myakka flood

We were on a visitation weekend and camping with the kids in Myakka State Park. Lot 36 was our favorite lot. Big and well drained. A good sized culvert to rapidly get rid of the occasional storm runoff.

The tent was a big old Coleman "wall tent". Canvas with a tarp-like floor that ran a foot up the sides. Nice and dry. Usually.

The day was overcast with rain predicted, but visitations are set in advance so there we were. The old Pinto wagon got us there on time and we checked in to the park. We had plenty to do setting everything up and then the rain started. We made spaghetti under an umbrella and ate inside the tent. Nice and dry. As it got dark the rain fell harder and we noticed a bit of water moving under the floor. Still dry inside. Sometime later the floor started to roll like a water bed and water could be seen inching up the sides. Raining like hell now. Then, tiny little jets of water shot up through the floor through pinholes in the tarp. A lot of them. By now the water was 2 or 3 inched deep outside the tent, and rapidly wetting the inside. A quick look with the flashlight showed the marvelous culvert was partially plugged and lot 36 was a pond.

It rained all night and in the morning, still raining, we took down the tent and ate cold leftovers in the wagon. No cooked breakfast that morning. Needless to say the car was like a cloud forest inside. We left in the rain, delivered the wet kids and drove back to Havana. In the rain the whole way.

Sal and I had a good laugh last night remembering that trip, but we never stayed on lot 36 again. And yes, they have skunk apes too.

Photo: www.lorencoleman.com/myakka.html

from the fire of despair

"From the fire of despair we forge ourselves into who we are." I wrote this to a former student yesterday. I was thinking of the terrible obstacles she had to overcome to get where she is today. I think we have all been in the "pit of despair" at one time or another and we emerged changed. Most of us learn from trial and hardship and grow as a result. She certainly has. Many of my former students have braved life experiences that would have crushed me. My admiration for the endurance and success of so many is unbounded.
Remember always that you are who you are because of the total of your life experiences. If you could go back and change anything, you would change too.

At the close of this year and the eve of the next, I wish all of you who read this a happy, safe and prosperous life. And always remember that you are who you are precisely because of who you were.

(There was a real 'pit of despair'. Here is a link that takes you there. Warning: this is heavy awful stuff. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pit_of_despair )

Photo: blog.tilos.hu/irodalmile2/archives/008287.html

Clarence

Frank had a three man operation. He and Stan were the masons and Clarence was the laborer. Clarence did all the support work and the three of them worked together on the job to get ready to lay blocks and bricks. Clarence mixed the mud (mortar for laying block), carried and stacked the blocks and bricks, dug the footers and cesspools, pulled up the forms, cleaned up the sites. You get the idea. Keep in mind this was a small operation. They had no cement mixer. No backhoe. No bobcat. Only shovels, hoes, digging bars, sand screen, hands and backs. During the peak periods Frank needed an extra laborer, and I was it. So, at 17 I signed on to be another pair of hands and a back. Frank turned me over to Clarence to show me how to work. He taught me the way to dig so I could dig all day in the hot sun, and how to carry two 60 pound blocks and swing them up on a chest-high scaffold, and how to mix mud and set cesspool blocks and rings and how to get a 200 pound bluestone chimney cap up two 16 foot ladders. He and I often worked alone on site preparation. We dug footers and cesspools. Now there is a job. A cesspool was built in the ground in a hole that was 10 or more feet deep and about 10 feet around. We dug them by hand. Clarence taught me to throw dirt a long way. Then we dropped the blocks into the hole and Frank built the round cesspit walls. We had lots of time to talk over the years we worked together, but Clarence was a man of few words and I could keep my own company when needed. Lunch time was different. We had 45 minutes to rest and eat and talk. He talked about the world of black men and segregation. How he grew up into that world and how he navigated through it. He owned several houses that he rented out, and had a comfortable retirement planned. He was about 60 when we met. He talked about the events in the South and I listened, but I didn’t understand. It was the time of Brown v Board of Education and Rosa Parks. I was a middle class white boy living in New York and didn’t have a clue what was going on. One day we were talking about racism and he said “If a man steals corn from your field that doesn’t mean the next man coming down the road will steal your corn.” I never thought it did, but that is part of the core of racism. I went off to college in the South and saw firsthand what he was talking about. Clarence was a teacher, mentor, business man, laborer, husband, father and more. I learned a lot from him. He was strong and lean, and dignified. He retired, died, and I never got to tell him that I finally understood what he was trying to tell me. But I did in the end understand. And Clarence, thank you.
Signs: http://www.wvu.edu/~lawfac/jscully/Race/images/colored%20sign.jpg

Tree Spirits

I was sitting in the kitchen looking out the picture window. I have spent hours there watching birds, squirrels, the occasional deer and the trees. One particular tree always gets my attention. An American beech with a healing wound at the base of the trunk. And suddenly there it is: a perfect woman's face, flowing hair and a beautiful serene look. If there are tree spirits then this is surely a manifestation of one. I have loved this tree from the first day I saw it. I have hugged it. (Yes, I am an unrepentant tree hugger, literally on both counts.) What a treat. When I get the camera fixed I'll add her picture to this, if she can be photographed.

Image: www.door2door-marketing.co.uk/

Waking up dead

This is a wandering that starts with a dream. Sally had a dream that she was dead and standing by her body looking at it and hearing and seeing the actions in the scene. Where the hell do these images come from?

This is sort of what I mean when I say "some day I will wake up dead and........" . Wake up dead? How can you do that? Well, if the dream represents some expression of the existence of a soul or something like that it may actually be true that you can wake up dead. Probably not, though.

Brains produce the most wonderful and weird thoughts and images imaginable. I call one process "cortical skipping". When you see something, say a dog, and that reminds you to buy dog food which reminds you that Publix has wine on sale which reminds you of the wonderful sausage you had in Italy which reminds you to ....... Get the drift? You somehow end up thinking about balancing the tires. These thoughts fly around your brain in the cortex and there is absolutely no way of knowing where they will go. There is probably an algorithm in there somewhere, and some of the connections may be more obvious than others, but in my family we are fond of saying "there is no accounting for a brain".

Or how about all the weird dreams where you fly or pass through walls or are someone you surely will never be, like the pope or god or fill in your own weird dreams.

Driving along, my mind wanders in all sorts of directions, which reminds me of licorice which reminds me that I have to go to the Co-op today which reminds me to stop by Ron's with his flywheel puller which reminds me ........

Photo: www.conozcaseasimismo.com/factoreseng.htm

Tea Olive: Southern Delight.

I walked down the driveway to check the mail when I noticed a familiar perfume in the air. Hmmm. Jasmine? No, wrong season and not cloying enough. What else is there around here? Ah. I remembered that we recently planted a tea olive. Poor thing was way over its “sell by” based on how root bound it was. I turned and there it was, blooming like crazy. New leaves and tons of blooms. And that fragrance. The air was filled with it. Sweet but not cloying and heavy in the near-fog of humidity. I think Osmandus was returning the favor and giving us a great big “thank you” for the rescue and planting. What is a southern yard without a tea olive or two? A disappointment that’s what. Now, a few more quintessential plants and we will have the complete southern garden.

Photo: img.photobucket.com/.../TeaOlive1.jpg

Thoughts on Christmas

When I was a kid and a Christian (by birth, not choice) Christmas was a special time. Sure, we celebrated the birth of Jesus, but I didn’t really know who he was or what he did. I knew he was special. He was born in a manger, killed and reborn. But my brother and I concentrated on Santa Claus. Now he was the real hero of Christmas. Bigger than life. Flew around the world giving toys to kids and perfume and scarves to adults.
As I got older I learned that Santa was a fraud, a lie that for some reason my parents kept going. How wonderful to just give a gift and say “this is from mom and dad, because we love you”. Eventually we got to that, but went through the Santa thing first. Well, Santa fell away, the Easter Bunny faded, the Tooth Fairy went the way of the dodo, and Christianity gradually dimmed, to be replaced by a deeper sense of spirituality.
Christmas never faded. A wonderful time for reaffirmation of family ties and friendships, in my family it has been joined with Chanukah. An all American plethora: Christians, Jews, secular humanists and an atheist or two for balance. I look forward to Christmas with warm remembrances of gatherings past and future. How can you remember the future you ask? Easy. Posit a Christmas, like the next one, and then remember it. (Remember, I have never claimed to be normal). The holiday is a time for renewal of contacts, catching up with the news of the past year and future plans. And being with those you love. I hate the commercialism and barely (if at all) disguised plundering of our good will for the benefit of profit. I long for the time past when the holiday was driven by love of family and love of God, but in this country at least, that is mostly over. I have friends that still cleave to those ideals, but they are few. Interesting that while religiosity is on the increase the season continues to be driven by merchants, not preachers.
So, in summation, I state categorically that I look forward to this Christmas season. Over the next few weeks I will be with friends, family and many people of good will. Thanks, Jesus, for even though your birthday has been corrupted by some, many of us who are not believers still look forward to it and probably feel a deeper sense of your ideals than the “flocks” that flock together.

Green Door

We have a pastel done by west coast artist Margaret Tcheng Ware. A wonderful and mysterious image of a nearly nude woman in an alley (is it an alley?), facing a green door. Nothing is as it seems. As light is increased, the mood changes from brooding and dangerous to sad and lonely . The soft pastels at times make the scene look as if it were underwater, but that isn’t possible, is it? Why is she nude? Where is she going? In or out of the door? What is behind the door? Was she assaulted? Who is she?
You want to get a blanket, put it around her shoulders and just listen to her story.
I have pondered this work for several years and never tire of the complexity of thought and emotion that it evokes. I play with the spotlight dimmer to change the moods and keep looking for the answers. I expected one day to have the ‘AH HA’ moment when the meanings crystallize. Maybe so, maybe not. The wonder is that Margaret packed all this into one figure standing in an alley.
Thank you Margaret for putting your heart and soul into my mysterious woman, and thank you Sally for sharing her with me.

Clarence

Frank had a three man operation. He and Stan were the masons and Clarence was the laborer. Clarence did all the support work and the three of them worked together on the job to get ready to lay blocks and bricks. Clarence mixed the mud (mortar for laying block), carried and stacked the blocks and bricks, dug the footers and cesspools, pulled up the forms, cleaned up the sites. You get the idea. Keep in mind this was a small operation. They had no cement mixer. No backhoe. No bobcat. Only shovels, hoes, digging bars, sand screen, hands and backs. During the peak periods Frank needed an extra laborer, and I was it.
So, at 17 I signed on to be another pair of hands and a back. Frank turned me over to Clarence to show me how to work. He taught me the way to dig so I could dig all day in the hot sun, and how to carry two 60 pound blocks and swing them up on a chest-high scaffold, and how to mix mud and set cesspool blocks and rings and how to get a 200 pound bluestone chimney cap up two 16 foot ladders. He and I often worked alone on site preparation. We dug footers and cesspools. Now there is a job. A cesspool was built in the ground in a hole that was 10 or more feet deep and about 10 feet around. We dug them by hand. Clarence taught me to throw dirt a long way. Then we dropped the blocks into the hole and Frank built the round cesspit walls. We had lots of time to talk over the years we worked together, but Clarence was a man of few words and I could keep my own company when needed. Lunch time was different. We had 45 minutes to rest and eat and talk. He talked about the world of black men and segregation. How he grew up into that world and how he navigated through it. He owned several houses that he rented out, and had a comfortable retirement planned. He was about 60 when we met.
He talked about the events in the South and I listened, but I didn’t understand. It was the time of Brown v Board of Education and Rosa Parks. I was a middle class white boy living in New York and didn’t have a clue what was going on. One day we were talking about racism and he said “If a man steals corn from your field that doesn’t mean the next man coming down the road will steal your corn.” I never thought it did, but that is part of the core of racism.
I went off to college in the South and saw firsthand what he was talking about.
Clarence was a teacher, mentor, business man, laborer, husband, father and more. I learned a lot from him. He was strong and lean, and dignified. He retired, died, and I never got to tell him that I finally understood what he was trying to tell me. But I did in the end understand. And Clarence, thank you.

Signs: http://www.wvu.edu/~lawfac/jscully/Race/images/colored%20sign.jpg
Rosa Parks: disarminginjustice.files.wordpress.com/2009/0

Burning Castor Oil: Gotta Love It.

Jim Croce again. Rapid Roy was a dirt track demon. Ah, the dirt track at Riverhead. Saturday nights in the summer with the roar of highly tuned old engines. The time was the mid 50’s and the stock cars were cut up coups from the thirties and forties with a few early fifties thrown in for good measure. Flat head Vee-eights, straight eights, flat head sixes and OHV sixes. In the unlimited classes some OHV eights. The roar of straight pipes and the smell of castor oil and burning rubber. Occasionally a wheel would break off and come straight into the stands and everybody would duck. Local farmers, welders, mechanics and a few teachers and doctors. Mostly the same cars every week.
Then, Geraldo showed up. Shiny black ’37 coup with an OHV vee-eight. Black driving suit. Black helmet. Rumor was that he was a hair dresser from Queens somewhere. He was a terrific driver with a great car (grumble: probably paid to get his car that good. Not a good old boy like the rest). He raced week after week and year after year. What a thrill to watch him eat the track and the locals. They were all good drivers and sometimes someone beat Geraldo, but not usually.
Fourth of July fireworks. Beer in cups. Smells. Noise. What a treat. Driving home after the races was a thrill too, because it was a race.
I’m going to get some castor oil and burn it on the grill the next time I barbecue. I hope it smells as sweet as I remember. I’ll let you know.
Photo: winfield.50megs.com/Cowley/oldstockcars_4.htm