, here is the whole piece.

How about a moratorium on financial innovation until we figure out what the heck the Bush people approved during the reckless years of the Securities and Exchange Commission? We are hearing once again about a whole new group of products, ETFs that mimic exotic hedge-fund strategies -- last week's nightmare revelation -- and I am sure it will go right into the queue of the SEC and be approved lickety-split because of some ill-found principles ginned up under the anything-goes Bush SEC. Here's my suggestion. Just like we need to halt any new drilling in the Gulf until we figure out how to prevent the greatest ecological disaster, perhaps ever, we need to halt financial innovation until we figure out what the heck went wrong in the "flash crash" and the role of the ETFs and the other derivatives related to the super quickness of the new world. We keep hearing analogies to race cars that can go 160 mph that still have to obey a 65 mile an hour speed limit when driving in civilian traffic. All well and good, except that the people behind the machines don't believe there should be speed limits, and the exchanges themselves are so eager and greedy for market share that they cannot self-regulate. They will lose.

I think the better analogy is to World War I, where the technology of weaponry vastly overrode the ability of humans to deal with the newfound firepower. The financial markets, however, are not like wars. We need to protect soldiers, the regular investors, and we can do it. We aren't engaged in a titanic struggle between nations. We are trying to figure out how to get more regular players into the markets, not trying to figure out how to kill as many soldiers as possible with our fabulous new machine guns.

The financial innovation is like battlefield innovation, though. The innovators claim that they are providing liquidity, but they have turned the playing field into a battlefield, so the players are, justifiably, leaving.

It is worse. The SEC is busy trying to protect major and sophisticated financial institutions, such as the German bank that Goldman Sachs allegedly hurt, instead of trying to protect individuals from rapacious products like the Ultra ETFs. Think about it this way. We know that the Goldman product in dispute, which was meant to mimic the housing market, did exactly that. But the public believes that the Ultra products, particularly the short products, are meant to hedge or protect from down markets. All they really do is track volatility on a daily basis. They don't do what people believe they are designed to do. So we have this ridiculous situation where the SEC is protecting sophisticated investors from something that worked -- even though it went down -- and allowing mom-and-pop investors to be decimated by products that don't work the way that they believe they do.

Now, we add the new wrinkle of the flash crash, which shows that not only do these products not do what the public thinks they do -- driving the public further from the market - they actually affect the underlying stocks, because the markets are so thin, often in vicious ways, including the flash-crash action. The algorithmic programs of the high-frequency traders detect the big orders from some of the products that have been created under the Bush years and back away from the market. That's the mile-wide fraction of an inch-deep sucking of liquidity out of the market.

We need to halt these innovations until we re-evaluate their consequences on the markets and on the public. Just like the oil platform inspections were done in boom times for the oil group, the analysis of these products, particularly the Ultras, was completed during the greatest bull market in history, when there were many players and much volume. Even the faulty studies done by the SEC to justify approving these products said that they could influence the close if the markets weren't so deep, but we know from the flash crash that they aren't deep enough at all and certainly can't handle the volumes these innovations generate, particularly at the close.

Why not pause? Why not figure out the "worth" of these products for individuals, as the Senate debated the worth of the Goldman contraption that was Abacus?

The last time I heard such praise for financial innovation was the move by a handful of institutions to offer portfolio insurance that would protect these funds in a downside. What did it do? It both caused the downside and didn't work the way it was supposed to. That's what the innovations are doing again. Portfolio insurance went away.

These instruments should too. And I bet any study of their impact and uses now would show exactly that. No more innovation. Just analysis. A halt in the creation of new products until we figure out impact and harm. We say yes to it in the Gulf of Mexico. Let's say yes to it on Wall Street.

OK, that was too long. And not my thoughts exactly, for I really do not have the detailed knowledge to have written the above. But his tone and conclusions make perfect sense to me.

For better or worse, Cramer believes in the system, believes that what we now call capitalism is the best way to secure and distribute goods and services within our society. But he is also quite aware that greed and stupidity can foul that system no less than oil in the Gulf. So he gets pissed from time to time because greed and stupidity are themselves timeless. And so do I.

What I find amusing - and frightening at the same time - is that the individuals most responsible for these "innovative" financial instruments, most responsible for the lax governmental oversight, most responsible for the series of decisions that led to the well failure in the Gulf all would probably identify themselves as conservative. What on Earth - save their own status, wealth, and power - would they consider themselves conserving?

Finally, now that I am warming up, don't you think BP would have capped that well long ago if they knew how? Now that the well has blown out how about giving them credit for, and assistance with, the work they are now doing. Then let us nail arses to the wall for what happened before the well blew out, before people died, before the world knew or cared about the Deepwater Horizon. These failures occurred before the rig caught fire. There are plenty of questions to ask to all those who failed to manage the risks inherent at the ragged edge of the technology necessary to drill at that depth. Those questions should be directed industry wide, to governmental agencies at all levels, and to the elected officials who oversee them. Broad questions; detailed questions. Only by looking at what happen before the rupture of that well can change take place and the risk of something like this happening again minimized.

And for those of you with a two and a half ton, 17 mpg vehicle in your driveway that is most stressed bring groceries home, don't think you are not part of the problem.

AND for all you Tea Party bitchers and moaners who seem to want to limit governmental capability - and the taxes that pay for them - at every turn but then expect somebody to have been there to prevent BP and their contractors from cutting corners, somebody to step in and cap that well when its owners can't, and somebody to protect the marine life, the shoreline, and the economy of those who rely on those resources for their livelihood...

Oh never mind. Keep on blaming Obama. Explain how he should be doing more to help the economy, but not spending money or reeling in those who brought it down. Explain how limiting government oversight and capabilities would help as the oil washes ashore, wildlife dies, and taxpayers lose their jobs. Concrete suggestions please. We're all listening.

Exit Fang

2010-05-29T13:47:00.005-04:00

Our cat, White Fang, a.k.a. Fang, has FIV, the feline version of HIV. He must have picked it up from a neighbor's cat or a stray in the woods where he liked to play great white hunter - with little result. FIV is contagious only to other cats.

While he is otherwise healthy, his immune system is compromised and will be of much less help when next called upon. He is also contagious, a clear and present danger to other cats, including Hokie who has not - yet - tested positive and has become, very reluctantly, a inside cat.

Accordingly Fang is now living in Virginia, the only cat in my wife's sister's home. (Thanks Carolyn!) Thus ends our adventure that began in December, 2004. Fang has mellowed since then, now quite the lap kitty. We will miss him, but will look forward to visits when we are in Blacksburg.

An Interview With Myself

2010-04-21T12:42:00.009-04:00

Bibb! Your blog sucks. It never was worth linking to anyway, but lately it has been even worse. What’s going on.

Agreed. Analog Guy has been neglecting that part of his digital world, big time.

That is not what I asked.

Sorry, been watching too many public figures. Been very busy. Stuff going on. Like, know what I’m sayin’?

If I knew I would not be asking. And easy with that street talk. I just might call you out. (smirk)

Sorry, forgot who I was rappin’ with.

Jesus!!!

OK, OK. I’ll stop.

Thanks.

Well, I have been trying to write this book.

Have we moved into the excuses portion of this post?

Absolutely!

Damn it Bibb! There you go again. A simple yes or no still works. I know we are living in a time when hyperbole is barely sufficient. But spare me. We both are old enough to realize that truth - or the closest we can come up with - requires shades of gray 99% of the time. So keep “totally,” “exactly,” “ever,” and “absolutely” to yourself. Nobody believes you anyway. Well, most don’t.

But I hear people using those words on their cell phones in Starbucks all the time.

Even more reason. Where do you hear “Know what I’m saying?” Wal-Mart?

(Silence and a glare.) As I said, I am trying to put together a book.

And you are too busy doing research and writing to blog. Right? I suppose you have been traveling too.

Abso... Yes.

Well, why don’t you blog about your research.

Alright! Did you know that Arthur Krock, the famous New York Times Washington correspondent, winner of three (!) Pulitzer Prizes, who was presented with the Presidential Medal of Freedom by Richard Nixon in 1970, was the informant on Mrs. Marion Willson's certificate of death in 1923? Her husband James then married Eda Turner, the ex-wife of W. Newman Clarke, the eldest son of Peyton Neale Clarke who wrote Old King William Homes and Families, the book that started all of my research. I can’t find any connection between Krock and Willson except that they lived in Louisville, Kentucky. As best I can determine Krock had already moved to Washington at the time of her death.

Right. Thank you for not sharing.

Oh.

So what else has been going on?

How about me becoming a grandfather. Is that distracting enough for you?

Congratulations!

Oh, stop it. You knew about Lily Rayne as soon as I did.

Good point, for once. So why haven’t you blogged about your granddaughter?

Didn’t you read my last post?

That was soooo almost three months ago. One post the day after she was born? Slack.

Now who is using slang?

Two good points in a row. You are on a roll. Now answer the question.

It is hard to write with a lump in your throat and tears in your eyes. I am so happy, so proud of my daughter, words just fail. Besides, pictures are worth a thousand word post. Try http://www.flickr.com/photos/malindi/sets/72157623239217627/.

Thanks for the link.

Be quick. At the rate Lily is growing she will soon be walking, talking, arguing, and developing innovative ways to drive her parents crazy. I can’t wait:)

You are getting into that grandparent thing aren’t you?

Did you know Grandparent’s day is September 12th this year? It is a bit cruel that it changes every year, the memory of us old farts being what it is.

Next topic...

Wait, here is a photo. I call it "Power to the People." It isn't the arm; look at the face.

Moving right along, any more excuses?

Did I mention her red hair?

No. Moving right along..

Well, how about the probability that if I started commenting on the great topics of the day - health care, global warming, the economy, the self-destruction of the Republican Party, and McNabb going to the Redskins - I just might throw up all over my keyboard. Really folks, like shooting fish in a barrel with a shotgun. I could kill those fish, but what would I look (or smell) like afterward? Mother told me that if I could not say anything nice, say nothing at all.

And you listened to your mother?

Listened? Sure. Followed her advice? Well, no.

So what are you sayin’?

See where it got me? Look. We live in a 24/7 world of hype, infotainment and general BS brought to us by strident jerks who not only have their own websites, but a cable “news” channel - that’s you FOX - and radio stations by the hundreds which are pissing in the well of human consciousness. Add to the din are less ideological but more frantic media that must rely on circulation, eyeballs, or hits to sell the advertising that keeps them in business. In this struggle to attract public attention truth and civility are the first victims. So we get appeals to hot button issues and half-baked content that will keep our attention long enough to get to the commercials or the political subtext. Despite what one might hear on the radio, see on the cable news, or read in a blog, the sky does not fall every day!

Are you finished?

No! But I’ll stop.

So is that the cause of your blogwriter’s block?

I was supposed to mellow out as I got older. Self-restraint will have to do. It takes time to respond to jerks and fools without becoming one with them. Until I have the time, there will be fewer posts. Besides, what Bibb thinks sometimes is better kept to himself.

Promise?

No.

Punxsutawney Lil - 2/2/10

2010-02-03T20:11:00.006-05:00

Yesterday @ 4:22 PM Punxsutawney Lil, a.k.a. Lily Rayne Powers, emerged from the darkness, indicated that she wanted something to drink, and then - not seeing her shadow - scheduled six more weeks of winter before closing her eyes for a nap.

Welcome aboard Miss Powers; hope you have a lovely voyage.

P.S. Thanks to Chuck for the Groundhog's Day inspiration and Steve Jobs for the iPhone which Malindi Edwards Powers had the presence of mind to use under the circumstances to take a photo.

The Week-End Entertainment

2010-01-31T20:52:00.001-05:00

It is Ruud!

2010-01-26T16:19:00.004-05:00

Yesterday five guys drove up to the house packing heat... and cooling. It was a good thing.

Just before Christmas I had noticed that the downstairs heat pump was not pumping much warm air. None actually. Two teams of professionals gave the same diagnosis, the old unit was too far gone to be rehabilitated. I can relate.

After some deliberations a new heat pump was decided upon and yesterday the installation went according to plan, a bit unusual around here. In addition, duct work was run to the new sunroom, making it warmer this winter and cool this summer. The best part is the new unit is quieter and twice as efficient as the old one. We will notice the effect of that in the electric bills and on next year's taxes. It is also a bit larger, as the photo shows. So with weather coming in this week-end, we are good to go.

By the way, we were not in that much distress for the past few weeks even when the temperature dropped into the 20s. The upstairs unit kept the second floor toasty and the backup stove worked like a champ.

Someone said we were lucky to have a good backup. Lucky my warm arse! Good planning I say...a bit unusual around here.

SHORPY - Always Something Interesting

2010-01-05T18:07:00.005-05:00

This is my nomination for Best New WebSite I've Found, 2010.

It really does not get amazing until you click on the View full size link. Most are a reminder of the qualities of glass negatives.

The comments are usually worth reading as well.

Go ahead, spend few hours with Shorpy.

The Naughties

2009-12-31T12:42:00.003-05:00

Ten years ago, besides fretting about and spending millions of dollars to head off the impending Y2K computer meltdowns, there was some real concern about how we were to describe the coming decade. There were a variety of suggestions that just did not seem right. We had the Double-Os, the Y2Ks, the Zeroes, the Noughties, the Singles, the 2000s, the Millies, and my favorite, the Oh-Ohs.

Well, decades tend to name themselves. Now after 10 years we know Wired Magazine got it right. Even though the Noughties seems to have traction, I submit we say good-bye this evening to the Naughties.

Yes, there is only one letter difference and it does take care not to pronounce the two words the same. But I would prefer to remember the decade's sweet-as-sin naughties rather than the zeros who were in charge of our economy, politics, and war-machine most of the time. (They know who they are.)

I am not hearing much discussion about 2010-2019. I suppose these could be the Twenty-Somethings, but it will probably be the Teens again. OK by me. I am perfectly content to be a Teenager again. With what I learned in the Naughties, this should be like totally F-word awesome.

Summer, 1971

2009-12-19T17:58:00.002-05:00

In response to absolutely no request at all from the previous post, here is a photo of the interior of that 1971 VW bus during the Summer of '71. Like a champ it took 6 adults (mostly) and a wonderful German Shepherd camping from Virginia to California and BACK in about 4 weeks. Burned only one valve - that bad boy #3 exhaust - driving I-70 up the Rocky Mountains west of Denver. All this with less than 60 hp.

Notice the curtains:)

Hippies Welcome!

2009-12-16T19:40:00.013-05:00

So, I was driving out of Charlotte yesterday having made a major dent in my Christmas shopping when my eye caught this sign in a VW dealer's window. It was so good I turned around and took this photo. Cute you think, Hippies Welcome, but worth turning around on busy Independence Avenue? There must be a story, you think.......correctly.

It was late spring 1971 and I wanted a VW bus, wanted one bad. So one Saturday afternoon I walked into the VW dealer in Danville, Virginia and saw a yellow and white bus on the showroom floor. No salesman was in sight, the place was empty. So I walked around until I found a guy sitting at a desk. I asked if the Bus on the floor was for sale; he said yes. I told him I would take it and I asked him to get some final sales numbers together so I could go to the bank and get a check. He just stared. Finally something snapped, and he went into car salesman mode. He said he would be happy to get a sales price for me. In about 15 minutes I was on my way back to Mecklenburg County, paperwork in hand. I had not even opened the door to my new car.

Midweek I called him, told him I had the check, and would be back on Saturday to settle up with him. He seemed a bit surprised. Yes, he said, they would have it ready.

Saturday my wife and I drove to pick up the bus. After signing all the papers I asked if he would mind riding with us around town a bit, I had never driven a VW before. That gave him more pause. Sure, he said, sounding a bit uncertain.

You must remember this was 1971 and my wife and I probably looked a awful lot like those hippies he had heard about. So he rode shotgun and I slipped behind the wheel for a quick tour of Danville. He alternated between pointing out the vehicle's features, and just... looking at us. Finally he asked, "You aren't going to paint flowers on the side, are you?" My wife and I had long since picked up on his vibes, and I suppose we could have had some fun at his expense. But we didn't. Trying to maintain a straight face we almost said in unison, "Oh no, we wouldn't do anything like that." He relaxed a bit. Then it could have been me, but I think it was my wife who said softly, "Curtains might be nice."

We dropped him off and I kept that bus for almost 25 years. Sure, the last 10 or so I didn't drive it much, but I just could not let it go. Great memories, wonderful memories.

So, ex-wife? True story, or what?

And no, the picture above is not THE bus, but it is a dead ringer. Stole it off the internet. I fear most of the photos I do have of that particular bus could be used as evidence.

So here is to Volkswagen of America and times that change.

Or not. During the 5 minutes or so I was on the premises no salesman approached me. Not after I made a big production of taking a picture of the front of their building. Not after I walked about looking at the new cars. Maybe I need to get a haircut.

Chesapeake Studies

2009-11-25T08:40:00.011-05:00

Looking for all the world like a homeless refugee from the chilly Washington streets I wandered into the U.S. National Archives last Tuesday, was IDed multiple times, and thus began another week of research on the road. In search of more information for my book project, my visit to D.C. yielded nothing except the knowledge that if what I was seeking existed, it was not in the National Archives. That and this card, good for a year.

Fleeing the afternoon D.C. traffic I then took refuge at Gunston Hall, home of George Mason, one of our least known of the Founding Fathers. It was quite tranquil; save the occasional aircraft sounds, it was probably more quiet than in Mason's day when it would have been a busy household with children about, farm animals being tended, and slaves preparing for the end another plantation day. I was the only visitor by 4 o'clock, so I had what amounted to a private tour. The interior of the house does not reflect the relative modest exterior. If you are ever south of D.C. on highway 1, or nearby on I-95, it is worth a detour. You might enjoy it more than nearby Mount Vernon, which will certainly be more crowded.

The next day took me to the Northern Neck. First was to the awful subdivision that is what became of my mother's homeplace to assist in resolving a property line question. Then I visited the Northumberland County Historical Society to purchase a back issue of their Bulletin. Lunch found me across the Rappahannock at Lowery's for lunch, a tradition. Crab cakes. As the afternoon waned I was heading into the Western Shore of Maryland and the Holiday Inn at Solomons Island. It was there I was to spend the next three days attending a conference, The Early Chesapeake: Refections and Projections. For me it was like attending an induction ceremony at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, or the Champions Dinner at the Masters. Present were the pioneers of Chesapeake Studies, presenters of often ground-breaking papers, and the authors of many of the books on my bookshelves. In addition I was able to take guided tours of the Jefferson Patterson Park & State Museum of Archaeology, Historic St. Mary’s City and St. Mary’s College of Maryland. But what I will remember most were the conference goers I met and chatted with, and the ideas we exchanged. While this was a conference of mainly academic and otherwise professional historians and archaeologists, many made me feel as if I belonged. It was a timely, well-run, and well-attended conference. Thanks to the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture.

Sunday morning I drove down the neck of land that forms the Western Shore to Point Lookout, the Maryland side where the Potomac empties into the Bay. This sliver of land is among my oldest memories; it is directly across the water from my grandmother's house on the Northern Neck. I had never been there. On my trek north to the highway 301 bridge back to Virginia I stopped at St. Mary's City where I yet again played historical tourist. Finally, as the weather was turning colder and clouds were moving in, I returned to my car for the uneventful seven-hour drive home.

As I have spent most of November on the road, I am glad to be stationary for a while. Though tomorrow we will be in Charlotte for Thanksgiving at my daughter's, and Saturday we are hosting a dinner for other friends and family - including about a dozen Chinese scholars from UNC-P - I now need to consolidate my thoughts and research; I need to write.

Smoketown USA

2009-11-14T15:42:00.006-05:00

Yesterday I returned from an almost two-week road trip, 2895 miles worth. It was close-to-perfect, the planned and the unexpected. Even the weather was great. It was a multi-purpose excursion centered around attending the 75th Annual Meeting of The Southern Historical Association in Louisville and doing some research for the book I am working on. But I used the trip to also visit with some friends of long standing, some I had not seen in decades. Visiting with them is what made this trip so very special to me.

So here is a big Thank You to Layla, Gregg, Leslie, Kyle and Ellis, Burt, Ellen, Barbara and Alison, and Phil and Rebecca. Also my thanks to the staff at the Frontier Culture Museum, The Filson Historical Society, Cave Hill Cemetery, Historic Old Louisville, the Third Avenue Cafe, Cahokia Mounds State Historical Site, the Kentucky Historical Society, and the numerous Starbucks who provided the caffeine.

Almost getting lost in my narrative is the SHA Annual Meeting. I attended first class, fascinating sessions with topics as diverse as School Desegregation in Norfork, 1960's British Blues, and Thomas Jefferson's favorite slave family, the Hemings. My goal was to meet and hang out for a few days with real historians, and to learn something. Mission accomplished. I am already looking forward to their meeting in Charlotte next year.

A more complete reminisce of the past two weeks would include harvest happy mid-western farmers, microfilm follies, and not one, but two landslide closed Tennessee roads that made for an interesting Friday. (I knew about the first, but not the second.) But I will spare you all the details. I really don't have the time as I am preparing for another road trip next week, this time to a place I have always wanted to visit in Maryland, and another gathering of historians.

I will close with a promise fulfilled. A bright, happy volunteer named Mary I was chatting up at the Old Louisville Visitors Center asked if I liked Bar-B-Q. Before I could answer the expression on my face made her reach for a brochure. Wonderful food, nice people, "You must eat there before you leave," she said. So Gregg and I did just before I left The Real West Virginia (a.k.a Kentucky). Folks, it was as she said. Best Ribs I have ever had, best greens too. I told the owner I would blog about the food and the friendly people. So I have. Go to Louisville. Go to Smoketown USA. Order the ribs.

Rickie Lee Jones, Part Two

2009-10-18T18:43:00.006-04:00

Saturday night was the second time I had seen Rickie Lee Jones. The first was November 14, '03 at the Barrymore in Madison when she was touring in support of The Evening of My Best Day. She has been long a favorite of mine with her inventive jazz-flavored arraignments, close-to-the-bone non-commercial lyrics, smart-ass yet sensitive personae, and that voice. That voice with a style that cannot be emulated, the most musical instrument in the mix. That night I discovered another Rickie Lee Jones, band leader. Then into middle age - she was 49 - past the years when she could dazzle an audience with just her youthful smile, she took the stage in blue jeans and what I remember as a flannel shirt. (Maybe it was just November in Wisconsin.) Her stage, her band, her music. She was in charge, demanding you listen and think about her lyrics, giving you no choice but to sync with the rhythms of 1970's and 80’s L.A. She soon had the audience in the palm of her hand; I could not look away. By the end of that night I think we were all breathing in unison. Last night, in front of a smaller, much different audience, fronting a smaller band less sure of itself, supporting the coming release of another album, Balm in Gilead, Rickie Lee Jones proved she is still in charge, that her music still will never be found in the easy-listening bin, and that voice is as strong and clear as ever.

The Carolina Theater was her first performance in 16 months, the first show of a tour what will carry her into the northeast, to Europe, back to Carnegie Hall, and home to California by the Christmas holidays. Her material was a mix of old and new, with a wonderful continuity that made it difficult to distinguish between the two. Her band was clearly still in the process of mastering the arrangements. When it all came together, she beamed. When it did not, her frustration was obvious. At the end of one song she commented with a bit of a forced smile that, since it was a song from her upcoming album, we had no idea how much they had just "fucked.....it......up."

Nonpareil bassist Rob Wasserman was to her right through it all - watching her hands like a hawk - providing a solid bottom end, rhythm, and grace notes. The remaining band members, two young keyboard players, were clearly in-process. Rickie Lee’s music is not simple. There are no flashy drums, electronica, or simple heavy bass lines to use as a crutch. When it works it is magical; when it does not - like much in life - it discomforts.

Rickie Lee’s recorded music is honest and heartfelt, sometimes painfully so. To get something out of it one must put something in. She is the same in person, no bullshit. She is not for everyone; she does not try to be. She reminded me again last night how much I appreciate that.

Grace Potter and the Nocturnals

2009-09-22T19:30:00.014-04:00

In 1958 Danny and the Juniors' Rock and Roll Is Here To Stay topped out at #19 on the Billboard chart. The song was written more in hope than certainty. From its beginnings a few years earlier, when it was decried from pulpits and denounced in city halls as corrupting America's (white) youth, rock and roll has had powerful enemies. As that decade ended it all seemed over. Elvis had been drafted, Jerry Lee Lewis was blacklisted, Little Richard had become "born again," Buddy Holly was dead in a plane crash, Chuck Berry had been railroaded to jail, and Alan Freed and Dick Clark had been tainted by payola scandals. Already faced with the prospect of integrating their public schools, many saw rock and roll - young whites singing and dancing to black music - as further subverting the social order. The large national record companies, which had been been caught unprepared for the demand for this new type of music by white teenagers, sought to reestablish their marketplace dominance by promoting "wholesome" cover versions of songs by popular black artists. (Think Pat Boone doing Little Richard's Tutti Fruti. Awful then; awful now.) In rural Virginia, connected to the rest of the world by two-lane blacktops, the glowing tubes of radio and TV, and Life magazine, I was taking all of this in. I had just become a teenager; rock and roll was our music, my music.

I bought my first record, Fats Domino's Blueberry Hill - a 78 no less - two years earlier. I had seen Elvis in prime time and watched American Bandstand in the afternoons. I listened to after-school music shows on local AM radio, and, when I could get away with it, late night rock and roll from exotic Buffalo, Chicago, Fort Wayne, New Orleans, and Memphis. I had no idea what thrills awaited someone up on Blueberry Hill, but I damn well wanted to find out.

Of course, as we know now in the fullness of time, rock and roll didn't die. But it certainly suffered abuse. It has survived splintering into dozens of sub-genres, being co-opting in advertisements, The Cover of the Rolling Stone, big corporate money, drugs, MTV, synthesizers, a respectable Hall of Fame, artist deaths, the rise and fall of FM radio, and file sharing. It suffered disco, karaoke, hair bands, amusical punks, makeup, Auto-Tune, stadium rock and automated oldies stations. Occasionally it seems to have survived time itself by becoming embraced by some in later generations even as we boomers often seemed reluctant to share.

Still, since 1974 when Jon Landau famously proclaimed Bruce Springsteen as the future of Rock and Roll - a title Mr. Springsteen continues to wear with grace - I have often despaired for that most revolutionary of evolutionary music that formed the soundtrack of my life. Is there anybody out there that still cares?

Fast forward to this summer. I am sitting in the wing of a stage in the mountains of Virginia at an outdoor music festival. My grown, mother-to-be daughter sits beside me. We are waiting for a band I have never heard to close out the evening's music. A power outage has caused a delay of almost two hours. It has been a long day, I am looking forward to crawling into my sleeping bag. The seat in the folding chair is hard. The lights come up, the band is announced: Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. Two in the band who take the stage are impossibly young women; so which one is Grace? One picks up a tambourine and heads to the microphone laying down a rhythm. She counts off. The other young woman starts a bass riff as the drummer doubles the tambourine. Grace wails like a Celtic warrior, "Oh Yeah." A guitar chords an opening and we are off on Some Kind of Ride. Suddenly the hard seat is forgotten. I am not tired. I am getting goosebumps. Time has vanished. Who are these guys?

Since Floydfest I have downloaded all the GPN albums and several live audience recordings. I have watched her on YouTube. Here are my observations...

Grace Potter is a musician. Sure, she has a powerful, nuanced voice. But there are many accomplished voices out there, with or without Auto-Tune. (Auto-Tune is to music as steroids are to baseball.) Grace sings with no need for electronic enhancement; loud or soft, she sells the lyric. Grace closes her Falling or Flying with, "play every show as if it's your last." That is how she sings, as if every line will be her last, every syllable her final defining take. I have yet to hear any recording where she seems to be mailing in a performance. Grace also plays both the Hammond B3, electric pianos, and guitar on stage. But most importantly - like the great ones - she writes her own songs, songs filled with thought and crafted with care. I find it hard to believe they come from the mind and heart of one in her mid 20's. Finally, she respects our music, honors the genre. I like that.

The Nocturnals are not just a bunch of sidemen. Even though they recently changed bass players and added a second guitar, they are tight, cohesive, and well matched with each other. The second guitar adds depth and allows Scott Tournet space to stretch out. He has a good ear, avoids rock cliches and sounds fresh. The rhythm section is driving, solid. The occasional addition of Catherine Popper's voice to the mix makes a much more polished sound. One can be clever and describe GPN as a neoclassicial rock and roll band. If that means timeless, OK by me.

I don't think any GPN records yet do full justice to the band, especially with its current lineup. I hope their forthcoming disc does. Until then, hear them live if you can. Fortunately they are a touring band, coast to coast. The will be in Wilmington, NC next month at a smallish outdoor venue, promoted by some nice folks at Greater Good Productions. I already have tickets.

GPN have paid their dues and earned the respect of their peers and the press. Try here, here, or here. That I had not heard of them reflected on me more than them. Given the fractured, unsettled nature of the music business these days I don't know what constitutes the path to stardom or success. But if quality, commitment, and joy count - Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are already on the charts, with a bullet. Rock and roll is in good, young hands.

I have waited a respectable amount of time before blogging this lest the heat of a festival moment distorted my judgment. However, my initial reaction written just after Floydfest still stands. Upon reflection, I had the same reaction hearing Grace Potter and her band as I had seeing Springsteen for the first time thirty-one years ago. They are that good. Nice to find out I still have a pulse.

I don't know if Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are the future of rock and roll. But if the music has a future it will be someone like Ms. Potter who keeps it alive.

WSJ Woodstock Rant - Revisited

2009-08-21T07:48:00.010-04:00

The August 14th, 2009 edition of the WSJ was kind enough to reprint an editorial it published almost 40 years ago about that summer's Woodstock Festival. As I did not read it then - I was not into the Journal - I found it a fascinating reminder of those polarizing days, those days when "Which side are you on?" was becoming serious business. It would get worse.

What strikes me after all these years is the obvious anger this autonomous editorial writer feels. Nowhere does he mention - in those days it certainly would not have been a she - the Vietnam war, the civil-rights movement, women's liberation, the environment movement (the first Earth Day would be the following spring), or the growing sense among many young people that there was more to life than obedience to authority and the individual accumulation of wealth. But I am sure these were in the back of his mind as he turned looking for "Three Days of Peace and Music" into "opting for physical, intellectual and cultural squalor."

The Wall Street Journal is still published by and for authority, whether political or economic - and presumably after 40 years maybe by some of us who grew out of the "it" below. Oddly their two-page remembrance contained little mention of the capitalist roots of the festival. It was a money-making enterprise gone wrong. The first blow was struck a month before the festival was to open when the town government where the festival was planned effectively banned it. The lesson from this would be right up the WSJ's alley, never trust the government.

The festival promoters were not able to find an alternate site and construct the facilities in time to receive the second blow, many more thousands and thousands of young people than the site could well accommodate. The WSJ lesson would be to spend more money on market research.

So it became a "free festival," and depending on who one talked to, either a disaster area or a peaceful first gathering of the tribe. Then, finally, it rained. I am not sure how the WSJ handles bad weather even today. They probably are against it.

I had first considered annotating the editorial below with clever, amusing comments developed in the fullness of time. However I decided to let the oddly bitter words of the author speak for themselves. We of the Woodstock Nation still love him anyway, and would give him a big hug and pass him a joint if he wanted a hit. Peace brother.

I will only note sadly that the spirit of this editorial writer still haunts the offices of the WSJ. Try reading their current smug, myopic, and disingenuous opinions that suck up to the powers of our day and age. Personally I still refuse to read anything on their editorial pages.

By Squalor Possessed
Wall Street Journal, Aug 28, 1969

The so-called generation gap is not really so much a matter of age as it is a gap between more civilized and less civilized tastes. As such, it may be more serious, both culturally and politically, than it first appeared.
Starting with the relatively small hippie movement several years ago, the drug-sex-rock-squalor “culture” now permeates colleges and high schools. When 300,000 or 400,000 young people, most apparently from middle-class homes, can gather at a single rock festival in New York State, it is plainly a phenomenon of considerable size and significance.

We would not want to exaggerate. Probably a goodly number will grow out of it, in the old-fashioned phrase. On campus, the anti-radicals seem to be gaining strength, and it may well be that these more conservative youngsters will be the people who will be moving America in the future.

But that prospect is by no means certain enough to encourage complacency. For various reasons it is being suggested that many rebels will not abandon their “life-styles” (the cliches in this field! ) and that there are enough of them to assume some of the levers of power in the future American society. It would be a curious America if the unwashed, more or less permanently stoned on pot or LSD, were running very many things. Even if the trend merely continues among young people in the years ahead, it will be at best a culturally poorer America and maybe a politically degenerated America.

Now taste is that amorphous quality about which one is not supposed to dispute, so we won’t argue whether rock is a debased form of music; we don’t like it, but never mind. Without pursuing that argument, it is possible, we think, to say a couple of things quite categorically about rock and related manifestations.

One is that a preference for a particular kind of music is not necessarily a matter of age. In times past many young people were drawn to classical music and retained that taste as they grew older. Today the young’s addiction to rock is at the same time a rejection of classical and the more subdued types of popular music, and considering the way rock is presented it must be counted a step down on culture’s ladder.

That is our second point: The orgiastic presentation on the part of some of the best-known groups. It is not prudish, we take it, to suggest that a certain amount of restraint is appropriate in these matters. But then, the whole “life-style” of many of the performers is incredible—disgusting or pitiful or both, but certainly hoggish.

The same applies to public sex in the audience, also in evidence at the mammoth Woodstock festival. It is not necessary to be a Puritan to say that such displays are regressive from the point of view of civilization. As for the ubiquitous drugs—well, we guess on that score we feel more sorry for the kids than anything else.

What perhaps gets us most is the infatuation with squalor, the slovenly clothes and the dirt; at Woodstock they were literally wallowing in mud. How anybody of any age can want that passes our understanding. Again, though, it’s not a question of age. A person doesn’t have to be young to be a hobo. He does, however, have to have certain tastes and values (or non-tastes and non-values) which are not generally regarded as being of a civilizing nature.

Now we are aware of all the cant about how these young people are rejecting traditional tastes and values because society has bitterly disappointed them, and we would be the last to deny the faults in contemporary society. It is nonetheless true that their anarchic approach holds no hope at all.

They won’t listen, but if they, and some of the unduly sympathetic adults around, would listen, here are some words worth bearing. They occur in a speech by Professor Lawrence Lee to a social fraternity at the University of Pittsburgh, quoted in National Review:

“You have been told, and you have come to believe, that you are the brightest of generations . . . You are, rather, one of the most self-centered, self-pitying, confused generations . . . .

“The generation gap is one of the delusions of your generation—and to some men of my generation. . . . The only generation gap is that we have lived longer, we know more than you do from having lived, and we are so far ahead of you that it will take you a lifetime to have the same relative knowledge and wisdom. You had better learn from us while you can. . . .

“It is not mawkish to love one’s country. The country, with all of its agony and all of its faults, is still the most generous and the most open society on the earth. . . . All generations need the help of all others. Ours is asking yours to be men rather than children, before some frightened tyrant with the aid of other frightened and ignorant men seeks to make all of us slaves in reaction to your irresponsibility.”

In any event, opting for physical, intellectual and cultural squalor seems an odd way to advance civilization.

FloydFest 8 - Revival

2009-08-03T19:39:00.015-04:00

July 23rd through 26th I attended my fifth consecutive Floydfest. All have been different; all have left me with wonderful memories. By now I know enough to expect the unexpected. One would think that mindset would have prepared me for this year. It didn't.

First, instead of attending with several carloads of relatives, this year it looked like it would just be Anita and me. Then, about a month before, Anita badly damaged a big toe. I will spare you the details and photos. As Floydfest approached it became evident she would not be able to go. We had hoped Anita's niece, husband and daughter Rachel (A former Best Camper) would be able to take the tickets. They bowed out the weekend before the festival was to start. With not enough time to to sell the two (rather expensive) tickets, I decided to go by myself. I then offered my daughter the other ticket. A few months pregnant and having not been feeling all that chipper, she had decided weeks ago not to attend. But she reconsidered mid-week and told me she would meet me on site Friday evening. So Thursday morning early I pointed Buster, Anita's old truck, north.

I had decided before I left that I was going to try camping in the woods this year to avoid the sun-baked heat of field camping.
But by the time I arrived, about four hours after the gates opened, many of the best sites were taken. Undeterred, I found a spot and managed - with some passerby help - to get the tent in place and the camp established. This photo makes the site look flat. It was not. Still the trees did provided shade and it was very convenient to the music, food, and porta-potties. I then wandered about in search of the music.

My first surprise was the Jesse Chong Band from Virginia Beach at the Hill Hollar stage as the sun was going down. They were just smoking. Sure, the guy could play and his band was tight, but what impressed me were the arraignments. There was always something interesting going on with the beat, the rhythm. Here is a sample on YouTube. His website also has videos. None really do justice.

The next day I happened by the Garden Stage and caught the last part of the set by Samantha Crain and the Midnight Shivers. If someone can kick some serious musical butt sweetly, it is Samantha. I took the photo to the right the next day when she played the Hill Hollar. Difficult to categorize, Samantha's music has an edge that belies her demeanor and the familiar forms her music takes. Her website has videos also.

After Malindi arrived and was settled in we walked about as the sun was setting in search of more music. Then Floydfest went dark, quickly, mostly. Actually a fuse blew on a power line off-site and for about two hours the festival was operating on a few backup generators and batteries.

So what happened with thousands of festival goers and seven stages? Simple; the musicians played and sung acoustically, and the audiences mellowed around them. Read about it here.

While walking back towards the Main Stage we stopped by the Children's Universe where we heard the Barcelona Institute of Gospel. They were singing in the dark without their microphones everything from Proud Mary to Billie Jean, J.S. Bach to a song from the Lion King. The arraignments to bring the young singers from Spain to the U.S. had been made by a Floyd County Virginia Tech student, details here. Malindi and I sat in awe. Someone had a video camera and posted part of their performance on YouTube. As we walked away I felt as if nothing could top that. I was (again) wrong.

I had heard that Friday night's closing Main Stage band, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, was pretty good. As the festival electricians were patching together enough emergency power so the band could take the stage and we were taking our seats on the side stage (a benefit of those expensive tickets) the local power company restored power to the site. Late, but now with full power, the show would go on. When Grace and her band hit the stage it was as if one had shaken up a hot two-liter coke bottle and then ripped off the cap. I had seen and heard bands on that huge stage for four previous festivals. I had never questioned if the stage was large enough, until Grace Potter. Friends and neighbors, they almost took the roof of that sucker. She sounds like a combination of Janis and Bonnie Raitt, with all their energy but with a better feel than either for a ballad. Her band could have been playing full tilt at Woodstock or almost any venue since. Timeless rock and roll. Playing mostly originals with a few covers that they well honor, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals just get it. It may be too late to catch them in a small club again, but catch them if you can. Mp3s of that performance can be found at archive.org. It is worth the download. I was awestruck, again.

It proved difficult to top Friday night. But for about 25 minutes Saturday afternoon...

I had first heard Donna The Buffalo at Floydfest 4. More or less joining their Herd, I had probably listened to them a dozen times since. But Saturday was special. As they took the Main Stage at 5 dark clouds rolled in. By the second song the wind was blowing a hard rain across the stage soaking us all. Donna played on. It got worse. Donna played on. The rain rendered Tara's violin bow useless and she wisely left the stage looking like she was fleeing an unvoluntary wet-T-shirt contest. Her band mates played on. Equipment started to fail. The band played on; the audience kept dancing. When I realized they were not going to stop I set my camera on video mode and captured a few minutes. Those videos became my first YouTube posts - here and here. Electrical power outages? Wind and rain? Not a problem at Floydfest.

Of Saturday night, no comment. Blues Traveler brought additional gate receipts, but that was about all. As my mother always reminded me, "If you can't say something nice...."

Sunday morning at 10 found me in the Pink Floyd Garden Stage for a short set by local (Blacksburg) singer/songwriter Kat Mills. She is a Floydfest regular and so I hope she remains. Motel Blues, Saturday; what a wonderful way to start the day. After she finished I made my way to the Virginia Folklife Workshop Porch to wait for Peter Rowan.

Rowan is a legend, with a wide and deep musical heritage that defies categorization. Born in Boston, he formed a Tex-Mex band in high school. He played with Bill Monroe in the mid-196o's. He then joined David Grisman in a folk-rock band, Earth Opera. He played in the rock-fusion band Seatrain in the early 1970's and then recorded a one-shot album with Grisman, Vassar Clements, Jerry Garcia, and John Kahn, Old and In the Way. According to Rowan's website it remains the biggest selling bluegrass album of all time. His song from that album, Panama Red, recorded later by a Garcia side project, the New Riders of the Purple Sage, is iconic.

Since the seventies, Rowan has traveled widely, playing almost every kind of music imaginable - and a few beyond - including reggaebilly. But he always seems to come back to front porch music and bluegrass. And on Floydfest's small Workshop Porch Rowan parked himself Sunday morning, sang several songs, told some stories, and then played a short set with his bluegrass band prior to taking the larger Hill Hollar stage at 1:30. Later Rowan joined Railroad Earth on that stage for a version of the mountain standard, the Cuckoo.

Railroad Earth closed out the festival, playing until past 6 pm. I have written so much about them over the years anything more seems unnecessary. They have remained a Floydfest staple, bringing their very American eclectic music to a very eclectic American gathering. Sufficient to write that they played well and it was great the see the guys again. We have tickets to see them again next month in Charlotte.

There were dozens of wonderful performers at Floydfest I have failed to highlight: The Emmit-Nershi Band, The Duhks, Grupo Fantasma, Nathan and the Zydeco Cha-Chas, Olabelle, Adrienne Young and Old Faithful, Doug and Telisha Williams, William Walter & Co., The Dynamites featuring Charles Walker, the Lee Boys. And then there was Spiral. All deserve space on someone's blog, just not mine this time around.

I could also mention the wonderful food the folks from Chicago served behind the main stage. I could highlight the helpful volunteers who made us all feel so welcome. The vendors who add so much were out in full force this year. I could mention the couple who dreamed up Floydfest and then made it happen. Maybe next year.

Best Camper this year goes to my daughter, despite her needing to find a port every 30 minutes. It was a special treat to once again share Floydfest with her. Like Grace Potter and her Nocturnals, Malindi gets it. Driving rain and power outages, rank potties and two bands you want to hear scheduled at the same !#@**! time, all are just ingredients in the gumbo. All are a part of that experience of becoming just a bit more alive than usual, of being with thousands of friends you just haven't met yet, of being for one long week-end a year in that Virginia state of grace, Floydfest.

It was 20 years ago today...Part Three

2009-04-08T07:20:00.000-04:00

On my fifth day the clamp was completely closed. A couple of hours later I began to get a headache, a VERY bad headache, very different from the ones caused by the aneurysm. In fact, it was different from any headache I had ever experienced. It seem to have no center, my whole head hurt. My eyes became very sensitive to light, small sounds were way too loud. I had trouble concentrating, thinking clearly. (Yes, worst than normal.) I had never had a migraine, but my symptoms sounded like one. My brain was now operating on 3 out of 4 carotid arteries; it did not like the new normal.

The doctors and nurses did what they could. Pain meds seemed to have no effect. I asked for a cool, damp towel to cover my head, curled up in the darkened room, and rode it out.

After about 48 hours - it seemed longer - the pain subsided. The tube was removed from the Silverstone clamp and the remaining small hole closed. I was moved out of the ICU to a regular room; they were preparing me to go home. I remember the hot shower the nurses finally let me take - with care to keep water off the neck - as being one of the most wonderful physical experiences of my life.

It was agreed that the operation was a success, that I would probably have more headaches, and I should go home, take it easy, and in two months come back for another angiogram to see if the procedure had the desired effect. What was unstated were the consequences if it did not.

A friend came to W-S and drove me home in my car. After 10 days in the hospital, despite being very well attended to, I was happy to leave. I was surprised that the ride home left me so tired. I walked directly through my front door, took a right into my bedroom and did not rise for several hours. I had become exhausted from sitting upright in the car for an hour and a half. It was less the aneurysm and operation than lying on my back for 10 days.

About a week after my discharge I drove to Asheville to the Mountain Area Health Education Center (MAHEC). I looked and felt better than I had in the hospital, but not by much. I asked for books about aneurysms. After a couple of hours I left, my head spinning, not by a headache but by what I had read. I now knew how deadly and debilitating aneurysms were. I read the texts, saw the photos, absorbed the statistics. And while I realized how lucky I had been so far, I knew I could still drop dead any moment. Another long ride home.

The migraine-like headaches returned. They were never as bad as the initial one, but usually bad enough to render me useless for a while. If possible I would just crawl into a bed and try to sleep through them. At first they came on about three times a week and would last for 12 to 18 hours. Fortunately, they began slowly, giving plenty of warning for me to adapt. As the weeks, months, and years went by they decreased in frequency, duration, and intensity. It took about five years for them to disappear completely. Otherwise I was great. My stamina returned, the incision became a light scar that neatly hid among the other lines on my neck. Other than the nagging thought that I could keel over at any moment and die without anything that could be done, I was just great.

I went back to work. My medical insurance covered just about everything. My vision, which had changed enough for me to need new glasses, returned to “normal.” I took that to mean the grape-sized aneurysm was getting smaller. I tried to imagine it becoming a raisin. I also tried to figure if there was anything triggering my headaches, to no end. After an episode after meal at a Chinese restaurant I became convinced that MSG was the key. It was not. I tried not to dwell on how one small section of artery, maybe an inch or so in length, could render an otherwise healthy person null and void. Here I was in the prime of my life and I could be taken down by a short length of bad tubing. How annoying, as the British would say. I finally tried to think about how fortunate I had been so far, how nice it was to be...anywhere.

I did not know what to expect when I checked back into the hospital in late March. That I was still alive was a good sign. Yet until the results from the angiogram were known I still had no prognoses. Once again they rolled me into that large room with all the equipment and staff. This time when I came to I was in the hallway and a technician I had not seen before was trying to get my attention. He had sheets of x-ray film in his hand. Through the fog I saw him point at the outline of a skull and heard him say, “It worked, Mr. Edwards.” He kept repeating, “It worked!” He sounded very happy, maybe surprised.

That evening in my room I had the TV on and was paying minimal attention to some cable medical show. At one point they had a gurney rolling down a hospital corridor, the camera showing what it looked like from the patient’s point of view. That caught my attention just long enough to watch the gurney roll through a set of doors and into a room that looked a lot like that large room with all the equipment and staff I had seen that morning. I turned up the sound and started paying closer attention. A patient was indeed having an angiogram. They showed the whole procedure. I wanted to look away, but couldn’t. I was transfixed. When it was over I turn off the TV. Way too much information for one day.

Dr. Brown rushed into my room the next morning with an assistant carrying an armload of folders. He had a big smile on his face. I had never seen him smile before. I had been told I would be discharged after lunch so I was not surprised when he said the procedure had been successful and the danger from the aneurysm had passed. He said he wanted to see me again in a year as a followup. Sure!

I asked him if there was anything I should or should not do. He said there were no restrictions. I then asked him if I could play the piano. He did not bat an eye and said, “Of course.” I then allowed that was odd because I couldn’t play before.

He seemed to have never heard one of the the oldest jokes in medicine.

He just stared for a few moments, then wished me well, wheeled and headed out the door. I stopped his assistant and asked, “Dr. Brown thought he was going to lose me, didn’t he?” “Yes,” she said. “If that thing had popped you would have been dead before you hit the floor. You made him very happy.” That was two of us.

On the follow-up visit a year later I mentioned my continuing headaches and asked if he knew of any support groups for people with my medical condition. He said he knew of none; the survival rate was probably too small to generate enough members. I thought I detected another smile.

With the internet there are now many a mouse click away. Here is one of them. And another.

I have photocopies of the angiogram’s x-rays showing my aneurysm. I thought about scanning and posting one of them to break up this text with some show with my tell. But decided not. I doubt people who see it would ever look at me the same. They are hard to forget. After all, benign as it has been, the aneurysm is still there. Besides, it would send my daughter right over the edge. Humm....

I also googled for photos of a Silverstone Clamp. None. If anyone finds a photo, please advise. I am holding on to mine for the time being.

I have learned much since about cranial aneurysms. I have met survivors, worked with one in Wisconsin. He had a rough time of it. I was much more fortunate. Our Vice President, Joe Biden, had two in 1988, just before mine was diagnosed. Neil Young had the newest procedure, detachable platinum coils, put in one in 2005. Add to that list survivors Bob Dole and Terri Garr (Young Frankenstein). They - we - were fortunate. Most are not noticed until they begin to rupture. Even then the condition is frequently not properly diagnosed until it is too late to prevent permanent disability or, more likely, death. I have met many more people who have known someone who died from one rather than someone who recovered. Among better known of the not so fortunate were TV’s Zorro (Guy Williams) and singer Laura Branigan.

Other than the aforementioned headaches, my aneurysm has - so far - had little long-term effect. Three carotids seem really to be about as good as four. I occasionally get a sore neck in the area of the clamp if I sleep on it oddly. I can’t have an MRI again as long as the metal clamp is in place. (Think what would happen if very, very, powerful magnets got hold of that stainless steel clamp.) Doctors won't let me scuba dive anymore, but they were never keen on the idea in the first place.

With little to remind me, I don’t think about that adventure very often. It was an oddly passive experience. There was nothing I did to cause the condition, nothing I could do to make it go away. I played only a supporting role in rendering it benign. For someone who values a moderate amount of control over his circumstances, that is disconcerting. Sure, sometimes lucky is better than good. But I still don’t like it. For a near-death experience (I’ll never know exactly how close I came), it was relatively drama-free. Sometimes it is almost like a story I heard, like it happen to someone else.

But when it does come to mind, like on this anniversary, I think about all those who gave me the opportunity for a second lifetime: numerous doctors, nurses, and medical technicians I likely will never see again, whose names have long faded from memory - if I ever knew them. They made my last 20 years possible. I am sure they would say they were just doing their job. How do you thank someone for 20 years?

I also think about my family and friends who came to my side, and provided support and encouragement. Maybe I had been lucky all along and didn’t know it.

Odds would have me well dead by now. But I’m not. Some would say there was a purpose to it all, a reason. I think not. But I will acknowledge opportunity.

I have been asked what I learned from the experience, how it changed me. Faced with such life clarifying events some choose to slowdown, stop, and smell the roses. Others speed up and try to experience as much as they can in the short time we all have.

I have decided to do both; and to repost this story in another 20 years.

It was 20 years ago today...Part Two

2009-03-31T19:40:00.002-04:00

Because the hospital wanted me there before dawn on the 3nd, I drove to Winston-Salem the night before and tried to sleep at a nearby motel. I appeared on time and signed multiple pieces of paper agreeing to.... whatever they said. After being thoroughly processed - including shaved in places where the thought had never occurred to me - it was explained that I was to have an angiogram. This was to give Doctor Brown a detailed roadmap of the inside of my skull before he went inside. Seemed reasonable. More papers to sign. I remember being wheeled into a large room, wall to wall with equipment and what seemed a dozen technicians. I remember counting backward from 100 to something in the high 90s. The next thing I knew I was in a hospital room with a bandaged and sore groin.

Later that afternoon my mother stopped by. She had come from Virginia so I would not be alone in the hospital. While we were chatting Dr. Brown appeared. In his usual stoic manner he said the angiogram did not show a “growth.” It showed an aneurysm. They would look about the same on an MRI. My relief at finding that I did not have a tumor was momentary. He explained I had a “giant” aneurysm, an artery had ballooned to about the size and shape of a grape; he did not have to explain what would happen if it burst. Worse, it was in a location he did not like. He described it as inoperable; he said he really did not want to have to go in and try to fix it. “Might lose you on the table.” No nonsense, that Dr. Brown.

He explained he wanted to try an old procedure, one that involved putting a clamp around the artery in my neck that feeds the aneurysm and slowly close off its supply of blood. Clamped shut, blood from the heart could not put pressure on the weakened artery walls. In addition was the possibility that the aneurysm would be filled with clotted blood and eventually become a stable, solid mass. With no blood pressure to cause a rupture, and the area of weakness plugged, the aneurysm would be no longer life threatening. He said closing off one of the four carotid arteries should not cause any long term problems, in effect, 3 out of 4 wasn’t bad. He said the operation itself was relatively simple.

He asked if that was OK with me. I said sure, go ahead. At that point one procedure seemed as good as another. I still was not sure what an aneurysm was, but from his tone I guessed he wished for my sake it had been a “growth.” I asked how I got this aneurysm. He said I was probably born with a weakness in the artery wall that, over time, ballooned out creating the probability of a blowout. He continued that most of the time they were found only after they began leaking. So far, we were ahead of the game. Mother looked horrified, but said little. After she left I thought about running up and down that basketball court New Years Day with such abandon with a weak, ballooned blood vessel ready to pop in my head. Damn.

Later Dr. Brown came by my room to show me what a Silverstone clamp looked like. Quite taken by what would be implanted in my neck I reached out, picked it up off the tray, and gave it a good once over. It was about the size of those little metal pencil sharpeners I carried in my school box in the 5th grade. There was silence; the doctor and nurse looked at each other. Finally, as I gave it back, Dr. Brown reminded the nurse to sterilize the clamp before next morning, more for my ears than hers.

I spent an uneventful night as hospital nights go and remember nothing of the operation the next morning. I do remember throwing up on two nurses in the recovery room after I asked them to raised the head of my bed. In fact I threw up on just about everything within range. They smiled, accepted my profuse apologies, and had me and the environs cleaned up in no time. I was impressed; they were good. “Happens all the time,” they said.

A Silverstone clamp has a detachable tube that sticks outside the body that allows a small screw driver to reach the screw in the clamp, making adjustment possible. So after the operation I had a metal tube attached to my left internal carotid artery sticking out the side of my neck. Think Frankenstein. It was during my time in the ICU I realized why they did not have handy mirrors. When I found one I discovered that I didn’t look so good. That was also when I decided that surgeons must get paid for incisions by the inch.

But before I was in any condition to consider my appearance I had to pee. During and after the operation I was hooked up to an IV just poring in fluids. Drip, drip, drip - about that fast. The anesthesia had so relaxed my muscles that I could not void the old bladder. Hours passed. My bladder filled; a bulge appeared below my navel. The nurses kept trying to get me to relax and to fill up a plastic liter-sized bottle. Darkness fell. Finally a nurse came in, and, reflecting upon the empty bottle, advised that they were soon going to have to use a catheter if I was unable to fill the bottle by conventional means. She also allowed that she was going off-duty and the next nurse was rough, I had better get on with it. By now I thought I was going to burst and the idea of that catheter had me sweating. I may not have known what an aneurysm was, but I had heard about catheters. I stared at that bottle; this was going to require my undivided attention.

Sure enough, about midnight the new nurse appeared, as described. She demanded to see my bottle. She had tubes and paraphernalia in one hand and a wild look in her eyes. Never in my life have I ever been as proud as the moment I pulled from underneath my sheets - where I had been hiding it - an almost overflowing bottle of urine. She seemed disappointed when I handed it to her. Had she had been ten minutes earlier...

The next day I settled down into the routine that passes for normal in an ICU. I had very little discomfort (medical jargon for pain); my biggest aggravations were changing the IV needle, all the equipment they kept me hooked up to, and boredom. Once a day, for three days the screw was turned in the clamp, thus gradually reducing the flow of blood to my head. Every few hours a nurse would come in and ask me questions and scratch the bottoms of my feet; they were checking for brain damage as the blood flow diminished. As long as I knew what day it was and could feel the bottoms of my feet, I was probably OK.

The ICU was generally quiet. Most patients could neither talk nor walk. I could do both. Always the oddity. Visitation was restricted. Thanks to my ex-wife driving her almost two hours each way, my eleven year-old daughter could brighten up my room, but only for a few minutes at a time. Besides, she could not come every day; she had school. For the most part I read from the pile of books I brought with me and adapted to my surroundings. I kept telling the nurses I was fine, they should concentrate on the sick people. They kept coming in anyway.

One day there were unusual sounds from the adjacent room. I heard alarm beeps and staff moving quickly in the hall. Code this or that sounded over the intercom, doctors were summoned, and family members called. Then quiet. A few minutes later the family left. I heard gentle crying as they walked down the hall. It did not take a genius to realize that the patient next door had died. About a half hour later, behind schedule, my nurse swung open my door, bounced into the room, and with a big smile asked how I was doing. I just stared at her. I asked how she just did that. She stopped short, and looked a bit surprised. I told her I knew that her patient next door had just died, and yet she was able a few minutes later to come into my room smiling, positive and professional, as if nothing had happened. The smile left her face. She said yes, the patient next door had died. She said it hurts every time and she had never been able to get used to it. She said not letting other patients see her distress was the hardest part of her job, the hardest thing she had to learn. I asked no more questions as she checked the monitors, scratched my feet, completed her paperwork, and closed the door.

It was 20 years ago today...

2009-03-27T16:27:00.008-04:00

Actually the anniversary of the operation that saved by life went uncelebrated. I was among the treetops on the “survivor-like adventure course” at the Wacky Rollers Adventure Park near Roseau, Dominica. It did not occur to me that morning that twenty years earlier I was in Forsyth Memorial Hospital in Winston-Salem a few hours away from significant surgery. I have never written about that survivor-like adventure in detail. And as the Blog Police have given me a verbal warning about my lack of recent posts, here is the story - in three parts.

Throughout 1988 I had been having headaches. Test after test, one specialists after another, and no cause could be found. It was not a sinus infection, not allergies. The headaches were not stress-related. Even a CAT scan showed nothing that would explain my headaches. The headaches were unpleasant, but not debilitating. I carried on. The pain would come and go, focused in my forehead and sinus area. But it was only that fall after my vision started to change, and my daughter noticed that my left pupil was larger than my right, that the pieces of the puzzle started to come together.

I made an appointment with my optometrist. He looked into my eyes and immediately - within an hour - had me examined by a buddy of his across town, an ophthalmologist. Conclusion: my eyes were fine. Whatever was causing my vision issues lay elsewhere. He contacted my GP, Dr. Deekens, who made an appointment in Winston-Salem with “the best neurologist he knew.” A week later the neurologist, Dr. Smith, listen to my story, asked a bunch of questions, told me, “I only do heads but I do them well,” and sent me down the street to a lab for an MRI. He said by the time I went home that night we were going to know what was causing my headaches. Confident, if a bit cocky. UVa. I liked that.

The MRI was cool. I was the last patient that day and after the images were taken the technician let me into the control room to watch the monitor as the equipment processed cross-sections of a brain, my brain. After a while he handed me a manilla envelope with the MRI film and I returned to the office of the neurologist. By this time it was dark, all his office staff had left. It was just me, him, and the film. We went to a light board; he hung the sheets at the top and switched on the light, just like on TV medical shows. Quiet for a couple of minutes, he then pointed out a small dark shadow behind my left eye. “A growth,” he said, “putting pressure on the optic nerve.” He allowed that it just did not show up as well on the CAT scan. I asked if another word for such a growth was cancer. He said, "Well, yes. But most growths in that area I have seen have been benign." He told me it probably needed to come out and he would make an appointment for me to see a neurosurgeon; they would let me know. It was a long drive home.

After Thanksgiving the neurosurgeon, Dr. Brown, saw me. After a quick evaluation he scheduled me to be admitted into the local hospital after the holidays, Tuesday, January 3, 1989. He said they would run some tests that day and the next day he would probably cut a small hole in the side of my head about the size of a silver dollar and removed the tumor. He advised that my left eye might be affected, that is I might not be able to use it for vision again. As if to reassure me, he said it was a very normal procedure, that he usually opened up two skulls each morning before lunch. I watched him write cancer on the admissions paperwork that required my signature. It all seemed unreal. He seemed a no-nonsense guy that Dr. Brown. I rather liked that too.

Christmas was subdued. The thought that I might lose the vision in one eye bothered me as much as anything. In my early 40’s, I still played basketball regularly. Having no depth perception could not help my jump shot. Golf could become even more a challenge as well. New Year's Day was warm enough so I hit the outdoor court for maybe the last time with two good eyes. I played with a mad intensity for over an hour, making damn sure I made my last few jump shots.

"These changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes;

2009-01-19T15:16:00.018-05:00

nothing remains quite the same."

After the Fort Lauderdale round trip by car, an Airbus from FLL to Nassau, and 7,037 nautical miles of sea/river travel, we are back home, 34:57:1.84 North. First a bit wired and then just tired, I have been trying to catch up, clean up, and - with not much success - wrap my head around the last month. Jimmy Buffett has been helping with a soundtrack.

A month ago today the MV Explorer was not-so-gently wallowing towards St. Barts, encouraging the development of sea-legs, an appreciation of the differences in wave motion between the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, and nausea. Even though I had done my due diligence (appropriate clothing packed well, scoured the internet, and read a dozen or so books in preparation), that was one of many surprises; proving once again the value - the richness - of travel. Expectations just get in the way.

As this is a blog post, and I have not the time, skill, nor energy to write a travel narrative that does justice to those 21 days, here is a thumbnail version.

Semester-At-Sea. A 10 on a 10 point scale. These guys rock. Making such an experience possible for students of all ages takes faith in the best of humanity, dedication, and balls. Time and time again I was struck by the professionalism, attention to detail, and loving care taken by the SAS/ISE staff. A wonderful idea well executed. The program has earned and deserves our admiration, love, and support ($$).

MV Explorer. One hell of a ship. Maybe a bit fancy for a floating campus; maybe my experiences on the Ryndam make me a bit jealous. Still, it feels like a ship rather than a floating hotel/barge. Fast too. Great crew. Home.

Enrichment Voyages. The Institute for Shipboard Education (ISE) sponsors these Enrichment Voyages between SAS semesters, a combination of some of the academic and educational experiences of a Semester-at-Sea with more conventional holiday cruise fare. While I would have preferred more SAS and fewer "fun cruise" oriented cranky old people who expected to have their buns kissed at every turn, ISE struck a good programatic balance on this voyage. The professors and local experts brought onboard to provide our lectures added greatly to my experience. I am especially in awe of Dan Everett. More Dan Everett, less bingo.

Americans On Holiday. Although many - maybe most - of my shipmates knew the difference between a voyage and a cruise, a ship and a boat, and were the full equivalent of my Fall '67 WCA shipmates (albeit much older), I still had opportunity to observe the sad antics and rudeness of Americans abroad. We will be much happier as a nation when we get over ourselves. I am not holding my breath. I wish a few of my shipmates had opted for Orlando for the holidays; we all would probably have been happier.

World Campus Afloat, Fall 1967. I tried, but I still cannot attempt to describe that experience without a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes.

Blue. It is hard to imagine how many shades there are without visiting the Caribbean.

Tourism. Many of the places we visited and individuals we met rely on tourism for a good portion of their livelihood. We appear at an appointed hour on our (generally) sanitized packaged tours, smile and take our photographs, ask the same predictable questions, and leave some money behind as we head to our next destination. Our hosts generally seem happy to see us arrive, sad to see us go. I wonder.

I wonder what we look like to them, how we sound. How would we feel having our communities toured, photos taken of our homes and families, our ways questioned, especially by people speaking a different language, with different skin colors, who obviously are orders of magnitude more wealthy.

At one stop a tour guide bet our group that we could not identify an object lying on the ground. He was shocked and flustered when several of us - including me - instantly recognized a yoke for oxen. "We are not as dumb as we look," one lady said, much to the amusement of all. "I certainly hope so," thought I. Now if we can only ratchet down the arrogance, self-righteousness, and ignorance.

As you can tell I have very mixed feelings about tourism, even well done. I hope it does more good than harm, for all concerned. I don't feel that way about travel. There is a difference.

The Amazon. Incomprehensible scale, richness. Christmas day about noon we were several hundred miles up river. I was on the forward observation deck amazed at the width - maybe 3 miles at that point. As I was looking at the right riverbank the trees opened, revealing that the land was actually a narrow island, revealing another river channel about the same width. I was struck speechless. (Actually, prior to being speechless I uttered George Carlin words, a string of them.) Read a book or two about the river, watch National Geographic videos, go.

Brazil. Imagine the United States about 1880. The parallels are striking. Flush with natural resources, an energetic population, and eager to move beyond the sad consequences of colonialism, Brazil may well be beyond being perpetually the "Country of the Future" or the "Land of Unlimited Impossibilities." That said, I visited Brazil's equivalent of the Wild West, the states of Amazonas and Para, parts of the country few Brazilians have ever seen. If their politics can rise to match the strength of its people... yes, the parallels are striking.

Rubber, Sugar, Bananas. We in North America and Europe have little understanding of the true human and environmental costs of these "commodities," or how our industrial revolution was financed. We are just beginning to learn a bit about oil. The number of lives lived in misery and/or lost to put sugar in tea cups, tires on wheels, and fruit on our tables seems to have mattered little when the skin affected was mostly black or brown. Europeans transported hell to paradise, the results easily observed today throughout the Caribbean. And if one attempts to wishfully relegate this story to the past, consider the conversion of the relatively innocuous coca leaf to cocaine, and the misery to all concerned of that contribution of western chemistry. Just the tip of the Caribbean iceberg. And we wonder why some spit out the word colonialism with fear and hatred. Heads up folks, most of us are creoles, in one way or another.

Things I Still Can Do, but Probably Shouldn't. Among the in-port activities I signed up for was a visit to the Wacky Rollers Adventure Park on Dominica and their "survivor-like" challenge course. Yes, I did read the description before hand. But it kicked my butt. I did finish with only one minor slip, but I was exhausted. My companions kept asking me if I was alright. One said she thought I was going to die. I knew I was not, but that was little comfort. I need to either get in better aerobic shape, or become a spectator. I don't spectate well. And I bloody well earned that certificate.

Native Americans. If you think the treatment of the locals by Europeans in North America since Columbus arrived was/is bad, study the history of Central and South America. Hard to believe it could have been worse, but it was. Yes, things are better today, mainly because so few natives are left. We seem to revere Chico Mendes, but people still are being marginalized or killed, their land stolen, their forests burned. While today fewer Brazilians with native blood prepare bamboo to be used as roofing material, as our tour hosts are doing in this photo, many are still treated with contempt or neglect.

I Want To Go Back to ... St Kitts, followed closely by Dominica. Both were gorgeous and human scaled. In Brazil Manaus was a bit overwhelming, Santarem deserved more time. Barbados is also worth a second visit. Actually I would go back to them all.

Here is one reason I enjoyed St. Kitts, Greg's Tours.

Fruit. I ate some of the most marvelous fruits. I cannot remember many of their names but the memories of flavor remain. I am very taken by the fruit of the acsi palm. Yes, it is being oversold - like most things - in the U.S. But it is wonderful, as is the fresh pineapple, bananas, passion fruit, mango, coconut, bread fruit, pomegranate, assorted oranges, limes, lemons and melons - the usual suspects - plus carambola, guava, sour sop, tamarind, and pawpaw. I really liked the sour sop. Freshness counts.

Biggest Surprise. Trinidad. And I mean that in a good way. Diverse, an economy not dependent on tourism, large. It felt like a country, not an island. Yes, I had heard of Brian Lara before; no, I still do not understand cricket.

Biggest Disappointment. I wanted more time in each port.

Next Goal. Anita and I want to see a student from her university as part of the student body of SAS.

Homeward Bound

2009-01-07T07:18:00.005-05:00

Today we are at sea, heading for port at Fort Lauderdale tomorrow morning. It is the first opportunity for R & R (rest and reflection) since 12/31 as we have been in one port or another for six days straight. I have been too busy, unable to gather my thoughts for blog postings. Your understanding is appreciated. Here is sunrise off Roseau, Dominica as compensation.

The Caribbean is quiet and smooth this morning, the Explorer making rapid (~27 knots) pace. By this evening I expect most of what we brought aboard will be packed and we will have figured out what to do with all the stuff we bought. We might even have figured out our US customs paperwork.

Sometime next week I will probably post a blog or two about this voyage. Thoughts must be collected first. I did the best I could posting a few photos to Flickr; I hope they were sufficient for a thumbnail narrative of our past three weeks. Anita has done a better job on her blog.

The Amazon and Caribbean defy a few clever phrases, even mine. I will never be able to look at a teaspoon of sugar again without thinking of its cost in human lives over the years. I will not soon forget the exceptionally wonderful and professional Semester-at-Sea staff - and MV Explorer crew - who made this voyage possible. The blue waters, the marvelous tastes of local fruits, the resilience of the descendants of the slaves and indentured servants who live in the places we visited, all of these will be remembered.

Next hurricane season I will respond differently as the Weather Channel describes the paths and destruction of storms through places I have seen, harbors where I have slept.

It is a cliche that the world is getting smaller. It is also not true. We are getting larger, as individuals, as societies. Travel has always done that, electronic technology now has speeded up the process. The Amazon and the Caribbean are part of me now, and I am the larger and better for it.

Happy New Year

2008-12-31T09:51:00.002-05:00

The MV Explorer is at speed - 28 knots - detouring towards the coast of SA to rendezvous with a medical helicopter as we have a passenger who requires hospitalization. Another passenger fainted and fell while we were in port, breaking her hip. She is in a hospital in Santarem awaiting her evacuation to the U.S. Just a reminder of the unpleasantries that can occur despite the best of plans, the most wonderful of adventures. As if another reminder is necessary...

I have recovered from the 24/48 hour virus that began to present itself as we were entering the port at Manaus. This virus - probably a Norovirus - is very annoying for a short period of time, thrives on passenger ships, and is very cleansing. While I did spend most of my first day in Brazil in my cabin, the second day's activities did proceed as scheduled, if at a slower pace.

My second day's planned trip, to the Amazon EcoPark (http://www.amazonecopark.com.br/), was wonderful. We traveled by river boat an hour and a half up the Rio Negro, had lunch, played in the natural swimming pools, listened to a lecture, and toured the rainforest. As I did not want to overdo it, instead of the walking tour I found a swing and took a nap. Afterwards I walked down to the dock and hung out with the boat crew.

After a days travel & rest we ported at Santarem. My day was spent first at a forest tour that ended at a village where the locals showed us how they process manioc into flour. Ever had tapioca? They then fed us local fruits and juices. I am becoming very fond of acai. Then we bussed to the village of Alter do Chao where we swam in the Tapajos River, relaxed on the white sand beach, and later drank Brahma Beer and tourist shopped. That is me lying on the beach in the shade.

So if you were expecting a typical Brazilian photo, just remember who's blog this is. I have more photos coming to my Flickr account as time permits. As Brazil and the Amazon are a bit overwhelming, I am still collecting my thoughts.

The medical helicopter is overhead as I write this, my best wishes to our stricken passenger.

Tomorrow, Trinidad.

And Happy New Year to Y'all.

Brazil

2008-12-25T08:58:00.001-05:00

Merry Christmas from 01 degrees 44.92S, 053 degrees 11.7W; a.k.a. somewhere on the Amazon. We entered the river's mouth yesterday afternoon and, after poking along for the first 100 kilometers or so, are making about 22 knots.

The waters are calm and brown, the shorelines green, the skies cloudy, the air humid and cooler than most would expect. Some awful contemporary country Christmas song is on the ship's music channel.

Life aboard has settled into a routine defined by food service, sleep, and presentations provided by our professors and visiting lecturers. When at sea we average about 3 hours of lectures a day. Unlike my undergraduate behavior aboard the Ryndam, I am usually early to class and sit up front. I have not missed many. In the interest of full disclosure, my attendance has been helped by the showing of lectures over the ship's TV channel into my room where I can watch from the comfort of my bunk.

We dock in Manaus tomorrow about noon. Until then I will finish a novel by Brazilian Jorge Amado, wander the decks taking photos, and think about all of my friends and family I wish were here to share this with me.

And I am going to throttle that music channel.

Cheeseburger in Paradise

2008-12-22T06:18:00.003-05:00

Yesterday overlooking the harbor in Saint Barthelemy I had a cheeseburger w/ fries. Inspired by a similar experience in a restaurant a block or so from where we were lunching, Jimmy Buffett wrote the song that titles this post.

I SO understand.

As the restaurant, like Saint Barts, is french, it may have been the best cheeseburger I have ever tasted; it surely was the most expensive.

Amazon Expedition 2008

2008-12-19T16:49:00.011-05:00

I am posting this somewhere (actually lat. 19 degrees, 13.32 N, long. 067 degrees 46.64 W) in the Caribbean aboard the MV Explorer, mothership of the Semester-at-Sea program of the Institute for Shipboard Education, currently academically sponsored by the University of Virginia. I posted about our plans last May. For more information try here, Enrichment Voyages.

All has proceeded according to plan; the ship is quite nice, staff and crew organized, helpful, and professional. The MV Explorer is perhaps the fastest ship of its class, capable of 30 knots. But we are loafing along about 17. We have experience a moderate amount of wind and wave action since leaving Nassau, precipitating a bit of lurching about, rolling stomachs, and my disinclination to type on a moving laptop. Thus a delay in getting this post up.

So far I have attended 4 lectures, with two more scheduled later today. All very well done. The educational component of this voyage is as I had hoped.

I will be posting photos in a folder on my Flickr account almost daily. If you are interesting in following along click here. As we have a good Wi-Fi set up, keep those emails coming. I will respond.

St. Barts tomorrow. I will post more observations when this screen stops rocking and rolling.

Saving the Planet, One Flush at a Time

2008-11-30T15:51:00.004-05:00

Last week I installed a new toilet. The old one - an early 1.6 gallon per flush (GPF) model - just was not doing the job. Holding a plunger with one hand while flushing with the other and hoping for the best is just not dignified.

In researching for a replacement I looked for a model that both did the job and saved water. This Toto model (Aquia II Dual Flush) does both.

Now every time I pee and use the 0.9 GPF button 0.7 gallons of water is saved. A big relief for me and a small one for the environment!

My Favorite Veteran

2008-11-11T15:59:00.004-05:00

Ernest C. Edwards, Jr.
United States Navy
Lieutenant, jg.
~1942

Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts

2008-10-31T19:49:00.020-04:00

Several weeks ago I mentioned seeing the Doug Clark's Hot Nuts van and trailer on a Friday afternoon on I-440 outside Raleigh. The sight brought back memories, which I recounted. My nephew then commented that he had seen them when he was at Hampton-Sydney in the 90's, about 30 years after I did, wisely providing no details. My little sister emailed saying she too had seen them as an undergrad not long after I did. (If Kevin can handle that revelation I suppose I can too.)

Adam?

Today, while looking for something else, I ran across the program I bought the night I saw them, either in the late fall of 1965 or early spring '66. I had forgotten all about it. It was written by John Clark, Jr., he of the fancy talkin', who by last accounts is still touring with the band. It cost $1.15 if you had it mailed; probably cost me a buck. I suppose it is a collectors item now; but to me, priceless.

Given that my mentioning the Hot Nuts generated a number of Google referrals to my blog, I have scanned the entire Souvenir Program, all 16 pages, and posted it on my Flickr account for others to enjoy. (Click on "all sizes" to make the pages readable.)

I also found a three-part documentary about the band on YouTube; you can get started here. May not be suitable for ...

Party On.

"I think when you spread the wealth around, it's good for everybody."

2008-10-28T10:51:00.011-04:00

Those of you who know me well may have been puzzled from time to time by my lack of comment about our issues-of-the-day. This blog has been mainly personal, almost entirely apolitical. Almost.

I have had my reasons, not the least of which has been a desire not to needlessly offend my main readers, friends and family. I remember vividly the negativity of the 60's and 70's. It was almost impossible not to be trapped on one side or the other. Middle of the road meant incoming from all directions. It is not much better today. I generally would rather focus my attention on things we might have in common, those that might bring us together. Any fool can dwell on differences, stir up a fuss. Our public political discourse is divisive and crude enough; I did not want to descend into that maelstrom. I can be as nasty and vicious as the next guy; but why bother? Life is short, let's make it as pleasant as we can for everyone.

However, this does not mean I do not have values and standards. This does not mean I am not paying attention. This does not mean I have not been saddened, disappointed and angered - often beyond words - that my country, this land of my ancestors for over 300 years, has been so poorly served during most of my lifetime by its political and business leaders. This does not mean that I am not pissed off.

Despite historic changes I have witnessed that have improved the lives of minorities and women, and secured some measure of acceptance for those in our society who choose to be different, we have failed time and time again to act in accordance with our professed values, to act in our own best interest. This failure is so widespread I could begin anywhere, but it is so deep I do so reluctantly.

I will not outlive the damage to my country, and by extension to me and my family, done during the last eight years by this current administration. That many in this country are finally beginning to wake up to this reality is heartening, but just a bit late. One does seem to be able to fool a large number of people much of the time. But maybe not forever.

What set off this mini diatribe was a seemingly innocuous article on page two in yesterday's Wall Street Journal. (Yes, I subscribe to the WSJ.) The headline that caught my eye proclaimed, "Wealth Gap Is Focus Even As It Shrinks." The lead refers to the Joe-the-Plumber inspired focus on "spreading the wealth in America."

The author, Robert Frank, summed it up nicely,

Over the past week, the McCain campaign attacked Sen. Obama as "the wealth spreader" for his now-famous remark to "Joe the Plumber" that, "I think when you spread the wealth around, it's good for everybody." Sen. McCain also likened his Democratic rival's tax plan to socialism, because it would raise taxes on those making more than $250,000 and lower taxes, or keep them level, for the middle class.

The purpose of his article was to note that recessions and stock market declines, like the one we are in now, generally reduce the gap between the rich and poor. The evidence presented was "Share of total income, including capital gains, that accrues to the top 1%", over almost the last 100 years. The graph they used is below.

Ignoring for the time being the complexity of this issue - try this Wikipedia entry for a starter if you like - I was struck by the author's emphasis on the true-enough small declines during the recession years and the overall movement of the line itself. The graph clearly indicates that, reversing the general pattern over the first half of the last century where the percentage of income for the top 1% dropped and then held for about 30 years at about 10%, since about 1980 the percentage has more than doubled, now approaching 25%.

The author concluded with,

The fall in inequality is unlikely to last. Immediately after the 1990 and 2000 recessions, wealth and income shares of the top 1% resumed their upward march. The share of income held by the top 1% rebounded after the 2001 downturn to 22.8% in 2006 -- the highest level since 1928.

When the stock markets return, so will inequality.

If one needs an example of not seeing the forest for the trees...

Clearly someone or something has been for the last quarter century "spreading" our nation's wealth into fewer and fewer pockets. If one believes that this is natural and good, a normal result of capitalism, then let them cheer and drink a toast to Karl Marx who at least agreed that this is a norm of capitalism.

But if one suspects a governmental role in the movement of this graph, as I do, one must be struck by the relationship between the headline, "Wealth Gap....Shrinks," the long-standing and deep support for small laissez-faire government, and low-tax political candidates by the WSJ, and the reality of the graph itself. Maybe this is how to sell papers to the well-to-do.

Let me spell it out. Growing income inequality is a bad thing. A strong middle class is a good thing, as is the opportunity to move upward. Government policy that redistributes wealth into fewer and fewer pockets is a bad thing, a policy developed during the Reagan years and polished by the current administration.

For a political candidate to liken his opponent's tax plan to "socialism" - a stretch at best - and accuse him of being a "wealth spreader" and ignore the reality that his political party has presided over a massive redistribution of wealth into the pockets of the rich is simply too much to ignore. Does he not know? Does he not care? Is there anything he will not say if he thinks it might make him president?

I stand by my previous post.

Obama '08

2008-10-21T08:50:00.004-04:00

My October Weekend

2008-10-06T19:53:00.018-04:00

The first week in October usually brings the first seriously crisp fall air, those wonderful deep blue October-in-Virginia skies, turning leaves, and for me, memories. This weekend provided new variations on that theme.

It was a road trip weekend. Friday afternoon we drove to Raleigh to hear the Allman Brothers Band with Phil Lesh and Friends at the Time Warner Cable Music Pavilion. Phil and his friends brought back wonderful memories with honorable versions of China Cat Sunflower, The Wheel, and clouded my eyes with I Know You Rider. ABB again played with power and sweetness that version of southern rock they practically invented down in Macon. As they have for almost four decades, Butch and Jaimoe kept the pace. As much as I wanted to hear Duane, Dickie, and Berry front and center, as I did July 19, 1970 at Love Valley, I must admit that Warren Haynes, Derek Trucks and Oteil Burbridge carry on the tradition admirably. And Gregg, after so many miles, sounds just the same.

Saturday morning came early as we flew to Milwaukee for the early afternoon wedding of Sarah, one of my wife's sorority sisters. Anita was the advisor almost 10 years ago when the chapter at Beloit College was formed. Sarah was among those first sisters. The wedding was picture perfect, like the weather, with just the right number of cute and/or crying small children to keep it real. The reception and dinner featured cake cutting, heartfelt and on-key embarrassing speeches by the Best Man and Maid of Honor, dancing to multi-generational music, and most importantly, an open bar. The high point for me was seeing several of the sisters I remember so fondly from my years in Wisconsin. They continue to blossom; that generation is in good hands.

Sunday was spent retracing our route, albeit flying through Detroit rather than Cleveland. We arrived before dusk, happy to have made the trip, happy to be home. But this is not what I really want to write about.

While driving in Raleigh towards the concert Friday afternoon we passed a van pulling a trailer. As soon as I saw what was written on the side of the trailer I started waving at the occupants of the van. Given the four lanes of rush hour traffic I doubt the members of Doug Clark's Hot Nuts saw me. My wife managed to snap a picture with my iPhone before traffic separated us.

Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts, as they were known before Doug died in 2002, were part of my undergraduate experience. Their albums were a dorm staple in the mid-60's. We all knew the lyrics to their songs, almost a requirement to become a sophomore. By today's standards the lyrics would scarcely raise an eyebrow. But back then, they were dirty!

Yes, shocked readers, as an impressionable young man I listened to records with dirty words and suggestive lyrics. Have you heard of Moms Mabley or Rusty Warren? Bet you know Redd Foxx. Sophisticated recorded humor (Sahl, Bruce, and Nichols and May) was over our heads. Brother Dave Gardner and Shelley Berman were past us too, though we didn't know it. Anyway that was the spoken word; the Hot Nuts sang!

Formed in Chapel Hill in the mid '50's, Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts were legendary by the time I went away to school in fall 1964. They took their name from their signature song, Hot Nuts. Greatest hits include Bang Bang Lou Lou, Barnacle Bill, Two Old Maids, He's Got the Whole World by the Balls, Ding-a-Ling, Limericks, and the favorite, Baby Let Me Bang Your Box. They had their own label, Gross. Are you getting the picture? And there were rumors of performances where they wore nothing but see-through raincoats or fur-covered jock straps. No fraternity on the east coast was worth its greek letters unless they had hosted the Hot Nuts at least once. Students loved them. Think Animal House. Did I mention they were black?

These masters of the double entendre and the dirty limerick were not as well loved by school officials and up-holders of local community standards. White southern civic leaders, ministers, and law enforcement officials of 1950's and 60's were not all that pleased that their sons (and especially daughters) were being so entertained by black men. The city of Richmond, Virginia banned them outright. While turning a blind eye is a southern speciality, Doug Clark and his band frequently found themselves on the wrong side of that thin line. So it was the night I heard them.

It was 1965, Danville Virginia. The show was to be at the Rathskeller, a hotel basement beer and dance club frequented by college students. Dates were procured, plans were made. That night the place was packed, standing room only. The atmosphere was electric, the beer flowing. Sure we were mostly underage (legal age was 21) but remember that blind eye. Finally the band hit the stage for their usual first set, what we generally call today Beach Music. We danced. But it was the second set, the Hot Nuts Show, we were waiting for. We were not alone.

During opening lines "Nuts, Hot Nuts, You Get Um from the Peanut Man", what we had all been waiting for, commotion started in every direction. Blue uniformed Danville police appeared at every exit. A police officer in full regalia, light bouncing off brass and chrome, took the stage, the microphone, and declared the show over. He told us to go home. We did. Although I do not know what happened to the band, I suspect they packed up and were escorted to the city limits.

Given that this was during the middle of a most violent period during the civil rights movement and that Danville police had brutally suppressed demonstrations only two years earlier, we should not have been all that surprised. And if the city fathers thought that their sons and daughters would learn a lesson about community values and who was in charge I suspect they would be surprised at what we took away from their lesson.

It is 43 years later; we are in charge now. Last Friday evening Doug Clark's Hot Nuts were on their way to another gig. Students two generations removed from those days will drink beer, get a bit rowdy, and try to come up with their own words to some old tunes. No police are waiting for them. There is a scholarship at UNC-CH in Doug Clark's memory. That is what rushed through my head on I-440 Friday night and put a big smile on my face. Isn't life grand.

Lasik, One Year On

2008-09-27T06:04:00.018-04:00

It has been just over a year since my Lasik surgery. This is my second report.

I had been wearing glasses for almost 50 years, an expensive annoyance I had learned to live with out of necessity. When I first learned of surgical procedures that corrected for myopia I was intrigued but had little interest in being an early adopter. Glasses corrected my vision just fine, assuming I could find them (most of the time) and the lenses were not scratched or dirty (some of the time). When the Lasik procedure was introduced in the 90's I started paying closer attention. A casual conversation last summer with a friend who recently had Lasik on both eyes prompted me to schedule a screening exam with his surgeon. I conducted my due diligence on the internet, researching the medical literature, the doctor, and the equipment he used. After the exam found me a good candidate, I scheduled the surgery, ASAP.

Everything went as explained and expected. The ophthalmologist and staff were very friendly and professional. The resulting short term discomfort was gone the next morning when I jumped out of bed to see what I could see. It was like Christmas and I had a new toy.

At the 24 hour followup I was seeing almost 20-20. In a week it was almost 20-15. As I was advised, I would need reading glasses and maybe glasses for computer work. Not a problem, I already was using both; I just needed new ones. And yes, I did have the predicted short-term side effects: dry eyes, halos and starbursts, occasional blurring and double vision. But these dissipated within a few weeks, mostly.

As time passed I began to notice that the slight ghosting or double vision in my left eye was not improving. The quality of my vision seemed to fluctuate according to how pronounced the ghosting that eye was. As I am left eye dominant, an unusual situation for a right handed person, the effect was enhanced. According, sometimes I could see just fine, and then a few hours later things would become annoyingly blurry. Highway signs provided the best gauge. I kept waiting for time-the-healer to make things better. It hasn't.

I suspect one variable is moisture. Lasik surgery cuts nerves in the cornea that affects tear production. The rate patients heal varies, making the use of eye drops a longer term proposition for some. I must fall into that group. I don't heal as quickly as I once did. But that should be true for both eyes. Why is my left eye different?

I suspect that the large dormant aneurysm behind my left eye has something to do with that double vision. Unlike my right eye, the area surrounding my left eye was sore for weeks after the procedure. If that is the case there is no telling when or if things will get better. But, as often before, I could be wrong.

I don't think my doctor or his equipment did anything wrong. I had no surgical complications. The doctor has been very concerned about the issues I have been having and has scheduled frequent follow-ups. He wants to see good outcomes and happy patients; both are certainly in his best interest.

One does not have to google hard to find dissatisfied Lasik patients venting. Don't count me in that category just yet. Some others may well have had much worse experiences than I. Lasik is surgery after all. And while I am probably more sympathetic to their results than most, no surgery can be guaranteed and no patients are exactly the same. I gave my informed consent. I can and will live with the results.

The other day I was watching the flight of golf balls against a pine tree green background struck off the tee over 440 yards from where I was sitting. If my vision was always that good my Lasik experience would be an unqualified success. Maybe time-the-healer will make it so. As is, not bad.

I Do Windows, and Doors

2008-09-25T21:03:00.004-04:00

Today it was cool, windy, and wet here, courtesy of an unnamed storm off the coast. But my back porch was warm, calm and dry. That is because yesterday I installed the sliding french door, thus finally enclosing the porch. Thanks to neighbor Ed who help me tote and lift at just the right times.

So the back porch is gone, transformed into the ...? If it were not on the north side of the house it would obviously be the sun room. We'll think of something. That is the old outside door leading to/from the porch leaning against the house. And Hokie cat surveying the mess.

This project is among the things I have been amusing myself with over the last few weeks. It has gone close to planned, with opportunities to learn something new; that is, the process has been occasioned by the odd do-over. Making things up as I go passes for normal around here.

Now the weather has cooled and the site is enclosed the pace will quicken. Next comes the trim - inside and out - as well as siding covering the new knee wall. The old stairs will be replaced by a deck that will lead to a patio.

Even unfinished I can attest that the whatyamightcallit room is a great place to drink morning coffee and watch the sun come up.

August, 2008

2008-09-07T10:39:00.036-04:00

My, that was fast. If those were Dog Days - evoking an image of a languid summer of lying about avoiding exertion in the heat - this August seems to have passed too fast for me to notice, or blog about. So here are some of my high spots for the weeks since FloydFest.

The conversion of our 9 x 11 back porch to an all-season room has begun. After building a new insulated floor over the existing porch floor - which raised the height to that of the rest of the house - and after MUCH deliberation, consultation and measuring, I ordered seven windows and a new sliding door. Flooring was decided upon, ordered, and awaits installation. Next I removed the old screens/framing and reframed for the windows. As you can see, the new kneewall now advertises LOWE'S, courtesy of the house wrap. Subtle, aren't they. The weather was cooperative with high temperatures most days in the low 90's. The windows will arrive this week and will be set ASAP. After trimming out, siding, and adding a few flourishes the room should be secure from the weather and Phase II can begin, the new deck.

I had a good check up at my dentist; Look Ma, No Cavities. (I wonder how long it will take before people forget where that phrase can from.) I also had a Lasik followup; no real change, some days I can spot the eagles before they see me, other days not so good.

Got a haircut, needed it.

On Sunday the 17th my wife and I joined the Carolina Alumni Chapter of the Semester-at-Sea program for a Bon Voyage/Welcome Home outing at the US National Whitewater Center in Charlotte. It is a great place to hike, learn whitewater and other outdoor skills, or just watch. The US Olympic whitewater team trains there. We took a guided rafting trip - which at one time or another found all of us ejected into the rapids from the raft - had dinner, and chatted about places seen, things done, and people met on our voyages. Thanks to Donna (rear, blue helmet) for making it possible.

The next day was the opening round of the Men's US Amateur Championship at Pinehurst. Ben, an old friend of my daughter, and I attended the first day of medal play. Then on Thursday my sister, brother in law, and I watched the Round of 16 match play. It was wonderful to walk one of the world's great golf courses with friends and family and watch high quality competition without a huge crowd. Friday Francis and I teed it up here. I really need to practice.

In the middle of this my wife's niece, Virginia, came to town for a medical procedure that involved pulsed radiowaves, a thin wire inserted into her skull, and cranial nerves. (OK, so I don't know the proper name of the procedure.) The goal was to reduce her debilitating headaches and hopefully ween her off the mega doses of narcotics her previous pain management doctors put her on. Reports so far are positive.

Shortly thereafter Virginia's sister LeAnna had a baby boy. Both doing fine. No, neither of these events directly involved me; but they were part of my August.

I had some landscaping done in the front yard and the heating/cooling system inspected. No problems.

It is Fantasy Football time. I participated in two internet drafts last month and am planning to kick serious butt this year. I say this every year.

I drove to Virginia twice in August to further prepare mother's house for sale. We are about 95% finished now, many of the rooms clean and empty. Although it will be very hard to turn the keys over to Joe and Billie, closure will be a relief for all of us. We took our time and did it right. Now if I can just find proper places around here for all the stuff I have brought back...

There were the Olympic games which we were able to watch only because the Dish Network provided us with a local NBC station at the last possible moment, on the day of the opening ceremonies. China did a good job as host, to the relief and surprise of many and consternation to a few. The opening ceremony was jaw dropping. I kept hitting the replay button on the DVR and asking, "How did they do that?" China has come a long, long way since I peered across their border in early 1968 from Hong Kong and into their Cultural Revolution. Yes, it was a coming out party of sorts for them. China's rise on the world stage now can only be compared to that of the US in the first half of the 20th century. We had better learn to get along with them. Now if they would just let Tibet be Tibet...

I will admit to a soft place in my heart for the Olympics even though I must look past the big money and nationalism. At the center there are real people being the best they can be at something, generally not a bad example for us all. The cartoon provides an example and a segue.

A routine medical exam early last month led to the suspicion that all was not well with my prostate. My PSA was also heading in the wrong direction. So a biopsy was ordered. That was not a pleasant experience (although I have been through worse). Neither was waiting eight days for the results. No, cancer cells were not found. But some of the samples showed PIN cells of a high enough quality to warrant a second biopsy. Cancerous cells may be there, just missed. Or not. We will know more in a couple of months. Meanwhile I am conducting due diligence and thinking about how great it is to be here. August may have been a lucky month for me.

I am sharing this because about 28,000 men will die in this country this year because of prostate cancer, our second leading cancer killer. A lack of early symptoms is the main problem. It is too often discovered late, after cancer has spread. And most men have about as much chance locating their prostate as Uruguay. Down there somewhere. The numbers are similar as with women and breast cancer, but few seem to know that. Early detection is the key for both. Screening is simple, though a bit intrusive. So guys, bend over and get that thing checked. Gals, see to it the guys in your life take care of their business.

For more info, try here, the NIH, or the Prostate Cancer Foundation.

On a more positive note I found in one of those awful magazine special advertising sections (Doctor's Orders, Fortune, September 2008)

"In 2007 scientists in Seattle reported that men who drink four to seven glasses of red wine per week are half as likely to be diagnosed with prostate cancer as nondrinkers."

I started my own study immediately. I wonder if eight to fourteen can drop the percentage to one quarter:)

Finally (even though it is now September) the eyewall of TS Hanna passed about 35 miles east of here early yesterday morning with little effect other than almost 6 inches of rain. We were fortunate. I remember Hugo. For that matter I remember Hazel. Both passed as close to me as Hanna. H must like me.

FloydFest 7 - A Family Affair

2008-07-28T18:39:00.027-04:00

Modestly sunburned, a bit poison ivied, aching in all the usual places - but all the better for the experience - we are back from the mountains of Virginia, our annual visit to FloydFest. The theme was A Family Affair; and so it was with my daughter joining members of my wife's family at our campsite. This was her first visit to the festival. It was a special treat to see the week-end through her eyes. Above is her panorama of the site taken from the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Floydfest 7 will be remembered as the year with no rain, only partly cloudy skies, and pleasantly warm temperatures, fleeting conditions for these mountains at this time of year. Sunday night after most campers had left I even saw the Milky Way on my way to port at 3 AM.

I did not post about FloydFest 6 last year, more a reflection of blogging fatigue than the week-end. Last year's line up included Sam Bush, the North Mississippi Allstars, Donna the Buffalo, and closed with our house band, Railroad Earth. The musical surprise last year for me was The Waybacks. They were just totally awesome, to repeat a phrase.

Again this year it was performers I knew little - if anything - about, who made the musical weekend for me.

We were eating dinner early Friday evening when four men took the stage next to us dressed in black three-piece suits; they looked like young undertakers. Surrounding one microphone they went from one old-time traditional Appalachian song to another, just nailing them. These guys were good. It was only between songs when it slowly dawned on me that something was different. That...that European accent....they were Swedish! Pontus Juth, Peter Frovik, Ralf Fredblad, and Kristian Herner call themselves the Rockridge Brothers. Here is them on YouTube. Who knew?

Two weekends ago on my way to Charlotte I listened to that Saturday morning staple, NPR's Weekend-Edition. As they often do to wrap up the show, they interviewed a musical guest who played a few songs. This time it was Amos Lee, someone I did not know. I enjoyed the interview, listened to a couple songs, thought him pretty good, and moved on. This Saturday I was sitting on stage with him. Folks, he is the real deal. I have not heard any of his albums, but live he had my full attention for entire set. He is so good it is scary. I will see him again. Here is a link to the NPR interview.

Another high point was hearing Railroad Earth again. As I have been to about twenty shows now, the newness has worn off. It has been replaced by that warm feeling of seeing old friends and being transported out of the moment to a familiar, wonderful place. They have a new album, Amen Corner, which captures them relaxed, fresh with new songs. I had a chance to talk with Todd Shaeffer for a few minutes in the parking lot. I reminded him that he had sent me 20 CDs a year and a half ago after he had played solo at my daughter's wedding. Like a true musician (and gentleman) he had not bothered to enclose an invoice. So we settled up. Then that evening RRE closed the main stage in great style.

The three stories above were not the half of it. We heard four kids from Wise, Virginia, most just out of high school, who call themselves the Midnight Ramblers. They were just perfect, dressed and pressed, music as fresh and pure and timeless as spring in Wise County. San Francisco's New Monsoon rocked the mainstage. Kat Mills made sitting around the Pink Floyd Garden Stage just the place to be. The everybodyfields put on a wonderful performance at the Hill Hollar Stage. Rusted Root disappointed no one Saturday night. What a wonderful version of Cinnamon Girl. David Grisman's Dawg Music brought a smile and, for some, memories of Jerry. And words fail to describe the Avett Brothers, just fail. What energy, what honest music. What a way to end the festival!

The Best Camper Award this year goes to Anita. This was her sixth straight Floydfest and the driving force - literally up highway 8 - for keeping our family focused towards this annual event. Like the festival itself, each year she handles with grace whatever circumstances present themselves. She's nice, damn it!

A close runner-up for best camper is Virginia, who's health problems made attending this year problematical. Determination carried the day. She's nice too.

(Many) more photos, like the ones above, will shortly be posted on my daughter's flickr site.

After one drives away only does it dawn that Floydfest is not really about the music; in the end it is the people one remembers: the extended family of friends who put the week-end together, the vendors, the campers, the day-trippers, and the performers from all over the world and our backyard who share their art with us. I was just on the phone with my sister. I heard myself say that Floydfest is like a big family reunion where there are lots of relatives you just haven't met yet. That works for me, a Family Affair.

Wil

2008-07-22T18:22:00.005-04:00

The next generation has arrived. This is William John Terminella, Wil, the son of Kevin and Heather, Kevin being my sister's eldest.

This photo was taken at 4 months. Look closely. Examine the expression on Wil's face. I was probably 30 by the time I learned how to arch my eyebrows like that.

That kid on E*Trade had better be looking over his shoulder.

Kevin and Heather, lotsa luck keeping up with this one.

Space...the Final Frontier

2008-07-16T12:30:00.005-04:00

When we first saw our current house we thought it had plenty of space: a great room w/17 ft ceiling, a huge master bedroom w/bath, two walk-in closets, a nice sized kitchen with attached - though small - dining area, and an attached two car garage and shop area. Add the two bedrooms, a bath, and office upstairs and how cluttered could it get?

We quickly found out.

So last year I converted the unused space over the garage for storage use. That quickly filled. I covered the walls of the garage with shelves. Not a lineal foot now empty.

So last week I began converting the last unused space under roof for additional storage, not a pleasant job in July. Access is by crawling through a two foot by two foot opening behind the guest bedroom door that is secured by a screwed in panel. A proper door is next. Above is what it looks like today, floored and lit, ~ 180 square feet more storage.

In the cool of the morning tomorrow it will begin to fill with boxes. Gee. How cluttered can it get?

Pop's Popcorn Popper

2008-07-08T12:37:00.012-04:00

While cleaning up and cleaning out my family home - preparing for the eventual sale - we noticed our old popcorn popper recessed on a shelf in a closet. I remember mother letting me use it to make popcorn when I was "old enough." It was quite basic; it was plugged in or not, so inattention led to the scorched kernels I often served. But since the innovation of microwaveable popcorn memories of its use have faded into ancient history.

Sometime later we discovered this image among the family photos. It shows my father holding that popcorn maker with what was, unusual for him, a bemused smile on his face and a slightly askew bow tie. Better, someone had written on the back:

Dec. 1953 at American Legion Hall
Christmas Banquet
Contest Winners
Left to Right
E.C. Edwards, Jr.
Ellis Midkiff
Maynard Gillespie

This was obviously taken at the Christmas banquet of the Mecklenburg Electric Cooperative, where my father (and the other two gentlemen) worked. Since only two are holding something and are in the foreground - Mr. Midkiff seems to have an alarm clock - I expect Mr. Gillespie is just giving the winners a hard time. Thus we learned how the popper made it into our home. We had no idea.

My sister thought it only proper that I receive custody of both the popper and the photo. And I thought it only proper to see if it still worked. It does.

Just for the record, it was manufactured by the Dominion Electric Corporation, Mansfield, Ohio, U.S.A. - Model 1702, 400 watts. Although I cannot find it on our popper, it seems to have been introduced in 1948 as the Popper Chef. Ours would be at least 55 years old. Dominion seems to be no longer in business; a Google search yielded little other than Mansfield was once known for its manufacturing, especially stoves - Westinghouse and Tappan among them.

I'm glad Pop didn't win the alarm clock.

The Amazon

2008-06-27T05:59:00.004-04:00

As things stand now my wife and I will be spending this Christmas and New Year's aboard the mv Explorer on a 21-day cruise to Manaus, Brazil. While only a third of the voyage will be on the Amazon itself, that is the third that sold me on the trip. I have no interest in island-hopping on one of those god-awful "fun cruise" ships (movement with not actually going anywhere). But this chance to see the Amazon is different.

The mv Explorer is the latest ship used by the Semester-at-Sea program. Forty-one years ago I spent a semester aboard the s.s. Ryndam as a student of Chapman College's World Campus Afloat, as the Semester-at-Sea was called in those days. While the program has changed sponsorship several times since then - it is now at The University of Virginia - the experience remains remarkably the same, as I found attending an alumni meeting in Charlotte last week. That voyage remains the most influential single experience of my life.

As we will have a longer time to prepare for the trip than the time we are actually onboard, I am trying to get the most from it by studying ahead of time. I have the DVR programmed to record anything with the words Amazon or Brazil in the title. (Ever watch the Brazil Farm Report on RFD-TV? Riveting.) I have been burning bandwidth with Goggle Earth. I am also reading.

Wade Davis' One River was a mistake, sloppy research on my part. I ordered it thinking it was focused on exploration of the Amazon River. It turned out to be something else entirely, a magical and marvelous book I could barely put down. Read it for Tim Plowman. Read it for Richard Evans Schultes. Read it for Richard Spruce. Read it for Rubber and WW2. Read it for the coca. Read it for the first Americans. Hell, just read it.

It seems like that Semester-at-Sea magic never really went away. Real travel is like that. Go around a corner or turn a page; you never really know what you will see.

I haven't left yet and I want to go back.

Abelia

2008-06-13T09:45:00.002-04:00

Two large abelia plants have grown near the entrance of my family home as far back as I can remember. Photos show them already mature when my parents bought the house in 1949.

Since we now have the house under contract and are in the process of clearing it out and cleaning up, I wanted to take with me a remembrance or two of our yard. Some of dad's Zoysia grass is already plugged into my backyard. These rootings are from one of the abelias. Friendly folks at a local nursery got them started for me and they seem to be doing just fine. In a couple of years they will be ready to transplant. I feel better every time I look at them.

From Wikipedia:

Abelia is a genus of about 15-30 species and many hybrids in the honeysuckle family Caprifoliaceae, in the part of that family split off by some authors in the segregate family Linnaeaceae. The Angiosperm Phylogeny Group considers Linnaeaceae to encompass such genera as Linnaea, Abelia, Dipelta, Kolkwitzia, and Zabelia.

Abelias are shrubs from 1-6 m tall, native to eastern Asia (Japan west to the Himalaya) and southern North America (Mexico); the species from warm climates are evergreen, and colder climate species deciduous. The leaves are opposite or in whorls of three, ovate, glossy, dark green, 1.5-8 cm long, turning purplish-bronze to red in autumn in the deciduous species. The flowers appear in the upper leaf axils and stem ends, 1-8 together in a short cyme; they are pendulous, white to pink, bell-shaped with a five-lobed corolla, 1-5 cm long, and usually scented. Flowering continues over a long and continuous late spring to fall period.

Abelias are a wonderful plant. They tolerate a variety of soils and climates, stay green year round, don't shed leaves in the fall (around here), have pleasant small flowers with a mild fragrance, and provide habitat for the birds and the bees. They come in many varieties, including the smallish Little Richard (Good Golly Miss Molly!!!) I am already using as foundation plants. These are probably an older variety of grandiflora (Abelia Edward Goucher?). But as usual, I could be wrong.

Hokie, Hokie, Sittin' in a Tree

2008-05-22T13:14:00.005-04:00

"Superior Tree"

"Good Morning. My name is Bibb Edwards and I have a problem with a tree."

"OK"

"And a cat."

"We do that. Where do you live?"

Thus began the rescue of our cat Hokie who had been missing for three days. Our neighbor rang our doorbell this morning to say that a cat matching Hokie's description was in a tree in the woods behind a house near the practice putting green, about a half mile from our house. My wife, who was headed out the door to work, drove by, confirmed the cat was our Hokie, and called me to commence rescue operations.

Once I saw Hokie and the tree I knew it was not going to be easy. He was higher up than any conventional ladder could reach, probably 40 feet. The couple living closest to the constantly meowing cat had tried for days to get him to come down on its own, with no success. They had called both the local animal control officers and the fire department. No help. Hokie was cradled, as you see above, where three branches spread from the trunk. There was no place as secure within reach. And no easy way up or down.

After it occurred to me that I had a tree problem as well as a cat problem I went home to consult the Yellow Pages. With the largest ad on the TREES page announcing 24 hour emergency service, I called Superior. After the exchange above the gentleman took my number and said someone would call me back in a few minutes. Unlike most of my experiences with local contractors, within 20 minutes Joe called me. Within an hour he was climbing up the tree after Hokie.

Hokie was having none of an easy rescue. Throughly freaked by this time, Hokie fled out on a limb. Joe climbed to the top of the tree, secured a line to his harness, and - thus supported - made his way along the branch toward Hokie. When he was almost in reach, Hokie jumped to the top of a smaller adjacent tree and began a semi-controlled descent. About fifteen feet from the ground the cat and the tree separated. Yes, cats do land on their feet. At least this one did, flattening out like a flying squirrel along the way. In this case the feet kept moving and Hokie disappeared at a very high rate of speed through the underbrush.

I thanked and paid Joe and as we left we spotted Hokie headed in the direction of our house. I stopped but Hokie was not having anything to do with me either. So I went home, reported the morning events to my wife, and waited for the cat to appear on the porch. He did, about 20 minutes later. There he tried to make up for lost dinner times, eventually wandering back into the house and up on my lap.

Thanks to the unbelievably fast, friendly and competent folks at Superior Tree and Hauling. Even though I was lucky they had a crew nearby on another job, Joe went above and beyond - so to speak - and was very nice about it as well. He said he had two cats at home.

And Hokie, I am docking your allowance for about 35 years. Good to see you back.

The Way We Were

2008-05-05T10:13:00.015-04:00

If you have an email address, and are of a certain generation, you probably have received at least one. Always forwarded, usually in bulk by a friend about the same age, these emails list things we should remember more or less fondly from our childhood that speak of simpler yet better times that these-young-folks-today will never "get."

Sometimes the theme screams WE SURVIVED, as in growing up not having child-proof medicine bottles, motor vehicle seat belts, or product safety warning labels on every damn thing. We remember when tobacco was not bad for you (also) and when do-gooders where not always trying to protect us from ourselves. We were tough, ran with scissors, snacked on lead-based paint, and turned out OK, not like these over-protected wimps today.

Others are lists of simple low-tech toys and amusements that brought us joy, usually compared favorably with expensive modern electronic gismos that young folks today might as well implant. "We didn't text message, we passed notes!" WE HAD FUN ANYWAY, PROBABLY MORE! these lists assert.

A third type of list references artifacts from our childhood which are only found today in antique stores and attics: 45 rpm records, roller skate keys, milk bottles, black & white TVs, rotary dial phones, and on and on and on. These lists evoke both nostalgia and I KNOW WHAT THEY ARE AND HOW THEY WORK AND YOU DON'T BECAUSE I WAS THERE AND YOU WEREN'T, YOU UNFORTUNATE DUMB ASS.

A variant are the growing up/getting older lists. These poke fun at things we used to do, as in 25 SIGNS THAT YOU HAVE GROWN UP

1. Your houseplants are alive, and you can't smoke any of them.
2. Having sex in a twin bed is out of the question.
3. You keep more food than beer in the fridge.
4. 6:00 AM is when you get up, not when you go to bed.
5. You hear your favorite song in an elevator.
6. You watch the Weather Channel.
7. Your friends marry and divorce instead of "hook up" and "break up."
8. You go from 130 days of vacation time to 14.
9. Jeans and a sweater no longer qualify "dressed up."
10. You're the one calling the police because those %&@# kids next door won't turn down the stereo.
11. Older relatives feel comfortable telling sex jokes around you.
12. You don't know what time Taco Bell closes anymore.
13. Your car insurance goes down and your car payments go up.
14. You feed your dog Science Diet instead of McDonald's leftovers.
15. Sleeping on the couch makes your back hurt.
16. You take naps.
17. Dinner and a movie is the whole date instead of the beginning of one.
18. Eating a basket of chicken wings at 3 AM would severely upset, rather than settle, your stomach.
19. You go to the drug store for ibuprofen and antacid, not condoms and pregnancy tests.
20. A $4.00 bottle of wine is no longer "pretty good shit."
21. You actually eat breakfast food at breakfast time.
22. "I just can't drink the way I used to" replaces "I'm never going to drink that much again."
23. 90% of the time you spend in front of a computer is for real work.
24. You drink at home to save money before going to a bar.
25. When you find out your friend is pregnant you congratulate them instead of asking "Oh shit, what the hell happened?"

(thanks Wyc) or the indignities we are beginning to face as a result of aging. Many of these have to do with creaking joints, the digestive system, the effects of gravity, hair, soft things getting hard and hard things getting soft, hearing, CRS, and sex. In deference to my more sensitive readers - mainly my daughter - I will skip the graphic details. The curious might try Suddenly Senior.com, a site I found doing research for this post and will probably not visit again, ever. GETTING OLDER IS NOT FOR SISSIES! WIPE THAT SMIRK OFF YOUR FACE - YOUR TURN IS COMING:):):)

Finally, at the bottom of many of these lists is a "message." These are the least amusing parts as they frequently promote a right-wing agenda that imagines a past better than it really was for most of us and ignores anything resembling progress over the past 50 years - especially for other than well-to-do white men who have their metal drivers, Viagra, and tax breaks. Usually blame is directed toward someone or some thing other than themselves (usually our politicians or governments) for todays ills. Pick your ill. IF WE HAD MORE PATRIOTIC, GOD-FEARING, RED-BLOODED AMERICANS - REAL MEN AND REAL WOMEN LIKE ME AND MY FRIENDS - ACTING LIKE GOD AND I KNOW THEY SHOULD, WE WOULDN'T BE IN SUCH A MESS TODAY. ANYBODY SEEN MY FLAG LAPEL PIN? While some of the ideas contained therein may be worthy of discussion, they sure do ruin the mood.

You just knew this post was heading somewhere, didn't you?

Just in case any of you thought these lists were unique to the internet and our generation's most perfect youth, I present to you a document I found going through my late mother's effects. I suspect it was given to her at one of her high school reunions.
This from a generation that grew up during the Great Depression and as young adults bore the brunt of WWII. It seems our generation is not the first to seek comfort in a selective reading of the past. Damn. One of my mother's generation, Simone Signoret (1921-1985), was right, "La nostalgie n'est plus ce qu'elle etait."

May I humbly suggest to my daughter's generation it is never too early to start gathering up material for your own lists. I can't wait.

Open for Business

2008-04-30T13:00:00.003-04:00

My late mother and step-father enjoyed feeding, housing and watching birds. This winter I liberated a Purple Martin condo from their backyard that Harper erected. Housing up to 12 nests at a time and made of aluminum, it sits on a steel pole and can be lowered for maintenance by a rope and pulley.

It joins the two Bluebird houses I put up last year, our Hokie House, and a Hummingbird feeder outside the back porch that provided no end of amusement for our cats.

In addition, yesterday, finally, I was able to erect our new Bat House. I cut down a nearby recently deceased tree to provide the necessary elevation. It proved more heavy than expected. But I eventually secured it where I hope it will attract a small colony. By providing additional habitat, we may be able to add to our local community of bats which can be seen at dusk reducing the quantity of neighborhood mosquitoes - something, as it turns out, Purple Martins do not.

I think mother and Harper would approve.

Mordi's Murals

2008-03-08T23:00:00.011-05:00

We took the opportunity of our theater trip to the borough of Brooklyn to visit their Polytechnic University, just a few blocks from BAM. Hanging in the lobby of their Dibner/CATT building - shown to the right - on permanent display are five murals by Mordi Gassner (1899-1995), perhaps the most amazing person I have ever met. The 6 by 9 foot murals - dating from the late 1920's/early 1930's - are his interpretation of the sciences of physics, geology, astronomy, chemistry and biology.

The last time I saw the murals were in his home, a converted church near Drakes Branch, Virginia. I had been introduced to Mordi and his wife Marion by my then wife Paula. While one was immediately struck by the surrounding artwork and his stories of designing sets on films in the early days of Hollywood - and later Broadway and 1950's television, painting in Florence as a two-time Guggenheim Fellow, decorating post offices with murals for the WPA, and making ends meet as a commercial artist, it became evident that he was more than an artist. He was a true renaissance man in the spirit of the age that inspired his humanism. Mostly self-educated, he wielded the widest intellectual brush imaginable but remained the most humane human I have ever known, even after some of his contemporaries appropriated the sciences he loved in the service of evil.

I sat for hours in awe of his ability to take almost any topic of conversation to places I could barely follow. Once, in an attempt to establish some credibility with him I mentioned that his remarks sometimes reminded me of one of my favorite authors, Lewis Mumford. (I had recently read but surely did not entirely grasp Technics and Civilization (1934) and The Myth of the Machine: technics and human civilization (1967)) He replied, "Ah, Lewis. We lived near each other in Brooklyn and often took walks together." I about dissolved. He KNEW Lewis Munford! Of, course. I should have known; they had much in common.

I will always treasure the time I spent with him and his wife Marion - a fascinating person in her own right - and hope I absorbed at least something from our many conversations. Even if I did not, I expect my daughter's interest in photography springs at least in part from her experiences wandering around his studio, soaking it all in - as small children well do.

The New Yorker ran a short piece about the murals when they were donated to Brooklyn Polytechnic.

And here are thumbnails of the murals.

Macbeth

2008-03-08T21:12:00.009-05:00

This past week was spring break at my wife's college. We used the opportunity to take a road trip to the Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM) which was presenting Macbeth, featuring Patrick Stewart in the title role, at their Harvey Theater. Seldom has three hours of my time passed so quickly; how wonderful is first-rate theater, how amazing is our Shakespeare.

It took only a few moments for me to forget Jean-Luc Picard. A dark and bloody story of evil was unfolding before me with Stewart transforming the commanding presence he displayed as the Captain of the Enterprise into that of a power-hungry Stalinesque murderer. As involving as was Stewart's stage presence - I could seldom move my eyes away from him - the production was his equal. And if some of his fellow cast members looked familiar, they should have. Many were veterans of British productions we had seen on TV - Midsomer Murders, Poirot, Miss Marple, and the like. Did I mention it was bloody? Tastefully bloody, but deeply crimson bloody. I liked it.

The production is now playing its third venue since opening in England last year. It will move to Broadway for short eight-week run at the end of this month. Critics have generally been quite taken by the production and by Stewart's performance. For example try the London Times, The Guardian, The New York Times, or The New Yorker. We saw a production that may be remembered for years.

Math Award

2008-01-26T13:21:00.000-05:00

My daughter has recently taken to advising almost everyone within earshot that she can't do math. Having known her for some time now I wish to set the record straight. She can do math. At least 8th grade math, which will generally get one through life fine and dandy. Addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. Almost all math is just a variation on those operations. (Did you notice I just snuck in a math term?)

Anyway, I am having none of it. Here is a math award she won in the 8th grade to illustrate my point. She may not be great in math; she may not like math. But she can do math. Don't listen to her. She ought to be able to figure out things if she cares too. There!

Maybe I am jealous. I never got a math award. Ever. I'm not good at math.

Snow

2008-01-17T17:30:00.000-05:00

This morning we had a nice dusting of snow, not a frequent event around here. By the time this picture was taken it was raining; by noon it was mostly gone. It was a good day to spend inside, which I did.

Happy Holidays

2007-12-25T12:53:00.000-05:00

One of the deficiencies of our new home was the entrance. Made of wood, it had suffered the effects of moisture and its southern exposure. The frame had become rotten and the door ill-fitting. So I installed a new energy efficient fiberglass door about a month ago. My wife wanted a red door, so red it is - just in time for Christmas and a new wreath.

Although the painting is not finished - more coats of red are needed to deepen the color and I am not sure I am happy with the trim color - it still makes a decent Christmas photo.

So, Happy Holidays to our friends and family. The door is always ajar.

Winter Solstice, 2007

2007-12-23T17:47:00.000-05:00

Winter solstice occurred for us in the northern hemisphere yesterday at 1:08 AM, EST. Our hours of daylight will now become longer, making another spring an eventuality. Let us welcome the return of the sun.

Every now and then it probably does us good to be reminded that we are part of something larger than ourselves, much larger. Humans have been using this date to do so for a long time, in many ways, in many places. We are probably better off for that.

Just Right

2007-12-18T17:30:00.000-05:00

From the first moment I set foot in what would become our new home I felt something was missing in the living room. Between two windows on the east outside wall should have been a fireplace. But none was there. Given the difficulty (and expense) of adding a traditional masonry fireplace to a log wall I looked for an alternative, one that would also provide both supplemental and backup heat. The Cottage Franklin Soapstone Gas Stove was our choice.

We ordered it early last spring when it was on sale and finally installed it a few weeks ago. It was one of the few projects around here that went off more or less with no surprises. The stove has performed perfectly, providing backside warming on cold mornings - like today - and a pleasant glow in the living room in the evening. I like to wake up before sunrise, make my coffee, push the button on the remote, and watch the flame and feel the radiant heat as the sun comes up. Given the layout of our house the stove can heat the whole house if called upon. When we complete the soapstone heat shield and mantle behind the stove that space between the two windows will look complete.

Thank you Woodstock Soapstone Company, West Lebanon New Hampshire. It was a pleasure to work with you. Great Stove!

Now all I need is to pull my chair closer to the stove, open a good book, and pour some egg nog. Winter has its rewards.

Edwin Bearss

2007-11-10T06:46:00.000-05:00

Last weekend my daughter and I traveled to the Gettysburg area for a two-day tour of Civil War battlefields. Leading our tour was the dean of battlefield tour guides, 84 year-old Ed Bearss, shown here last Sunday at the site of the beginning of what is known as Pickett's Charge.

We traveled north for two reasons. First, my great grandfather Edwards was probably wounded during Lee's Pennsylvania campaign and I wanted to visit the locations where that most likely happened: Gettysburg's East Calvary Battlefield, Smithsburg, or Hagerstown, MD. Second was to once again listen to and absorb from Ed.

Aside from a cool wind on Sunday afternoon when we retraced Confederate footsteps on July 3rd 1863, it was perfect. I had toured the Wilderness and Spotsylvania battlefield sites with Ed in June and was amazed at his knowledge, presentation, and stamina. Not only would he paint a vivid description of battle in great detail off the top of his head, he would walk your butt off. Nothing was different this time at Gettysburg except the temperature. There is nothing like an Ed Bearss tour. He stands alone.

I am not a civil war buff, whatever a "buff" is. I am uncomfortable with those who find war, any war, glorious. Or who profit financially or emotionally from it. With just a little bit of research and empathy most of us who have never participated in battle would find it horrid. Those who have participated already know. Fully informed, sane people would not wish it on themselves, nor moral persons on others. Yet wars continue.

Ed knows war personally, as a US Marine badly wounded in the south Pacific in WW2. Trying to be careful that I do not put words into his mouth - or remove them - I never heard him try to wrap up the clash of armies and the human responses of individuals to its death and destruction in righteous, self-serving metaphors. He just tells it like it was, like Shakespeare who so vividly presented ourselves to ourselves.

Yes, there is evil in our world that occasionally must be violently opposed. Yes, kill-or-be-killed situations can bring out the best within us as well as the worst. But most of war is a muddle, bad ideas poorly executed. SNAFU. Perhaps it is wise for us to remember well the smell of the battlefield, the cries of the wounded, the fog of war. Then we might more carefully choose the time and place the next soldiers, and bystanding civilians, will die.

As Edwin Bearss served his country as a Marine and with the National Park Service he continues to serve us all as a battlefield tour guide. When he speaks of the Civil War I do not hear us or them. I hear we. We would do well to listen to him.

TJ

2007-10-04T08:55:00.000-04:00

Writing in a recent issue of The New Yorker, which, by the way, consistently contains the best writing in the English language, historian Jill Lepore reviewed
Edward J. Larson's new book, “A Magnificent Catastrophe: The Tumultuous Election of 1800, America’s First Presidential Campaign” (Free Press; $27). Her review was titled "PARTY TIME - Smear tactics, skulduggery, and the début of American democracy."

The following caught my eye:

But the most ferocious attacks on Jefferson concerned his views on religion. Jefferson had once offered a Franklinesque statement of his passionate commitment to religious toleration: “It does me no injury for my neighbor to say there are twenty gods or no god. It neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg.” All over the country, clergymen preached that such a view could lead to nothing but unchecked vice. From New York, one minister answered Jefferson, “Let my neighbor once perceive himself that there is no God, and he will soon pick my pocket and break not only my leg but my neck.”

I smiled. Maybe Jefferson would have also, thanking God for his Virginia neighbors rather than than those of the minister.

I Feel Good

2007-09-19T20:30:00.000-04:00

In the spring of 1958 the US was launching its first earth satellites, Castro was just starting his revolution in Cuba, and Prince Rogers Nelson was being born in Minneapolis. Elvis had just been drafted, a Coke cost 5 cents, and the Wham-O Company was doing quite well with the Hula Hoop. Their Frisbee and Hacky Sack were still several years away.

And as my family sat down for dinner one spring evening my mother took off her glasses. Trying to be funny I put them on. To my surprise I could see better with them than without them. A few days after my announcement to all assembled Dr. John Van Hoy, our local optometrist, put glasses on me for the first time. There, in one form or another, they have remained, until yesterday.

LASIK is the acronym for Laser Assisted in Situ Keratomileusis, a type of refractive laser eye surgery performed by ophthalmologists for correcting eye defects, including myopia and astigmatism. I suffered from both, until yesterday.

Thanks to an off-hand comment three weeks ago by the side of our local pool, the friendly folks at Laser Eye Center of Carolina in Cary, and some VERY sophisticated computer driven equipment I put aside my glasses (prescribed last year by the same Dr. Van Hoy!) for the first time in 49 years, yesterday.

I will still need glasses to read and sunglasses to look cool. But I am already at 20-20 uncorrected with improvement very likely. I feel better than James Brown.

Now maybe I need a tattoo.

P.S. Daughter Malindi spanked me pretty good recently for not updating my blog. How did I do? :)

Number 24

2007-06-05T17:55:00.000-04:00

I counted up the other day. Since I under-graduated from Tech in '69 this is my 24th residence.

I'll save you doing the math; that is a change of address every 1.5833 years. Even allowing for some clusters associated with trips to graduate school in the 70's and then the 80's, and a couple of short moves, I seem to have been a rolling stone. One might think I planned it that way, but no. The moves all made sense at the time, jobs/careers; looking back I'm not too sure. I left behind some great places, some great friends.

Carole King sang in 1971:

So far away
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn't help to know you're just time away

I actually heard her sing that live that year. She opened for James Taylor at Dorton Arena in Raleigh. That was just after the week he was on the cover of Time. Tapestry was just being released. We were listening to what would become one of the largest selling albums of all time, remaining on the charts for six years. Rolling Stone still ranks it #36 of the 500 Greatest of All Time. Restlessly waiting for James, we had no clue. And I had no idea how my life would come to reflect her lament, or that I would be the one moving.

Anyway, # 24 is nice. I really like having a golf course in the backyard. Even though moving is kicking my butt, I am glad to be here. I hope to stay for a while and raise that average.

I thought you all might be interested in what has taken so much of my time and energy lately. The photo was taken in the winter; it looks a bit nicer today with the new landscaping. Other changes to follow; those green doors have got to go.

For My Daughter

2007-06-04T14:39:00.001-04:00

The Brent's Iron Gate

2007-05-19T18:13:00.000-04:00

When my mother remarried over twenty years ago Harper Brent, my step-father, retired, sold his house in New Jersey, and moved to Virginia to our family home. Among the things he brought with him was a heavy iron gate he and Jean, his first wife, used for access to their backyard. Its "french" design must have reminded him of her. He found no use for it and it remained stored until recently in an outbuilding, our old chicken house.

Now that mother and Harper have both passed away my sister and I have responsibility for their stuff, including iron gates. We tried to give it away to Harper's sister or one of her daughters. No takers. I suggested my sister take it. She just gave me that familiar look as if I was out-of-my-mind and declined.

With our new backyard needing a fence and fences needing gates, yesterday I gave it a new home.

If there is a heaven they surely have internet by now, high-speed I am sure. So just in case: johnharperbrent1919@heaven.org. We finally put that gate to use. I hope you and Jean don't mind where it ended up. We will brush off the rust and paint it soon. Promise.

Our Hokie House

2007-05-12T09:23:00.001-04:00

2007-04-23T18:17:00.000-04:00

Back about 24 years ago when I was a grad student at Tech I saw a poster at a running store that seemed to capture grad school life. I talked them out of it.

I still have it, foamcore mounted, plastic wrapped, corners damaged, but in generally good shape. Today seems to capture my last few months. No finish line, but all is well.

As I was looking for a copy of the poster to use in this blog I learned the photo was taken by John Terence Turner, an acclaimed commercial photographer. The poster is now consider iconic.

Virginia Tech

2007-04-19T05:13:00.001-04:00

I first saw Blacksburg, and what was then V.P.I., almost fifty years ago, the summer of 1960. A member of my high school's chapter of the Future Farmers of America, I was attending the FFA's Virginia state convention - a wide-eyed rising 9th grader. About 5 foot six, I weighed little more than a large sack of chicken feed. I was a member of our school's second-string crop judging team; we did surprisingly well.

Blacksburg was the "sleepy little college town" in the mountains then, home to a small agricultural and mechanical/military school and little else. You could count the traffic lights and have fingers left over. V.P.I. was essentially all-male and all-white; being a member of the corps of cadets was the norm. Foreign students and women on campus were not. The student body generally came from rural and small-town Virginia, where it was highly regarded. A turkey was the school mascot. It was so not UVA, William and Mary, or Hollins. It was not even V.M.I.

Things change and stuff happens. By the time I graduated from high school V.P.I. was beginning its remarkable transformation into a major university. My lackluster high school record and vague aspirations did not make me highly sought after college material. But V.P.I. took a chance and accepted me. They had probably seen worse. After purgatory at their Danville Branch I finally arrived in Blacksburg in the fall of 1966.

Evidence of the major commitment to transform Tech was everywhere: new buildings, overflowing dorms, expanding academic programs, a much larger and more diverse student body (though still not enough girls), and a major emphasis on athletics, mainly football. We even managed a traffic jam on some Saturday afternoons in the fall. Off-campus housing grew, a fine off-campus book store opened, along with a decent restaurant or two. Long hair and an underground newspaper appeared. The 60's arrived at Tech and Blacksburg sometime in the 70's, but it arrived.

I should have been happy at Tech and Blacksburg, but I was not. Blacksburg seemed like the end of the earth. I called it Bleaksburg, a reference to more than its weather three seasons of the year. Driving into town one Sunday I nearly ran off the road laughing at a road sign where someone had written "armpit of the nation" under the word Blacksburg.

The school's administrators - many holdover's from its days as a military school - seemed to be truly hostile to students. Their martial vision of what college life should be was not my vision. It was a conservative campus and I was, without much self consciousness, becoming quite liberal, at least by Virginia standards. I began to enjoy walking on their grass.

My first fall on campus saw the football team invited to what I believe was its first bowl game, the Liberty Bowl in Memphis. We were to play the University of Miami. I remember walking across campus one cold, cold night headed downtown for some food (I hated the food at Shanks) and seeing a student-made sign hanging in the wind. "Beat Miami" it said. Blacksburg, Miami. Blacksburg, Miami. Hunkered into the wind I had a hard time wrapping my mind around any idea that contained those words together. Yes, true to my school, I did drive what seemed like halfway across America in my Corvair to attend that game. But I wanted out.

That would not be easy. I had just changed majors, from engineering to political science. PoliSci allowed the most electives at Tech and this would give me the chance to pretend I was at a liberal arts college where, by that time, I discovered I wanted to be. My academic record at that point was not much better than my high school record, making a transfer problematic. And there was a war on and a military draft, not something to be taken lightly. I needed that 2-s deferment. And I doubt I could have convinced my parents that it was a good idea to transfer. After all they were paying for my little adventure in academia.

My salvation came from an unlikely series of events. That January a friend at UVA invited me to Charlottesville for a week-end. He said he would get us some dates from Mary Washington College and we would have a great time; might get lucky. I was all for a great time and good luck, so plans were made. That Friday came and with it a snow storm. I said what-the-hell and made for Charlottesville. The weather worsened and I was lucky to make it to campus. The train from Fredericksburg was canceled, as were the events of the week-end. What to do? He had a friend who had just returned from a semester aboard a ship that had sailed around the world. We went to see him. Still very much overwhelmed by the experience, he told stories for hours. When we left he gave us literature about the college program and said we should apply as soon as possible. Sounded good to me.

Fast forward and I returned from that Semester at Sea with a larger view of myself, my world, and Blacksburg. Virginia Tech would continue to annoy me from time to time as it seemed slow closing the gap between what I wanted of it and what it could deliver. But I finally had matured enough to begin to take advantage of what it did offer, and to appreciate that wonderful place in the Virginia mountains, Blacksburg.

I now have two degrees from Tech, having returned in the '80s for a Master's in Urban and Regional Planning. My wife also has two degrees from Tech. She grew up just outside Blacksburg. Her sister in-law works in Norris Hall, second floor. I have wonderful friends in Blacksburg who worked for Tech for many years. Even though I also have a degree from UVA and have great respect for the University, I am a Hokie. I have marveled at Tech's growth, been amazed at the transformation of Blacksburg into a world-class small city. So watching the news over the past few days has been hard.

The violent death and injury of so many students and faculty at the hands of a psychopath renders words inadequate to convey the horror. One cannot look into the faces of horrified students and anxious or grieving parents without becoming one of them. Trying to make sense of it all seems overwhelming. And yet that is what each of us will try to do, needs to do. The young man with two handguns shot at us all.

As tragic as the events of last Monday morning were we have the ability to make them worse. And we will. I could feel it as I was watching the first reports on CNN. Even as the news was happening I could feel the ramp up to what was coming: the second guessing, criticizing, the self-righteous placing of blame, the spin in service to political agenda. Even before we had time to learn the fate of friends and family, grieve, or learn the name or fate of the gunman, the process was well underway.

Our TV hosts struggled to learn just where Blacksburg was and fumbled about trying to describe a university they knew little about. Tech was both a major university with 26,000 students and "insular" according to Brian Williams, who also placed it in the Smoky Mountains. While we were all trying to reconcile the image of a peaceful, semi-rural college environment with violence we usually associate with our urban areas or foreign theaters of war, the talking heads moved from conveying what little they knew about the horror unfolding on campus to asking leading questions and poking around trying to find an angle. They think they are reporters.

It bled and it led for hours on end. After asking students what they saw or heard Wolf Blitzer and the other CNN reporters (I use the term loosely) made a point of asking if they still felt safe, if they blamed the University and if the were planning to transfer. It took a while before they stopped seeming surprised when the students usually said they loved their school, the community, and had not considered leaving. I thought generally the students interviewed sounded much more thoughtful than their hosts. And without the "like, you know what I'm saying." I was proud of them.

Once it appeared that the gunman was dead and there was a two hour gap in the shootings the focus shifted to finding a way to question the University's handling of the situation. Well before any of the details were to fill out the timeline our TV hosts were pouncing, safely behind the camera miles away from danger or responsibility past filling commercial-safe airtime. Without possibly having the facts with which to assess situation they began to invite questions of competency of local law enforcement and the judgment of school administrators. When will we come to understand that when someone prefaces a statement, "I don't understand why ___", they really don't. You are being set up.

Soon "experts" with little or no knowledge of the specifics began to appear and try to shape our view of the tragedy. Dr. Phil appeared early. We eventually heard from Ted Nugent (FOX?) who said this would not have happened if students were allowed to legally carry guns on campus. He did not mention bows and arrows. Can they work in Springer next? If we were not dealing with a real human tragedy, real suffering and loss, this would almost be funny. It is not funny.

Once we learned the gunman was a student and was born in South Korea the press was perplexed. Even though he had lived in the US most of his life - since he was 8 years old - he was Korean. Since South Korea is an ally of the United States it has been difficult for the press to figure out how significant that was or how to play it. Now if he had been from the Middle East...

Few bothered to remark that the killer was a young man and that young men are have almost exclusive ownership of this type of serial murder. You assumed the killer was male, didn't you? I did. I didn't expect the male-dominated media to go there and they didn't.

We now know he was recognized as a loner and "troubled," and had come to the attention of the school as such. He had received at least some attention from mental health and law enforcement professionals. The NYTimes gave us this morning, "Officials Knew Troubled State of Killer in ’05." Well he was not a killer in '05. He was just a student with problems, probably not that unlike any number of other students on campuses from coast to coast. The headline whispers that the "officials" are now partially responsible for the crime. I am sure that these professionals wish now they could have seen into the future and done something. But I doubt even Cho Seung-hui could have done that in '05.

Being "troubled" and dead brings us to the possibility that the tragedy includes Mr. Cho. While I am sure many would recoil at this so soon, the compassion and forgiveness that my Christian countrymen so often trot out as a model for others, might not be misplaced for this very mentally ill young man and provoke wonder how he became so bitter and twisted. No, it is much easier and entertaining to now find fault with the living, those doing their very best to ensure safety of others when that still, unfortunately, was not sufficient.

Yes, I am sure campus police and other university officials wish they had done some things differently Monday morning. Given the contents of the package Mr. Cho sent to NBC that morning between shootings it is certainly possible only the location, names and number of future victims would have changed. What is likely however is that the number Mr. Cho's victims will continue to grow as some try to use the tragedy for their own ends.

Regarding making sense of it all, once again our dim-bulb President got it wrong. He said on campus trying to mean well,

It's impossible to make sense of such violence and suffering. Those whose lives were taken did nothing to deserve their fate. They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now they're gone - and they leave behind grieving families, and grieving classmates, and a grieving nation.

Well, George, making sense of things is what what people at Universities try to do, and with some success. The question is what sense we will make of it. Don't try to suggest impossibilities at a place based on possibilities. And they were not in the "wrong place at the wrong time." A convenient cliche, but again off the mark. They were in the right place, Blacksburg, Virginia Tech.

Go Hokies.

Pollen Teaser

2007-04-05T08:29:00.000-04:00

OK. After that overwhelming show of support for this blog - but before I start unloading in a major way - I will share what Mother Nature shares with all of us around here for a week or 10 days each spring, pollen.

I have never lived in a place where the pollen accumulates so. This year it seemed especially bountiful; it was everywhere. I am so glad I do not have an allergy to this stuff.

Neither photo really captures the messiness of it all. Local youth groups make a killing on Saturday car washes; washes like my car didn't get.

Plant sex going on all around us. I'm surprised someone in the legislature of this Red state has not introduced a bill to shield us from this filth, especially the youth at those car washes.

I will explain the location of the second photo - pollen pooling after a rain - in my next blog. Just after I finish moving in.

I'm Back!

2007-03-20T08:41:00.000-04:00

Well, probably. We'll see.

It has been six months since my mother died. Since then I have blogged only twice, once a tribute to her and a few weeks later about my discovery of a photo confirming a long held but questioned memory. Since then I just have not felt like it.

It would be convenient to say that I have been busy, too busy to do this blog justice. True. I have been VERY, VERY busy. It would also be logical to assume that mother's death affected me, launched me into one or another of those stages of grief one reads about in self-help books. And that would be true also. But that is not the entire story.

Mother lived a long and blessed life. She died at home, as she wished, well looked after. She was in no pain and suffered about as little discomfort as is possible for an 87 year-old in declining health. She was frequently visited by her family; she knew she was loved. She was the last of her generation in my family. Her death was sad, not bad. I was determined to remember that.

But her funeral was for me the latest of about a dozen I had attended over the past three years. I had taken to keeping funeral clothes in the trunk of my car. The cumulative weight of these occasions finally just wore me down. So I have been becalmed with my thoughts turned inward, reluctant to share my thoughts about darkness and light. My generation are now the grown ups. The elders have gone; long live the elders.

We elders have responsibilities. Among those is reminding those around us - friends, family, and the odd stranger stumbling across a blog - how wonderful life truly is. And as Warren Zevon once advised, we should "enjoy every sandwich." It is spring tomorrow and it is time for me to take up those responsibilities.

Watch out!

Memory Intact, Thank You Very Much

2006-10-21T13:59:00.000-04:00

Several years ago I was talking with someone about the county I lived in as a youth. I mentioned the possible implications of the orientation of the statue of the Confederate soldier in front of our local courthouse; it faced the courthouse with its back towards the rest of the world.

To illustrate we drove by the courthouse where - much to my chagrin - it was observed with its back towards the courthouse and facing outward as all other such statues I have seen. It remains so to this day.

While on business at the courthouse several times over the past couple of years I tried to find someone who remembered - or had heard tell - of the statue so turned. No one did. I was beginning to question my memory until last week when I chanced upon this county newspaper from 1965. There on the front page was a photo of the statue turned as I remembered it, with its back to the street, facing the courthouse steps. I feel better now.

Want to hear my commentary about how the orientation of a statue erected in 1908 - 43 years after the war it commemorated - might speak volumes about the attitude of a rural Virginia county towards the rest of the world? How about how the turning of the statue 180 degrees might (or might not) signal that times are slowing changing back home?

Eyleen

2006-09-28T06:22:00.000-04:00

Last week my mother, Orrie Eyleen Gill Edwards Brent, gently passed away at home. She was 87. She never liked her given first name, so she never used it. She was a bit spunky; she was Eyleen.

My sister and I were looking for a photo of her for her obituary and ran across this one. We had never seen it before but thought it perfect.

An obit can be found at the Richmond Times-Dispatch or here.

Below is a slightly improved version of the eulogy I managed to get through last Sunday.

Almost 60 years ago our family moved to Chase City. We did not know anyone; we had no relatives closer than Richmond. We were dreaded "come here's." But the people here - and especially in this church - embraced our family and Chase City became our home. We thank you.

After our father died, which was 25 years ago but seems sometimes like the-day-before-yesterday, Chase City welcomed our new step-father John Harper Brent. Some of you know that he was mother's high school sweetheart before she met our father. You welcomed him also, making their years together here truly Golden. We thank you.

Over the past year we were blessed to have wonderful ladies who looked after mother as her health declined. They entered our home as employees; they left as family. We thank you.

Most of us embody a set of contradictions. These contradictions are often the foundation of personality. Some of mother's contradictions you may know... and others you may not.

Mother's first priority was always her family. She did her best to spoil her children & grandchildren, with some success I might add. But while her family knew her as a sweet, loving mother and grandmother, we now understand that she had a secret life after we left home - a substitute teacher in the public schools. At least some of her students remember her to this day as Sergeant Edwards. Others have described her as "tough but fair." She would have liked that.

My sister and I never needed to subscribe to the local paper to learn what was going on in town. We had our mother. Mother was our connection to the Chase City Grapevine. I am sure you have heard of it. You may be part of it. But as much as she valued her role passing on the local news, when her hearing began to fail she refused to wear her hearing aid. We know how much she enjoyed conversation and her participation in the "talk of the town." Why she didn't want to use her hearing aid remains a contradiction - a mystery - to us.

Hair. Our mother seemed to have an abiding interest in hair. She was always getting her hair "done" or "fixed." I never had the courage to ask what that really meant. But it seemed to make her happy. Back in the 1960's she developed an interest in my hair, specifically its length. That interest continued into the 1970's. And the 80's. And the 90's. I have fond memories on my visits home of her trailing around behind me with scissors, just to give me a little trim.

Once you got her out of the house, mother loved to travel. She and Harper instilled the love of foreign places in my daughter, for which I am truly grateful. But mother's best trips were those that brought her back home. Malindi learned that lesson also.

Mother collected cookbooks and read them like novels. She warned my sister and me of dire consequences if her collection were to ever end up in a yard sale. And we believe her. She occasionally tried new recipes. But no matter how much they were praised we never saw them again. Like many good restaurants, and some not-so-good, mother had a menu that seldom changed. I still dream of lime congealed salad, with mixed fruit.

For some reason mother married not one but two electrical engineers. Dad graduated from UVA and Harper from Virginia Tech, both in 1940. It is good that mother was not much of a sports fan. She must have influenced my sister more than she knew. Sue married a Virginia Tech engineer, class of 1973.

Mother was a child of the depression and the privations of World War Two. She squeezed every dime and seems to have never thrown anything away. If you would open any closet in our house, look under any bed, or visit our basement you would understand. Our father and Harper were the same way. But unlike them mother was also a World-Class Shopper. Our father would talk of driving mother to Heaven - his term for Miller & Rhodes and Thalheimers. Mother's prize possessions then were her charge plates - for those who don't remember, the forerunner of credit cards. And how many people do you know that could recite their Sears credit card number by heart?

Shopper she was, she enjoyed most shopping for others. If there was one trait she had that I will always remember it was her desire to do for others. She seemed especially concerned that we were all well fed, very well-fed. And after the blood thinner she was taking often made her feel cold, she was concerned that those around her were cold also.

My sister remembers the time last winter when mother was in the hospital quite ill, flat on her back and hooked up to all sorts of machines. She asked Sue, "What can I get you?"

My nephew Kevin and his wife Heather remember the last time they saw Mother. She asked if they had eaten breakfast.

I remember the last thing Mother said to me two weeks ago. As she was being helped to bed she stopped to ask if I was OK. Knowing she would not hear, I just nodded, smiled, and gave her a thumbs-up sign.

So mother, this is for you. (Thumbs up)

Aunt Jean

2006-09-18T20:36:00.000-04:00

Jean McCallen Edwards, my aunt by marriage to my father's brother Pickett, died last week. She was 93. Pickett passed away this June. Wednesday I will help carry her to rest beside him. Jean was a remarkable woman, worthy of more than a short blog post. If you are interested here is a link to a more complete obit.

I remember the outsider from up north who fit in with the Edwardses of Cohoke better than she knew. I remember the active, optimistic woman who was always fun to be around. I remember her toleration and amusement at my childhood misadventures when my parents reacted (as befitted their role) with sterner stuff. She and Pickett formed a solid cornerstone to my extended family. They were good people who were fortunate to live long, good lives. I will not let myself feel sad when I think of them. But I'll be damned if I won't miss them.

In the photo, taken I believe Christmas 1947 at Riverview, Jean is standing behind my grandmother's right shoulder, next to my mother. I am the little bugger on my grandfather's (the Bossman) lap, as ever just a few degrees short of vertical. Aunt Sallie, my father's only sister, and her husband Charlie are on the far left. That's Sallie's son, Cousin Bill, on grandmother's lap. Uncle Winston, daddy's oldest brother and wife Zady are on the right. Pickett is peeking out behind Jean; my father smiles beside mother.

What I would give now for a few hours of conversation with each of them, as I recently had for the first time in about 50 years with Cousin Bill. Time, it seems, is really about all we have.

Have You Had Enough?

2006-09-14T16:15:00.000-04:00

I received this email today, thought I would pass it on...

Rickie Lee and two members of the Squirrel Nut Zippers (Tom Maxwell and Ken Mosher) have written a witty, incisive and extremely relevant song called "Have You Had Enough?", in response to these troubled times. Addressing the crookedness of the Bush Administration, and the tremendous and lasting damage they have wrought on our civil liberties, our environment, our foreign relations, our quality of life and on and on, "Have You Had Enough?" is a song that means a great deal to Rickie and is one that she wants to share with anyone who it speaks to.

To that end, this song is available for FREE, downloadable from Rickie's MySpace page. Please feel free to share it with everyone and anyone you know...

Jane & Fang

2006-09-09T16:55:00.000-04:00

Our dog and cat get along well. They both seem to realise that the other belongs in the household too. Aside for becoming a bit snippy when one shows interest in the other's food, they seem to enjoy each other's company.

But I am still a bit stranged out when Jane lays on the floor and lets Fang lick the inside of her ears. Sometimes Fang will be laying on her face. And Jane just lies there. Maybe they should get a room.

Peyton Neale Clarke, A Biography

2006-08-23T14:10:00.000-04:00

I seem to have been busy doing everthing but blogging. One of my recent projects was writing a biography of Peyton Neale Clarke, the author of the book at the center of the book I am writing. On the off-chance that someone else may be interested in Clarke and/or has some addition information about him they would be willing to share, I am posting this biography.

Peyton Neale Clarke - A Biography

In 1897 John P. Morton and Company of Louisville Kentucky published a brown leather-bound volume by Peyton Neale Clarke, a local forty-two year-old stockbroker, titled Old King William Homes and Families - An Account of Some of the Old Homesteads and Families of King William County, Virginia From Its Earliest Settlement. Since reproduced several times in both print and electronic format, almost half of its pages are devoted to only one of these families, the Edwardses. The book includes stories about Edwards family members and an extensive, detailed genealogy reaching back over a century and a half which has been highly prized by our family.

The author seems never to have lived in the county. However it is evident that he was well acquainted with King William through his mother, Judith Browne Claiborne Neale. She was the daughter of James Hill Neale and Judith Edwards, of two well-established local families. Judith Edwards was the only daughter of Butler Edwards, the fifth son of the Ambrose Edwards who figures prominently in Clarke’s book. But Clarke wrote that his mother was not named for his grandmother Judith Edwards but "for the wife of her uncle, William Hill, who married Judith Browne Claiborne of ‘Elsing Green’ ... a warm friend of her mother's..."

Clarke continued that Judith Neale moved to Richmond from King William County about 1840 - when she was 18 - marrying John David Clarke sometime thereafter. Peyton was close to his mother, recording in his book that she “spent the last years of her earnest Christian life in Louisville, Kentucky, where she died October 19, 1895, and is buried in ‘Cave Hill Cemetery,’ at Louisville.” As Clarke also reported that none of his mother’s other children were living in Louisville in 1897, it is likely she was living with him and his family at the time of her death. Clarke dedicated Old King William Homes and Families to her, a dedication missing from the reprints.

Clarke's fraternal grandfather, Andrew Clarke, was born in Edinborough,2 Scotland in 1782. He moved to Virginia about 1800 and married Mary Freeman. Thus a Freeman family history appeared in his book despite having no direct connection to King William County. Andrew and Mary had two children: John David Clarke and Sarah Bruce Clarke, who Clarke reported to have died "before she was twenty years of age."

The 1840 U.S. census shows Andrew Clarke in Richmond as head of a family comprised of one male between 50 and 60 and two females, one between 40 and 50 and the other - presumably Sarah - between 15 and 20. The 1850 census lists Andrew and Mary Clarke in a two-person household. He is 67 and she 60. He is listed as a grocer. Clarke wrote that his grandmother Mary, who "had a narrow escape at the burning of the Old Richmond Theatre in 1811," died November 5, 1851. Clarke added that his grandfather, "a plain and honorable man who lived a quiet, unostentatious life," died February 10, 1860. Both grandparents were buried at Richmond's Shockoe Hill Cemetery.

Of Peyton's father, John David Clarke, less is known. Oddly Clarke did not provide vital information for his father, other than he was buried with his parents. The census is a bit more generous. The 1860 census shows John David Clarke's family in Richmond. He is 38 and wife Judith is 37. It appears he was a carpenter. All four children - two boys and two girls - are listed by name and age. Sally B. is 13 and is listed as having attended school within a year. Andrew is 12 and also has been to school. Eva is nine and Peyton, born March 22, 1855, is five. Clarke wrote that he was "Reared amid the turbulent scenes of the war between the States." Certainly that was an understatement.

The 1870 census shows Judith Clarke as head of household, indicating that her husband died during the 1860's. While it is possible that John David Clarke died soldiering in the 1861-65 war, his age and Clarke’s lack of comment in the book makes this unlikely. The census lists eldest son Andrew Neale Clarke as 22, a clerk in a furniture store. Eva Neale Clarke, 19, is "At Home." Peyton, now 15, is listed as an apprentice at a furniture store, possibly working with his brother. Clarke wrote that the oldest child Sallie Belle Clarke at the age of 23 married Captain John James Wright in 1867 and they had moved to Kentucky; she and her husband are missing from this census. The Clarkes seemed to be doing well enough financially to afford two live-in servants, black women, 18 and 36 years of age. However family circumstances would soon change considerably.

Clarke’s sister Eva eloped and married Clinton DePriest on July 7, 1871. She died that August, less than six weeks later. "She was a most lovable and popular young woman, and her romantic marriage and early demise awakened a flood of sympathy from even entire strangers, as the number of poems, newspaper notices, etc., published at the time testify." He provided no clues as the circumstances of her elopement or death. We do not know if her death is connected, but that same month Peyton moved to Kentucky. As he was only 16 it is likely he initially stayed with his sister Sallie and her husband, probably near Louisville.

Clarke wrote that his older brother Andrew later moved to Kentucky, in 1879 when he was 29. An A.N. Clarke - probably Andrew - is listed in the 1880 census as living in a Louisville boarding house. He is described as being born in Virginia, 32, and a clerk in a store. Clarke mentioned in his book 17 years later that his brother was living in Paducah, Kentucky and was “the local manager of the R.G. Dun & Company Mercantile Agency.” Clark also mentions that Andrew had married in 1895, at the age of 47. The 1900 census finds Andrew with wife Katie in a Paducah boarding house. He is 56 and she 36. No children are mentioned. He is listed as a commercial reporter, which describes the business of R.G. Dun and Company. After 1900 no mention of Andrew or Katie has been found in census records.

When Peyton's mother moved to Kentucky is not known. We do know from census records that she was living with her daughter Sallie Wright in Anchorage, Jefferson County, Kentucky - now a suburb of Louisville - in 1880. Oddly, no reference seems to exist in the 1880 census for Peyton Neale Clarke, even though by this time he had married Mary Newman of Louisville and they had a young son.

Mary Newman was the daughter of William Houston Newman and Elizabeth Howard. Like many Kentuckians, the Newmans had Virginia connections, providing Clarke with a reason to include a short Newman family history in his book, again despite having no obvious ties to King William. Like his grandfather Andrew Clarke, Peyton's father-in-law was in the grocery business.

In naming their four children Peyton and Mary followed the tradition of using established family names. William Newman Clarke, born October 9, 1877, was named after Mary's father. Eva Neale Clarke, born April 21, 1883, was named after Peyton's late sister. Sadly this Eva Neale Clarke also died young, a little over two years later, on May 20, 1885. She was buried at local Cave Hill Cemetery near her mother’s relatives. Namesake Peyton Neale Clarke, Jr. was born on April 29, 1888. Sanford Howard Clarke, born January 4, 1896, was named after Mary Newman's brother Sanford Keith Newman3, who had died the year before.

The 1890 census forms for almost the entire U.S., including Kentucky, were burned in a 1921 Washington D.C. fire. However we know from other local records that about 1893 the Clarke family occupied a home at 1431 South 3rd Street, Louisville. It would be renumbered in 1909 as 1333. This would remain the family home for over 40 years. Clarke also mentioned that his sister’s husband, Captain John James Wright, retired about 1890, and they were living in Dresden, Germany at the time the book was published.

The 1900 census finds the entire Clarke family listed at their home for the last time. The eldest son, known as Newman, is 22 and listed as a clerk. Twelve-year old Peyton Jr. is "at school." Sanford is four. They have two single female servants. Rossie Keating (?) is white, 27 years old. The other, Lucy Hamilton, is black and listed as 45. For at least another twenty years she would remain a member of the Clarke household.

Clarke wrote in his book only that he was "engaged in business." However in as early as 1886 Clarke was listed in a city directory as an Assistant Manager at R.G. Dun & Co. - a commercial credit reporting company - at 826 6th Street, Louisville. In 1933 this company merged with the Bradstreet Companies to form Dun & Bradstreet Corporation, or, since 2003, D&B. At some point Clarke left R.G. Dun and formed his own business, P. N. Clarke & Company. This was likely to have occurred before the 1900 census that describes Clarke as a “broker,” not his job title in the city directory nor the primary business of R.G. Dun.

The 1910 census lists Peyton Sr. as a “broker of stocks and bonds.” Peyton Jr.,now 21, is an automobile salesman. This was two years after the Ford Model T was introduced. Fourteen year-old Sanford is still in school. The 1910 census shows that a male servant, coachman Jacob Williams, has been added to the household. He is 28, single, and is listed with a racial designation that looks like "Mu" or mulatto. Rossie has gone, replaced by another young (20) unmarried female servant, Cora Russ (?).

The 1910 census also shows that Newman is now married to Eda Turner. This occurred perhaps as early as 1908 as he is listed in the city directory in 1908-09 as living in the St. James Apartments on St. James Street. By 1910 they are living at 520 Belgravia Court. At census time they have a 2 month-old boy, William T. Clarke.
In Caron’s 1911 Directory for Louisville, P. N. Clarke & Company is listed as occupying rooms 307-316 of the Columbia Building. They are described as “brokers and financial agents.” Joining Peyton Sr. in the directory is his eldest son, Newman. Peyton Jr. is a clerk.

In 1917, as the U.S. entered WW I, Newman and Peyton Jr. registered for the draft. Newman was 40, married, a broker of stocks and bonds now with John L. Dunlap & Co. at 58 Main Street. He and Eda had moved to 1907 3rd Street. Peyton Jr. was 29, single, living with his parents, and was employed by the Louisville Athletic Association as Secretary to the Louisville Baseball Club, likely the Colonels of the minor league American Association.

The 1920 census lists Peyton Sr. as a “financial agent.” Sons Peyton Jr. and Sanford are living at home. Peyton Jr. is listed as 29 but is 32. Sanford is listed correctly as 23; he will be 24 the day after he is enumerated. Both are single, with occupations listed as “none.” A new servant has joined 69 year-old Lucy Hamilton. She is Sally Elizabeth Surding (?), white, 36 and married. Newman, Eda and nine year-old William T. (listed as Turner) are still living at 1907 3rd Street. In 1926 Peyton Sr. found time to write a second book, Digest of Kentucky Tax Laws, published by the Kentucky Tax Reform Association. It was a slim volume, 28 pages.

Finally, in the 1930 census, Peyton Sr. is listed as 75, with no occupation given. Mary is 72. Newman Clarke has returned to live at home. Now 51, divorced, he is listed as a broker of stocks and bonds. No references to his ex-wife and child have been found in this census, the last currently available to the public. Peyton Jr., 42, is listed as a stenographer at City Hall. He remains single. For the first time in 30 years Sanford is not listed as living with his family. In fact, Sanford seems to be missing from the 1930 census altogether. Also missing is Lucy Hamilton. Perhaps reflecting the times, the census shows no “servants” but that they have taken in a border, Lottie Bledsoe, white, 45, and married. She is listed as a housekeeper at a “private house,” probably for the Clarkes.

The 1930’s were hard on the nation, and the Clarke family. The depression must have been particularly distressful for financial advisors and stock and bond salesmen. Peyton Sr. was the first to die, March 10, 1936. He was almost 81. He was buried near his mother and daughter Eva. Only seven months later Peyton Jr. joined them. He was 48. Next was Sanford Clarke in March, 1937, only 41. Mary Clarke witnessed this all; she lived two more years, passing away in May, 1939. Like her husband she lived to be 80. Finally Newman passed away in November, 1944. Today they all lie together in Section P, Lot 661, at Cave Hill Cemetery.

After-word:
In 1941 a Miss Ada R. Turner was buried at Cave Hill, but not with the Clarke family. In 1982 William Turner Clarke was also buried at Cave Hill, although with neither the Clarke family, nor Miss Ada. More research is necessary to determine if these were Newman’s ex-wife and son.

Author’s notes:
The sources of most of this biography come from Clarke’s Old King William Homes and Families, and US census records found at Ancestry.com. Additional information was found using various internet sources, especially www.oldlouisville.com, a web site of the Old Louisville National Historic Preservation District. The photo of the Clarke plots at Cave Hill was provided by Gregg Fowler, a former resident of King William County, now living in Louisville.

In looking over what I have been able to learn about Peyton Neale Clarke and his family several questions present themselves: Why did Clarke write so little about his father? Why did Eva Neale Clarke choose to elope and what caused her death? Where was Peyton Clarke and his young family during the 1880 census? What took Captain John James Wright and wife Sallie Belle Clarke to Dresden? What became of Andrew Clarke and his wife Katie? What happened to Newman’s family? Do they have any living descendants? And why did Clarke devote so much space in his book to the Edwards family? Maybe more research will answer these questions.

FloydFest 5

2006-08-02T07:20:00.000-04:00

Last week-end was FloydFest 5. This was my third festival, my wife's fourth, and Virginia - my wife's niece - has been to them all. Also camping with us were Virginia's father John (who won the Best Camper Award this year), daughter Rachel, and friend Mike.

As usual the week-end featured great music - especially from folks I had never heard of - and interesting weather. This year the weather was sunshine and wind. It was almost...hot. Actually it was hot and mostly dry. Quite a change for a festival widely noted for being wet and cool.

The music started on Thursday night this year with Railroad Earth playing to a good sized early crowd. Friday brought an early morning wind gust that took our large community tent down the hill 30 feet, scattering camping gear everywhere and breaking a pole connector. My minimal staking efforts were improved upon as we reestablished base camp. Duct Tape and friendly neighbors to the rescue and we were back better than ever.

The biggest change this year for us were the tickets. Because the tickets we usually buy were sold out we were forced to purchase the more expensive VIP tickets if we were to camp as we had in previous years. But these tickets came with added features we quickly came to enjoy.

As VIPs - an almost humorous title in this neo-hippy egalitarian, if temporary, community - we had backstage passes that allowed us to eat, drink and hang out with the musicians. We also could sit on stage during the performances. Since the food was good and company pleasant, and there was SHADE, what was not to like?

Every year I have attended Floydfest I have had moments when I wonder why I was putting up with the obvious annoyances and irritations. I keep telling myself that I am getting to old for this. While the festival is very well organized, the site kept clean and attractive, and the attendees remarkably friendly and well-behaved, the long drive and camping out for three days can be a Challenge. Then, often when I am least expecting it, it all becomes worth it. Usually it is the music - live, fresh, inspiring. Sometimes it is just a seemingly random human act of kindness. It also can be the beautiful Blue Ridge mountains. Occasionally the music, people and setting all come together and the joy is almost overwhelming. My musical highlights...

RRE once again justified my devotion. I have heard them eight times now over the past two years. Tim especially seemed on fire Thursday night. Eddie From Ohio was just Too Much Fun; I need to hear them again. The Akoya Afrobeat Ensemble kept everyone rocking and smiling during the only rain shower of the festival. Jake Shimabukuro was just jaw-dropping. Who knew what a ukulele could do? I have never heard Donna the Buffalo play better. And Los Lobos just tore up the crowd Saturday night, justifing my opinion that they have been arguably the best American band over the past 25 years. Finally, Sunday morning gave me the Campbell Brothers sacred steel in the dance tent. Christian music this side of Bach never sounded as good to my ears. If I had heard a complete difference set of musicians I probably would have been just as satisfied.

Hot, tired, and a bit sunburned we left Sunday about mid-day. Floydfest 6 is just around the corner.

Have You Hugged Your Parents Today? Don't Worry, We Will!

2006-07-21T12:38:00.000-04:00

Last spring, I think it was about Mother's Day, I was driving to visit my sister and her family. Not far from their home I saw this sign in front of an assisted living facility. It rendered me almost speechless.

While I am sure those who came up with this advertisement thought it would speak well for the care given to their residents, to me it spoke of something very, very wrong.

Months later - I took this photo this week - the sign is still there; as is my discomfort that strangers would be hugging parents daily in lieu of their children. If this does not bother anyone else, maybe I have lived too long.

The Summer Doldrums

2006-07-09T07:30:00.000-04:00

It is not that I have run out of blogable material; in fact I have such a backlog I don't know where to start. I am low, very low on the mental energy necessary to do justice to my posts.

I am headed to the beach today for some R & R. Then after a few days in Virginia working on my history project I will be back home in time to pack for Floydfest. Somewhere during all this I will start posting more regularly. Bare with me.

- Analog Man

Thistle & Shamrock Tour Photos

2006-06-22T19:06:00.000-04:00

I have selected and uploaded to Flickr some photos from our trip to Ireland and Scotland. They can be found here.

I was surprised to find that I took many more photos of Scotland, surprised because Ireland was so strikingly beautiful. If I had been thinking of a photo album at the time I would have taken more and purhaps different shots. It is odd that many of the images I still carry in my head never made it into the camera.

Here is one may daughter liked, the southern part of the island of Hoy, the Orkneys. The sun was just right.

May 1, 1942

2006-06-14T12:17:00.000-04:00

Standing at the front gate of Riverview Farm in service to the United States Navy, on the left, my father, on the right, my uncle Pickett.

For My Packer Friends

2006-06-13T17:56:00.000-04:00

The photo was taken aboard the Northlinks ferry MV Hamnavoe off the coast of mainland Scotland and Stromness, a port on the Orkney Islands. This was the only time I had opportunity to wear my GB Packer cap as the weather was otherwise too warm.

I will have more photos next week. Between now and then I will travel to Virginia to visit with my mother and attend the funeral of my uncle who passed away this morning.

Steptoe Pickett Edwards (Pickett), was 95. I posted about him last year. More later when I feel a bit less sad.

The Thistle & Shamrock Tour

2006-06-12T17:43:00.000-04:00

The Thistle & Shamrock (a.k.a. the Look Right, Drive Left or We've Been Here Before) Tour is over. We returned just before midnight last night, tired but happy.

We had a great time and I have more than enough to blog about for weeks. But first there are clothes to wash, bills to pay, sleep to catch up on. But before I nod off, several observations...

Ireland was wonderful, just wonderful; but I fell in love with Scotland.
The food in both countries was much, much better than is traditionally thought.
Driving on the left is not all that hard; figuring out where you need to turn is the trick.
Guinness Rocks!
Saint Andrews is to golf what the Vatican is to Catholicism.
We were prepared for just about everything but the wonderful weather.
The place we wish we had scheduled more time was the Orkney Islands off the north coast of Scotland. It is a very special place.

Ketching Up Is Hard to Do

2006-05-26T11:30:00.000-04:00

I am still a month behind with my blogging. This will get worse real fast. This afternoon my wife and I fly to Ireland for a week, and then from there to Scotland. I will probably have zero opportunity to blog from there.

Check back in two weeks. I expect I will have more tangents for you. Now One-Bag-Bibb needs to finish packing.

Have I mentioned what a busy spring this has been?

My Father's Boat

2006-05-26T07:54:00.000-04:00

In the spring of 1956, a few months after my grandfather died, my father and I took an unusual Saturday morning trip to Riverview, the family farm. We did not stop at the then empty home but went straight down the riverbank to the boat house. There my father took measurements from the small rowboats my grandfather had built over the years.

These were Pamunkey River working boats, boats made for fishing and hunting. Nothing fancy; definitely not "recreational." I remember they leaked. We always had to bale them out before using them, and often while my father paddled, I baled. Baling is a good job for a small child; the idea of the boat filling with water - sinking - was a powerful motivating force for an otherwise easily distracted boy. That morning they were in even worst shape than I remembered, but they served the purpose. We went back up the hill and drove home.

The following year, or maybe 1958, Dad started building a boat in our backyard based on the design he documented that Saturday. However this boat would be larger, large enough to easily seat the four members of our family. It would also have a motor. He built it from oak and marine plywood, half inch on the bottom, with 3/8 sides. He covered it with newfangled Fiberglas cloth and a white gelcoat. It was just over 19 feet long, almost twice the size of its progenitors. It very definitely did not leak.

Our family used the boat for week-end outings on the large, newly build lake close to home. Daddy and I fished and hunted from that boat. We took it to my other grandmother's farm on the Potomac; one particular morning we caught more spot than we knew what to do with. Under full power it planed, but was very stable. We could make almost 20 mph; not bad for an 18-HP Evinrude pushing a heavy flat-bottomed boat. I even water-skied behind it.

After my sister and I went away to college the boat received less use, but it remained in our backyard until after my father died in 1981. After our local minister admired the boat my mother sold it to our church to give to him as a going away gift. She had asked me if I had any objections, and I had told her to go ahead. Just looking at it reminded me of my father and the times we shared. The pain of his loss was still too fresh; not seeing it I thought would hurt less. Besides, I had no use for it then. He would have approved; boats need to be used.

In doing research into my family's history - and the history of Pamunkey Neck - I have been reminded over and over of the dominant role of the rivers in people's lives. According to a letter I recently found and my latest conversation with Uncle Pickett, as late as the 1940's my grandparents helped support the farm by fishing with nets when the shad were running. They used those very boats I later baled from. And my grandmother could not even swim. I decided if I was going to write about Pamunkey Neck I need to spend some time on the water. And there would be no better way than in my father's boat.

A few months ago I located the now retired minister and gave him a call. He certainly remembered my family and the boat. But, unfortunately, he said that in a weak moment years ago he had sold it. Worse, he could not remember the name of the buyer, only that he lived near Lynchburg, a community called Forest. It was to Forest I drove that morning looking for a boat.

Further Adventures

2006-05-25T11:28:00.000-04:00

After the last post the ketch-up condenses; think of a spicy tomato paste reduction.

The Monday following our trek to Pamunkey Neck I spent at the Library of Virginia looking at manuscripts, maps, & microfilm - the 3m's. Of the three the microfilm was the most valuable, and the most difficult to use. I don't know how many hours it would take before blindness, but it can't be many. Each time after a long session at the microfilm readers - for me anything over three hours - my admiration increases for those who, for love or money (or madness), make extensive use of these devices. As we say in the south, "bless their hearts."

After the LOV I retreated south and spent another day with my mother before driving to Charlotte, the Neighborhood Theatre, and my only rendezvous with Railroad Earth this tour. My daughter and an assorted collection of her friends met at Boudreaux's next door for dinner before the show, the band played to a moderate but enthusiastic Wednesday night crowd, after which I rolled back home by 2 in the morning.

A rare week and a half around home followed. The last Monday in the month found me again in Charlotte having a new starter installed in my car. The old one had been asking for relief for about a year. I guess after 200,000 miles one should not be surprised. Relief was granted.

I was then better prepared for another trip north. After a short visit with my mother and attending to various of her financial affairs I was off again to Richmond. My sister was again the gracious hostess. I spent a pleasant afternoon with my Uncle Pickett, his wife Jean, and my cousin who was visiting from Colorado. After another day at the LOV my sister and I visited with another cousin and her husband to talk with them about the mysterious five acres in the Northern Neck (see the May 21 post). They seemed pleased that I had already been trying to resolve the issues involved and we agreed on where we needed to go.

The next day I bought a new digital camera (in an ongoing, generally losing attempt to keep up with my more technologically advanced daughter) and headed west to visit with one of my oldest friends. John, a contractor who has been living for a couple of decades in one of the most beautiful spots on the planet, surprised us all a few weeks earlier by having a heart attack. Much too young for that, he still handle it like a pro. He walked into the UVA hospital and walked out two days later (even though they charged him for three, much to his consternation) with a stent replacing a clot, new drugs to take, and some advice. He looked good despite it all and withstood my complaining about him setting a bad example for the rest of us.

I left the next day headed to western NC and dinner with my daughter. But along the way I spent two hours looking for a needle in a haystack, or more accurately the boat my father built about fifty years ago.

A Visit to the Other Neck

2006-05-22T09:54:00.000-04:00

Have I mentioned that I am writing a book? Well, I am. It is a family & regional history with cosmic overtones. I am past 30,000 words now and just getting started. Collecting and tidying up over 300 years of Edwards and Virginia history takes some effort.

It also takes research, since information about Pamunkey Neck and my family is well scattered. And since I am separated from my topic by space as well as time I have decided to enlist help from those living in the area. That is why the Sunday following the funeral (which by the way was a gorgeous day) my sister and I set off to visit another distant relative on the other side of the family, a Pamunkey Neck native who, as a local forester, knows the county as well as anyone.

My hook to involve him in my project was an out of print map published in 1976 - while I was actually living there - that located old county historic sites, mainly homes. Of course he is living in one. I wanted to update and expand this map (my draft shown) using modern computer technology. He said he would be happy to help.

After arriving we were warmly greeted and I laid out my maps and the other research documents I had brought along. If he and his family thought I was nuts they were polite enough not to show it. I outlined my map project and a little of how it fit into my larger book project. He answered my questions, corrected a few errors on my map, and made some suggestions. We agreed to stay in touch by email and that we would see each other at the family reunion in the summer.

After leaving my sister and I decided to take a detour on some back roads to the area of the county where my family has lived for hundreds of years. Driving past the church my great-great grandfather had built and preached in we noticed a small group of cars, people, and an open door. Although my sister had once been inside, I never had. So we pulled in.

The church had recently been sold to a local businessman along with the adjacent farm. The new owner had done a wonderful job renovated the long unused church and this Sunday afternoon he and his family were walking about. As we walked up introducing ourselves I noticed another distant cousin standing to the side. The new owner invited us to look around and he and his family left in their mini-van, stopping a few yards down the road to talk with our cousin's brother, the seller of the farm and church. We could quickly tell by the look on her face and the tone of the conversation on the side of the road that things were not well.

For the next 90 minutes, after the new owners had driven off, my sister and I were reminded of the deep passions land can inspire. Inside the church our cousins talked almost non-stop, generally about matters we little understood and people we did not know. Pride, money, land, time, and family were the themes with the both of them feeling that they had come out on the short end. The sun lowered, we made our way back to the car and said our good-byes.

Have I mentioned what an interesting family I have?

A Visit to the Neck

2006-05-21T11:02:00.000-04:00

My mother's brother was 89 and had been in poor heath for some time; so his death could not be called unexpected. Yet for me it was hard to grasp. He had always seemed a larger than life character, so very full of himself. I am confident that everyone who met him has a story about the time he did this or did that. He is on the left in this photo with my grandfather and his brother, about 1920.

Unlike my mother, who was too weak to attend the funeral, his mind was clear to the last. A couple of years ago at his wife's funeral of he reminded me of events from my childhood over 50 years earlier. Some of my earliest memories are of following him around my grandmother's farm as he did chores. I remember feeling so grown up when he let me ride on the tractor with him. I looked forward to helping carry slop to the hogs somewhat less. As I grew up I saw him less an admirable role model, but to the end he was always a force to be reckoned with, now someone to miss.

One of those spring cold fronts was moving into Virginia as I headed north to pick up my sister. But we reached the chapel with time to spare. The chapel, now owned by a local funeral home, was once a church co-founded by my great-great grandfather; behind it lie generations of relatives. Although the temperature had been dropping all morning with light drizzle, it was not until we headed outside toward the gravesite that the skies opened up. By now the temperature was in the 40's and the rain was coming down sideways. I stood with my umbrella behind my cousins trying to block the rain from coming underneath the tent, to little effect. Graveside remarks were brief. My uncle would have enjoyed it all.

After the service my sister and I escorted a family of distant relatives to my grandmother's home, now part of a subdivision and owned by a nice woman who gave us a tour. Then, while my sister visited with our cousins, I split off to meet with a local surveyor. I had hired him to do some work for my family on a lot we own in that sub-division, but now I needed to talk with him about a separate five acre parcel my mother co-owned with her late brother. I had been unable to reconcile the description of the parcel on the 1919 deed and its location on the current county tax map. The Q&D title search I had conducted at the local courthouse some months earlier had turned up more questions than answers; we needed professional help.

The surveyor gave me good news; he believed the lot still existed. It had not be surveyed out of existence. Things like that happen, much to the delight of the legal profession. It was just not where the tax map indicated. However he said that the parcel is landlocked; it has no designated right-of-way. After all these years obtaining that right-of-way now could be tricky. I told him to hold off doing anything else until I talked with my cousins. This will get interesting and there will certainly be a post or two about this coming up.

By now almost dry, I met my sister and our family of distant relatives for dinner at a local restaurant, a recently restored Hotel/Tavern. I was hungry and the food was good. We then drove back to my sister's. I slept well. Which, as it turned out, was a good thing. I had a big day coming up.

Next, tales from the other side of the family...

Ketch-Up

2006-05-20T07:22:00.000-04:00

It has been a long time between posts, more a sign of mental fatigue on my part than a lack of things to post about. Time to play Ketch-Up.

The Saturday prior to our trip to Chicago we had a birthday party for my wife, the big L. We had a large crowd of friends and family, and a good time. My photos were not worthy, so I waited until PixieRn sent me hers. By that time I was well into the Chicago / Wisconsin trip series. Below are a couple of pix from the party.

The second week-end after returning from Chicago was to be Railroad Earth Week-End. The guys were on a southern tour and we had tickets to hear them open for the Derek Trucks Band at the House of Blues in Myrtle Beach on Friday night and in Wilmington Saturday night.

But three days after Chicago my wife became - in her words - as sick as she has ever been. Her doctor said it was a combination of flu and pneumonia; the effects lasted for weeks. Already struggling with keeping her classes on track after being at a conference the previous week - and teaching an overload this semester - she had little time to rest. So it became round after round of work / collapse / work / collapse, with me trying to be care-giver.

A music week-end for her became out of the question, but we still had two sets of tickets. Since PixieRn was already at the coast my wife suggested the two of us use the tickets while she rested. PixieRn was excited to join me but towards the end of the week she too was not feeling well enough to go. By that time we had received word that my uncle had died and would be buried Railroad Earth Week-End.

I had convinced myself that I could hear RRE Friday night and then drive to Virginia in time to pick up my sister and make it to the church mid-day Saturday. Technically possible, practically foolish. So I began trying to unload the tickets. I was able to give away the HOB tickets to a colleague of my wife's at the last minute, but the Wilmington tickets went unclaimed at will-call. Trying to give away the tickets was a short, frustrating experience.

Saturday morning I headed north into cold, rainy weather and a funeral.

Tomorrow, the story continues...

Analog Man Does Windoz

2006-04-21T13:20:00.000-04:00

It has been about a week since HELL FROZE OVER. So far both Boot Camp and Windows XP have been performing flawlessly. I'm not surprised by Boot Camp - beta or not - but XP is remarkably better than the other half dozen Microsoft operating systems I have used. I still remain booted into OSX most of the time.

Rooms w/view

2006-04-19T20:33:00.000-04:00

While walking to the Field Museum across Grant Park I took this of one of my favorite Chicago buildings.

Several years ago, one cold, windy but sunny morning, I was headed across the park to the Field Museum when I turned my back to the wind for a little relief. Until that moment I had not really taken in the magnificent Chicago skyline. My jaw dropped. So instead of the warmth of the museum I decided just to walk around and look at buildings. Not particularly dressed for the occasion, I like to froze.

The memory of this building, while not the most spectacular or famous downtown has to offer, stuck with me. Although the architecture is sort of typical of a century ago, it was where it was placed that caught my eye.

Here is another view. Makes you wonder how they got it up there.

P.S. Did you like that "like to froze?" My county boy personae peakin' round the corner.

Any Damn Fool

2006-04-17T08:36:00.000-04:00

The morning after Phil's party I stopped for breakfast at the Machine Shed in Rockford, IL. While settling up I noticed this book for sale on the counter, Any Damn Fool Can be A Farmer - Growing Up on a Wisconsin Farm, by Bob Knopes. I am working on a family history project of my own - and it looked like a good airplane read. So I bought it.

Turns out that Bob grew up just a few miles from where I worked in Janesville, WI. I must have driven past his family's farm hundreds of times. Small world.

What makes the book worthy of his efforts and yours - besides the writing which is much better than typical books of this kind - is the reminder of a way of life that is fastly disappearing. Family farming was - and is - hard work. It is reassuring that it usually does not make hard people.

Bob's story may not have enough drama for some; I'm sure that was just-as-well for his family. A couple of fires will have to do. But it is as real as that wonderful smell of earth being turned about now on Wisconsin's farms. I recommend it, especially to my friends along the Rock River.

P.S. - In case the book's title offends our friends in the agricultural community, Bob is referring to something his father often said, but did not really mean. Barnyard humor.

Phil

2006-04-07T07:59:00.000-04:00

The real reason for my trip to Chicago was to attend my ex-boss' retirement party in Wisconsin. I didn't tell them I was coming; it was wonderful seeing the looks on my co-worker's faces and be able to thank Phil for being such a great boss.

It has been a full two weeks since Phil's party - and post party - plenty of time for the $500,000 in small bills, the two Dallas Cheerleaders, and the case of Glenfiddich to arrive. Since Phil has obviously decided not to be extorted, I am making good on my threat to post this photo.

Field Day

2006-04-05T11:40:00.000-04:00

After my trip to the Field Museum I went downtown to pay homage to the enterprise that played a major role making it all possible, and do a little shopping.

Marshall Field's may or may not have been the world's greatest department store, but it remains my favorite. Although immitated, the atriums remain wonders to behold.

Marshall Field was a country boy from Massachusetts who moved to Chicago in 1853. Clerking in a dry goods store he saved his money, bought into the business, bought out his partners, and became the richest man in Chicago. His State Street store was as commercially innovative as it was beautiful. I wanted to take my own picture of the Tiffany iridescent glass ceiling five stories up, but found the floor traffic too dense. So I lifted this from Google Images. But photos cannot do the place justice; one must stroll about.

Fields had gone through several corporate owners recently and unfortunately will be rebranded as Macy's this year. That may be good for Federated Retail Holdings, Inc., but it will be another part of Americana lost.

P.S. I got some great pants on sale!

Soldier Field - Chicago

2006-04-03T12:51:00.000-04:00

After walking about in the Field Museum for six hours week before last I decided to get some fresh air. Soldier Field is next door, so I walked the colonnades.

The stadium finished undergoing a renovation several years back, the new architecture making for some striking juxtapositions. This photo was the best I could do showing how the old and new blend - or don't. I'm more a Burnham man myself.

At one time the north end was open, framing the Field Museum as this old photo shows.

The NFL team that plays here most frequently shall not be written.

Sue

2006-03-31T13:51:00.000-05:00

The Field Museum is justly known for its dinosaurs, the most famous being Sue, the largest, most complete, and best preserved Tyrannosaurus rex fossil, ever!

She has her own website.

Now, when I think of my sister...

Chicago Skyline

2006-03-29T11:05:00.000-05:00

This was taken about 9:00 last Thursday morning at the north entrance to the Field Museum. I Photoshop merged three (over?) exposures.

Since this landscape orientation neither fits nor does much justice to the view I decided to try another approach. Now take your screen and turn it 90 degrees clockwise and scroll. Isn't that better?

The Palmer House - Chicago

2006-03-26T21:05:00.000-05:00

If Analog Man does not post for over a week something must be up. It was, in this case a trip to Chicago - with a side adventure to Wisconsin. Enough material was gathered for several posts, which are forthcoming.

My base of operations was the famous Palmer House in downtown Chicago. My wife 4 C's convention was again there and I went along for the ride so I might attend the retirement party of Phil, my ex-boss, Friday afternoon. More on that later.

The Palmer House may no longer be the fanciest hotel in town, but it once was. What it may now lack in modern amenities is more than made up for by the best lobby in town, shown above on a postcard they gave me this morning. I wanted to lie on the floor and take a picture of the practically naked woman in the center of the mural, but I thought that a bit too, uh, obvious. The ceiling is actually much taller than the postcard would lead you to believe.

The second postcard - from 1910 - I pulled off Google images. By then the famous Brownie, invented by the chef at the Palmer House, was already 17 years old. And yes, I had one there three nights ago. It cost almost 10$ but was worth it!

After a bit of rest and reflection I will have much more...

Signs of Spring

2006-03-18T05:47:00.000-05:00

This Bradford Pear in the park did not spend much time wearing white this year; the green leaves rapidly began to show themselves.

And my tomato seeds germinated well but became quite "leggy," as last year. But this year I replanted them deeply in larger containers. So far no real tomato leaves.

While it has been warm, a cold spell starts tonight - highs for the next week or so in the 50's.

We are celebrating my wife's birthday this week-end with friends and family from out-of-town arriving today.

More later...

A Young Man of Letters

2006-03-11T13:12:00.000-05:00

Now that I have taken over my mother's finances I have been looking through long stored piles of family papers. Last week I was looking for some old deeds and ran across perhaps my first letter.

It was to my mother when she was in the hospital having my sister and I was staying with her mother. I had just turned four.

I don't think my handwriting has improved much, although I am a better speler.