A few days ago, Gven Golly and I put some miles on her Honda named 'Olive' and got together with some important people in our lives, so our long weekend trip deserves to be chronicled.
At Charlie and Helen's
We got to the Cumberland Plateau and Fairfield Glade, where my parents live, in time for supper. While Mom cooked, Dad took Gven and me on a tour of their neighbors' home renovations, where he has scavenged a lot of lumber that otherwise would have gone to some landfill. Charlie is resourceful that way, and he is careful to check with the contractor first. If they're throwing stuff away, he saves them the trouble. Then he showed us the basement floor he has constructed entirely of 2x10s, 2x8s, 2x6s, and 2x4s left by the builders. It's quite a piece of work.
We enjoyed a nice dinner of pork, rice, and broccoli, went out for frozen custard dessert, and talked about this and that. Mom and Dad are going to Seattle in September for a reunion with Dad's sisters. We brought along a few of our family photos for Aunt Marilyn to include in the updated edition of the Golly family genealogy. Charlie's two brothers are both dead now, and his three sisters all live on the West Coast (Washington, Oregon, California).
We also talked about a piece of property in the northern Lower Peninsula, near the tip of the pinkie, that Mom and Dad have held onto for quite a few years without building on it. I'm planning to go up there soon to check it out and see what's what. So if you don't hear from me for awhile, it's because I headed up the country and pitched my tent at Lot 1000, Manistee Heights.
At the Oarhouse
It rained that night good and steady, but it was a pretty morning's drive across southeast Tennessee and north Georgia to Dahlonega and the picturesque site of the restaurant beside the river (Oostanaula?) where we held Gven's mother's 75th birthday party. It's called 'the Oarhouse' because its right on the river, not 'the Orehouse' because Dahlonega was the site of a gold rush in the 1820s, and not 'the Whorehouse' just because.
The whole gang was there: the three sisters and their husbands, three of the five grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, a grandson-in-law, a grandboyfriend-in-law, and even an ex-husband. Sharon had her video camera going almost continuously, and several other cameras were roaming the room recording the moment. One-year-old Chase was the star. Happy birthday, Nancy.
We feasted on another fabulous meal (I recommend the salmon) and a chocolate mousse cake made by the grandson-in-law chef from Macon, then regrouped at my sister-in-law's house outside Cumming. Some of us watched Warner-Robins, Georgia, defeat Lubbock, Texas, in the Little League World Series.
We checked on the progress of Nancy's newly constructed apartment on the ground floor of her youngest daughter's house, and it looks great. Then it rained pretty hard, which was welcome in that parched part of the country, and after a minor bit of miscommunication, Gven and I went on down Georgia 400 to my sister's new place in the city.
At Jo Jo's
I had never been to her condo around the corner from the Emory campus, but the neighborhood is familiar, and it seems like a good fit. Jo Jo and her husband Burt now live in separate houses, and it seems to be working out well. She made Gven and me comfortable in her spare bedroom and made blueberry pancakes in the morning. We talked about her job in the Ethnic Studies Program at Emory, my job at Publishing Conglomerate, and the politics of language, a subject we always seem to find our way back to.
Our Sunday itinerary took us over to the old house on Haygood Drive, where we picked up Burt, and into Decatur, where we visited Jessi's birthplace and Oakhurst Community Garden. Someone has put a lot of work into turning a vacant lot into a great big garden. We managed to kill an hour (or two?) cruising Candler Park and Little Five Points, finally stopping for lunch at Grandma Luke's on Euclid (the hummus is excellent) before finally making our way to the High Museum in Midtown.
As soon as we got there, it started raining buckets, so we got a little wet between the garage and the entrance. No matter. We had all the time we needed in the Annie Liebovitz portrait exhibit; the images of William Burroughs, Lance Armstrong, Johnny Cash and family, and Cindy Crawford were well worth it. That night we went to Top Spice, a Thai/Polynesian restaurant in Toco Hills, where the Tiger beer and Thai catfish are out of sight.
With very little pomp and ceremony, that was our celebration of Jo Jo's fifth time around the calendar of 12 lunar new years, the birthday where a mature person has experienced all the astrological animals in all five elements. Not that anyone we know is mythically inclined enough to dwell on the transformative power of living in a garden among giant trees, little potted plants, feeding the birds on the balcony, and nurturing the souls of visiting friends. Happy birthday, Jo Jo.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
There and back again
Remember the John Prine song "Illegal Smile"?
A bicycle! It was more like 5:00 p.m. and I wasn't getting anything done OR having fun, so I decided to try to salvage the day before it completely drained away. I had a video to return, and getting on the bike immediately felt like the right medicine for my condition, so I headed southwest in the bike lane for some Schrock Road therapy.
It takes about half an hour to get to the New New England Library; it didn't matter that it was closed on Sunday; I dropped the video in the slot, considered a longer ride, and pointed myself toward Tucker Drive. My friend/mentor Janet told me about this hidden gem of a street tucked away behind Thomas High School, a quiet half-mile of architectural good taste that leads directly to the Olentangy bike trail.
Where I turned south on a whim and went back in time. Rolling past Thomas down to Antrim Lake and beyond was revisiting my old stomping grounds. Where MacKenzie and I used to take a long run every Sunday. Where Jessi and I did our first runs together. Where he trained like a madman for three years of high school competition.
Crossing into Whetstone Park was revisiting the scene of almost daily running or cycling, many track and cross country meets, soccer practices, dog walking, taiji classes, almost an extension of the back yard up the street before it was bulldozed. But the park remains almost unchanged, thank goodness, except for an amazing wildflower prairie of tall black-eyed susans down by the river just above Northmoor.
Crossing Broadway into the other half of Clintonville, the landscape was almost as familiar, and I even recognized one of the walkers, a young mother who used to come to my class on and off a couple of years ago and is now walking her growing boy on the trail. Although I was an hour out, I couldn't stop. Crossing the bridge and passing the University wetland, I saw the sky darkening to the southwest and against all reason kept going into Tuttle Park, where there's a convenient loop to turn around.
An out-and-back is like that. According to MacKenzie's Laws, you have to gauge the time, the wind, and the distance ahead of time, and then take your chances. As luck would have it, the rain started just as I reached my turnaround, so I sought shelter under some trees beside the rec. center and waited.
Half and hour later, the rain was looking like a steady downpour, so I (reasonably) called Gven Golly on my cell. She was home, not terribly busy, and said she would be there shortly with the pickup truck. Five minutes later, as luck would have it, the rain stopped, so I called her again. She had only gotten a couple of blocks from home, so I said never mind, I'd rather ride home, but thanks anyway. To ask to be rescued and then not need it was less humiliating than actually being rescued.
The ride home was a breeze, except for the inevitable mud spattered on my butt by a wet rear wheel. There weren't as many people on the trail or in the park, and I couldn't take the corners as fast, but a few hardy souls were still out there, and I was glad to be one of them. Because I took it slow, I never hit the aerobic wall, even coming up the hill toward High Street on Wilson Bridge Road. I had just enough daylight and energy to cruise the last couple of miles on almost-deserted roads and roll into Methodistville in time for dinner.
So, what's this little allegory all about? Nothing very subtle. I'm very attached to my tenuous hold on the physical mobility I discovered at about age nine, and it's hard to let go of, given the probability of flat tires, sprained knees, and cardiovascular decline. In the meantime, it's fun to push the envelope just a little.
Woke up this morning, things were lookin' bad,
seemed like total silence was the only friend I had.
Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down and won,
and it was twelve o'clock before I realized I was havin' no fun.
Ah, but fortunately I had the key to escape reality.
A bicycle! It was more like 5:00 p.m. and I wasn't getting anything done OR having fun, so I decided to try to salvage the day before it completely drained away. I had a video to return, and getting on the bike immediately felt like the right medicine for my condition, so I headed southwest in the bike lane for some Schrock Road therapy.
It takes about half an hour to get to the New New England Library; it didn't matter that it was closed on Sunday; I dropped the video in the slot, considered a longer ride, and pointed myself toward Tucker Drive. My friend/mentor Janet told me about this hidden gem of a street tucked away behind Thomas High School, a quiet half-mile of architectural good taste that leads directly to the Olentangy bike trail.
Where I turned south on a whim and went back in time. Rolling past Thomas down to Antrim Lake and beyond was revisiting my old stomping grounds. Where MacKenzie and I used to take a long run every Sunday. Where Jessi and I did our first runs together. Where he trained like a madman for three years of high school competition.
Crossing into Whetstone Park was revisiting the scene of almost daily running or cycling, many track and cross country meets, soccer practices, dog walking, taiji classes, almost an extension of the back yard up the street before it was bulldozed. But the park remains almost unchanged, thank goodness, except for an amazing wildflower prairie of tall black-eyed susans down by the river just above Northmoor.
Crossing Broadway into the other half of Clintonville, the landscape was almost as familiar, and I even recognized one of the walkers, a young mother who used to come to my class on and off a couple of years ago and is now walking her growing boy on the trail. Although I was an hour out, I couldn't stop. Crossing the bridge and passing the University wetland, I saw the sky darkening to the southwest and against all reason kept going into Tuttle Park, where there's a convenient loop to turn around.
An out-and-back is like that. According to MacKenzie's Laws, you have to gauge the time, the wind, and the distance ahead of time, and then take your chances. As luck would have it, the rain started just as I reached my turnaround, so I sought shelter under some trees beside the rec. center and waited.
Half and hour later, the rain was looking like a steady downpour, so I (reasonably) called Gven Golly on my cell. She was home, not terribly busy, and said she would be there shortly with the pickup truck. Five minutes later, as luck would have it, the rain stopped, so I called her again. She had only gotten a couple of blocks from home, so I said never mind, I'd rather ride home, but thanks anyway. To ask to be rescued and then not need it was less humiliating than actually being rescued.
The ride home was a breeze, except for the inevitable mud spattered on my butt by a wet rear wheel. There weren't as many people on the trail or in the park, and I couldn't take the corners as fast, but a few hardy souls were still out there, and I was glad to be one of them. Because I took it slow, I never hit the aerobic wall, even coming up the hill toward High Street on Wilson Bridge Road. I had just enough daylight and energy to cruise the last couple of miles on almost-deserted roads and roll into Methodistville in time for dinner.
So, what's this little allegory all about? Nothing very subtle. I'm very attached to my tenuous hold on the physical mobility I discovered at about age nine, and it's hard to let go of, given the probability of flat tires, sprained knees, and cardiovascular decline. In the meantime, it's fun to push the envelope just a little.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Wicca-pedia
If you've ever heard Margot Adler on National Public Radio, you know she's a skilled radio news reporter. She also happens to be the granddaughter of the pioneering psychologist Alfred Adler, a less famous contemporary of Freud and Jung. I ran across her book Drawing Down the Moon (NY: Penguin, 1986/2006) because it was on a minister friend's recommended reading list. At first I was just curious, then astounded by her erudition, critical questioning, reasonableness, and fairness. If you have even the remotest interest in what is sometimes called "Earth-centered spirituality," this book has something for you. To wit:
I remember once at a yoga retreat in north Georgia, it was Sunday afternoon and everybody was feeling good, the event was winding down, and someone was playing a guitar and singing "We are one, we are one," and my friend Alex turned and quietly said, "No, we're not." There is a giant prejudice in Amerikan culture toward unification, standardization, and monoculture, with a concomitant fear of pluralism, differences, and multiple anything (species, languages, religions, sexual orientations, ethnicities, narratives, histories, deities). E Pluribus Unum maybe should be E Unibus Plurum.
Here's another excerpt that might (or might not) make sense in this context:
Maybe I'm just bored with the usual religious vocabulary, but I'm looking forward to learning more about this kind of thing. I'm sure there are plenty of unreliable sources, wacko practices, and people I don't want to associate with, but I have a feeling there might be some interesting folks out there on the fringes.
James Hillman’s essay “Psychology: Monotheistic or Polytheistic”....said that psychology had long been colored by a theology of monotheism, especially in its view that unity, integration, wholeness, is always the proper goal of psychological development and that fragmentation is always a sign of pathology....Carrying this idea to the extreme, Hillman suggested that the multitude of tongues in Babel, traditionally interpreted as a “decline,” could also be seen as a true picture of psychic reality. (p. 28)
I remember once at a yoga retreat in north Georgia, it was Sunday afternoon and everybody was feeling good, the event was winding down, and someone was playing a guitar and singing "We are one, we are one," and my friend Alex turned and quietly said, "No, we're not." There is a giant prejudice in Amerikan culture toward unification, standardization, and monoculture, with a concomitant fear of pluralism, differences, and multiple anything (species, languages, religions, sexual orientations, ethnicities, narratives, histories, deities). E Pluribus Unum maybe should be E Unibus Plurum.
Here's another excerpt that might (or might not) make sense in this context:
Often our conceptions of psychic reality and the magical techniques we might use are simply a function of the particular culture we live in. Robert Wilson humorously observes:
Modern psychology has rediscovered and empirically demonstrated the universal truth of the Buddhist axiom that phenomena adjust themselves to the perceiver....The fairy-folk are like that. They come on as Holy Virgins to the Catholics, dead relatives to the spiritualist, UFOs to the Sci-Fi fans, Men in Black to the paranoids, demons to the masochistic, divine lovers to the sensual, pure concepts to the logicians, clowns from the heavenly circus to the humorist, psychotic episodes to the psychiatrist, Higher Intelligences to the philosopher, number and paradox to the mathematician and epistemologist. (p. 161)
Maybe I'm just bored with the usual religious vocabulary, but I'm looking forward to learning more about this kind of thing. I'm sure there are plenty of unreliable sources, wacko practices, and people I don't want to associate with, but I have a feeling there might be some interesting folks out there on the fringes.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
No, thank YOU
It was the most ordinary of days. I was pulling weeds, mainly to have something green to put on top of the newspaper laid on top of the week's compost. Weeds, compost, newspaper...it's all about layering.
Zelda came out to ask me some questions about her car. Jiffi-Lube had changed the oil but not topped-off all the fluids, as she had expected, and told her she needed a new battery, but she was skeptical. We took a look, and her Focus clearly needed coolant and transmission fluid. We had just enough of the latter in the garage to fill it to the 'full' line. She looked up 'coolant' in the owner's manual and asked me to go to Advance Auto with her.
Are you kidding? Of course I'll go.
We hop in her car and drive the mile down State Street while she tells me about seeing a former co-worker in the art department at Publishing Conglomerate Inc., Paul, who was at her bookstore, Cheap Books, to sell some books and mentioned his brother, Joe, who coached soccer with me when we lived in Grandview and our kids were little. Well, Joe now works at another Cheap Books store near Grandview, where Zelda was helping do inventory for a couple of days last week, so she talked to Joe (who says hi) and learned that his son Cole, who was a good friend of Jessi's in second grade, is now going to school at CCAD.
All this in like two minutes.
The service guy at Advance Auto was very helpful. Zelda ask him about coolant, and we quickly figured out that we didn't need Polykryptonite Zirkon-encrusted Special Coolant, we needed regular coolant.
Then we looked at batteries and compared the Silver 3-year warranty $75.00 battery and the Blue 2-year warranty $59.95 battery, but the service guy offered to test her battery for free. "It will take two minutes." He wheeled the machine out to the parking lot, right next to where Smackie's Barbecue was feeding the throngs of people in black tee-shirts out to ogle the customized motorcycles and classic cars on an August afternoon in Methodistville.
Turns out her battery is fine, so for the cost of a gallon of antifreeze Zelda was good to go. However, I got in my Ranger and went directly back to Advance Auto to have my battery tested. (A little back-story: it's been running a little rough, and once last week refused to start while parked in front of Ron Order of the Arrow's house. Ron had jumper cables, and his neighbor gave us a jump, but that gave me a warning.) Service guy's machine told me my battery was "bad" and wasn't holding enough of a charge; there was corrosion on the terminals, and it was probably overworking the alternator. You can use the same machine to test an alternator, but only if you have a good battery, so first things first. I bought a new battery - the cheaper one - and service guy installed it on the spot.
Was it my imagination, or was the Ranger running a little smoother after starting right up?
Zelda was amused that her car checkup led to my getting a new battery. She was also immpressed with the service guy for answering her questions directly, for treating her as the customer, and for addressing the appropriate information to her, not her old man. I allowed as how he had also treated me with respect, too, instead of patronizing me as some mechanics would.
She went out the back gate to her evening activities and called back to me, "Thanks for helping me today, Dad." You're welcome. Then a hawk flew through a gap in the trees about ten feet above my head and across the back yard to a pine tree.
Zelda came out to ask me some questions about her car. Jiffi-Lube had changed the oil but not topped-off all the fluids, as she had expected, and told her she needed a new battery, but she was skeptical. We took a look, and her Focus clearly needed coolant and transmission fluid. We had just enough of the latter in the garage to fill it to the 'full' line. She looked up 'coolant' in the owner's manual and asked me to go to Advance Auto with her.
Are you kidding? Of course I'll go.
We hop in her car and drive the mile down State Street while she tells me about seeing a former co-worker in the art department at Publishing Conglomerate Inc., Paul, who was at her bookstore, Cheap Books, to sell some books and mentioned his brother, Joe, who coached soccer with me when we lived in Grandview and our kids were little. Well, Joe now works at another Cheap Books store near Grandview, where Zelda was helping do inventory for a couple of days last week, so she talked to Joe (who says hi) and learned that his son Cole, who was a good friend of Jessi's in second grade, is now going to school at CCAD.
All this in like two minutes.
The service guy at Advance Auto was very helpful. Zelda ask him about coolant, and we quickly figured out that we didn't need Polykryptonite Zirkon-encrusted Special Coolant, we needed regular coolant.
Then we looked at batteries and compared the Silver 3-year warranty $75.00 battery and the Blue 2-year warranty $59.95 battery, but the service guy offered to test her battery for free. "It will take two minutes." He wheeled the machine out to the parking lot, right next to where Smackie's Barbecue was feeding the throngs of people in black tee-shirts out to ogle the customized motorcycles and classic cars on an August afternoon in Methodistville.
Turns out her battery is fine, so for the cost of a gallon of antifreeze Zelda was good to go. However, I got in my Ranger and went directly back to Advance Auto to have my battery tested. (A little back-story: it's been running a little rough, and once last week refused to start while parked in front of Ron Order of the Arrow's house. Ron had jumper cables, and his neighbor gave us a jump, but that gave me a warning.) Service guy's machine told me my battery was "bad" and wasn't holding enough of a charge; there was corrosion on the terminals, and it was probably overworking the alternator. You can use the same machine to test an alternator, but only if you have a good battery, so first things first. I bought a new battery - the cheaper one - and service guy installed it on the spot.
Was it my imagination, or was the Ranger running a little smoother after starting right up?
Zelda was amused that her car checkup led to my getting a new battery. She was also immpressed with the service guy for answering her questions directly, for treating her as the customer, and for addressing the appropriate information to her, not her old man. I allowed as how he had also treated me with respect, too, instead of patronizing me as some mechanics would.
She went out the back gate to her evening activities and called back to me, "Thanks for helping me today, Dad." You're welcome. Then a hawk flew through a gap in the trees about ten feet above my head and across the back yard to a pine tree.
Monday, August 13, 2007
State Fair 101
Syllabus:
I. Do your chores first, dontchaknow.
A. Bake bread - yeasted and sourdough - oh ya.
B. Take out recycling, trash, compost.
C. Wash dishes, do a load of laundry, water plants.
D. Eat something (e.g., eggs, toast, rice, beans). Keep it simple.
II. Get going by mid-afternoon.
A. Bring water, money, hat, sunglasses.
B. Find free parking on Dora Lane (alley off 17th Ave. and 4th St.) in front of Xenos Christian Fellowship.
C. Find ATM in convenience store, get more money; experience small inner-city, multicultural, bilingual confrontation; awaken to the fact that all adventures involve things going other than as planned.
D. Enter at 17th Ave. gate.
III. Go directly to the sheep barn.
A. Take time to observe things you don't have on your agenda.
1. Sheep: their appearance, habits, character.
2. Sheep owners, handlers, families, judges: their appearance, habits, character.
3. Other fairgoers: their appearance, habits, character.
4. Consider a career as a shepherd.
B. Peruse the raw wool and wool products on display in a side area of the sheep barn.
1. Suggest to spouse that a couple of wool-bearing animals might make a good sideline if/when we move out of town.
2. Receive skeptical response.
IV. Go to the dairy barn.
A. Watch the Jerseys, Guernseys, and Brown Swiss.
1. Remember Ms. Red, our cow at Strawberry Mountain Farm in Walker County, Georgia, whom we milked every morning and evening for about two years, whose milk we made into yogurt, skimming the abundant cream, which we drank in our coffee and ate with our oatmeal.
2. Notice similar traits between breeds, ask a dairy farmer, who patiently explains a few simple things for the city folks.
B. Get a chocolate shake.
1. Use a spoon; it's way too thick for a straw.
2. A large shake will last the rest of the afternoon if you work it right, perfect on a hot August afternoon.
V. Go to the beef cattle barn.
A. It's a completely different crowd/subculture.
B. Think NASCAR.
VI. Go to the amphitheater.
A. Oh, well, there are no performances this afternoon, so we missed all the cool horseshowmanship.
B. There is, however, a single horse trotting round and round the arena with a teenage rider who takes obvious pleasure in the rhythmic movement of the big animal.
1. Note the somatic (physical, psychic, emotional, etc.) connection between the horse and the rider, how they respond to each other instantaneously.
2. No wonder the ancients were fascinated with centaurs.
VII. Go look at chickens and rabbits.
A. These are probably the prettiest hens in the whole state, otherwise they wouldn't be living the high life at the state fair, right? But they are quite beautiful.
B. The roosters are much smaller, but they make up for it in magnificent crowing.
VIII. Go to the fine arts building.
A. Finish your ice cream first, because you can't take a lidless container inside and spill your chocolate shake all over the objets d'art.
B. As in any gallery or museum, take your time. Walk around, don't stop at every piece, but let something grab you by the throat to take a closer look.
1. This show was carefully hung by someone who knows what they're doing, and there were three well-selected paintings hung together just inside the entrance: same size (large) but very different styles in similar palette of reds and oranges. I bounced from one to the others and back, finally transfixed by the one called "Sun Salutation," which had a lot of energy.
2. Only a few other pieces really made me want to keep looking - a pair of prints playing off Japanese printmaking and calligraphy, especially - but I like the way they include a huge variety of media and subjects. It's the state fair, after all.
IX. Winding down, check out the cool Andean music coming from a band at a little tent on the edge of the midway!
X. Quilts and other crafts are in a building on the north side of 17th Ave.
A. Gven Golly's Aunt Irene has a few exquisite traditional quilts in the show, as usual, and they are fine work indeed.
B. Gven's friend Kate has a whole bunch of small quilts on display that her students made with a cow theme: Andy Warhol-style, each kid in her class in Sandusky made an original color combination from a common shape (head of cow), and the assemblage of cows is dazzling.
XI. Epilog: Rumba Cafe on Summit St. is a perfect respite.
A. We were ready to call it a day but not ready to go home; Gven Golly suggested a beer; I suggested a place where my drum teacher plays sometimes.
1. Now for something completely different: polished wood, quiet for an early Saturday evening, the Browns exhibition game on the tube, and a decent selection of beers.
2. As the band set up inside, we found a table out on the patio. As our neurons processed a day of high stimulation and rich midwestern (agri)cultural ethnography, we relaxed into wide-ranging conversation.
B. We had a lot to talk about.
I. Do your chores first, dontchaknow.
A. Bake bread - yeasted and sourdough - oh ya.
B. Take out recycling, trash, compost.
C. Wash dishes, do a load of laundry, water plants.
D. Eat something (e.g., eggs, toast, rice, beans). Keep it simple.
II. Get going by mid-afternoon.
A. Bring water, money, hat, sunglasses.
B. Find free parking on Dora Lane (alley off 17th Ave. and 4th St.) in front of Xenos Christian Fellowship.
C. Find ATM in convenience store, get more money; experience small inner-city, multicultural, bilingual confrontation; awaken to the fact that all adventures involve things going other than as planned.
D. Enter at 17th Ave. gate.
III. Go directly to the sheep barn.
A. Take time to observe things you don't have on your agenda.
1. Sheep: their appearance, habits, character.
2. Sheep owners, handlers, families, judges: their appearance, habits, character.
3. Other fairgoers: their appearance, habits, character.
4. Consider a career as a shepherd.
B. Peruse the raw wool and wool products on display in a side area of the sheep barn.
1. Suggest to spouse that a couple of wool-bearing animals might make a good sideline if/when we move out of town.
2. Receive skeptical response.
IV. Go to the dairy barn.
A. Watch the Jerseys, Guernseys, and Brown Swiss.
1. Remember Ms. Red, our cow at Strawberry Mountain Farm in Walker County, Georgia, whom we milked every morning and evening for about two years, whose milk we made into yogurt, skimming the abundant cream, which we drank in our coffee and ate with our oatmeal.
2. Notice similar traits between breeds, ask a dairy farmer, who patiently explains a few simple things for the city folks.
B. Get a chocolate shake.
1. Use a spoon; it's way too thick for a straw.
2. A large shake will last the rest of the afternoon if you work it right, perfect on a hot August afternoon.
V. Go to the beef cattle barn.
A. It's a completely different crowd/subculture.
B. Think NASCAR.
VI. Go to the amphitheater.
A. Oh, well, there are no performances this afternoon, so we missed all the cool horseshowmanship.
B. There is, however, a single horse trotting round and round the arena with a teenage rider who takes obvious pleasure in the rhythmic movement of the big animal.
1. Note the somatic (physical, psychic, emotional, etc.) connection between the horse and the rider, how they respond to each other instantaneously.
2. No wonder the ancients were fascinated with centaurs.
VII. Go look at chickens and rabbits.
A. These are probably the prettiest hens in the whole state, otherwise they wouldn't be living the high life at the state fair, right? But they are quite beautiful.
B. The roosters are much smaller, but they make up for it in magnificent crowing.
VIII. Go to the fine arts building.
A. Finish your ice cream first, because you can't take a lidless container inside and spill your chocolate shake all over the objets d'art.
B. As in any gallery or museum, take your time. Walk around, don't stop at every piece, but let something grab you by the throat to take a closer look.
1. This show was carefully hung by someone who knows what they're doing, and there were three well-selected paintings hung together just inside the entrance: same size (large) but very different styles in similar palette of reds and oranges. I bounced from one to the others and back, finally transfixed by the one called "Sun Salutation," which had a lot of energy.
2. Only a few other pieces really made me want to keep looking - a pair of prints playing off Japanese printmaking and calligraphy, especially - but I like the way they include a huge variety of media and subjects. It's the state fair, after all.
IX. Winding down, check out the cool Andean music coming from a band at a little tent on the edge of the midway!
X. Quilts and other crafts are in a building on the north side of 17th Ave.
A. Gven Golly's Aunt Irene has a few exquisite traditional quilts in the show, as usual, and they are fine work indeed.
B. Gven's friend Kate has a whole bunch of small quilts on display that her students made with a cow theme: Andy Warhol-style, each kid in her class in Sandusky made an original color combination from a common shape (head of cow), and the assemblage of cows is dazzling.
XI. Epilog: Rumba Cafe on Summit St. is a perfect respite.
A. We were ready to call it a day but not ready to go home; Gven Golly suggested a beer; I suggested a place where my drum teacher plays sometimes.
1. Now for something completely different: polished wood, quiet for an early Saturday evening, the Browns exhibition game on the tube, and a decent selection of beers.
2. As the band set up inside, we found a table out on the patio. As our neurons processed a day of high stimulation and rich midwestern (agri)cultural ethnography, we relaxed into wide-ranging conversation.
B. We had a lot to talk about.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Prodigal son of a prodigal son of a prodigal son
Surreal Monday morning bus station Ohio, waiting for arrival of son and friend. It could be any bus station in any city: chairs, bags, ticket desk, TV, snack bar, all kinds of people. This ain't no party, this ain't no country club, yet there are certain rules of decorum, and bus station people seem to know how to act in a bus station.
The bus from Philly to Pittsburgh to Columbus is running an hour late, so I have some time to contemplate the son and his girlfriend, their arrival and reception in our humble home, their first impressions, their second impressions, their levels of comfort and discomfort, their adaptability in a midwestern middle-class alternative funky works-in-progress cultural milieu. I watch a little quality daytime TV, something about vampires, check my messages, make some notes, try to be patient.
There they are, both tall and angular and slightly rough around the edges, a little tired after an all-night bus trip. Jessi's hair is longer than last I saw it, and Alex has a new lip ring. I hug them both at once, and we walk out to the car, drive north from downtown to our little suburb. We talk about Alex's dream and a Neal Stephenson novel Jessi is reading, the way a fictional dystopia can be part of the problem instead of part of the solution, and for a minute it's like old times, talking about books with the kid who remembers long chains of detailed narrative while I chime in with analytical observations, but now his critical analysis goes way beyond mine, and it's fun to vainly try to keep up.
It's only a little bit shocking to see them, somewhat changed since their last visit last year from a very different subculture in a very different city, but then so am I. It will take a day or so to settle in, relax into a comfort zone, and enjoy a few days together. We are already finding ways to accept and overcome these surface clashes and really see and get to know each other. Kafka meets the cyberpunks.
J and A spent the day settling into the upstairs room that Zelda kindly gave up so that they could be comfortable. I had a longish, nerve-jangling day at the office and came home haggard to a scene that immediately lifted my spirits. The two of them enjoying the backyard that is my labor of love. Jessi was walking around the vegetable beds checking out the volunteer squash (or melon?) vines, tomatoes, pappers, and the compost setup. Alex was moving from room to room within the yard with her large-format camera, framing and shooting various angles and elements of the space. I think they have accomplished re-entry on Planet Methodistville.
Jessi and I had a few minutes to sit and talk in the den that looks out on the backyard. He told me about the chicken they have at their house in Brooklyn and about some issues with the neighbors, the landlady, the housemates, and the chicken. Zelda and Gven came home, and we decided on a place to go for dinner. The margaritas at El Vaquero were sweet, salty, and delicious; the food was predictable and tasty. I don't remember what we talked about, but it felt good to sit in a booth, kill the fatted burrito, and have a meal together.
Tuesday was another longish workday, and "the kids," as Gven is now calling them, spent the evening at Jessi's friend Andy's place. This could have been my opportunity to get some work done on a manuscript that's sitting on my desk, but no. I chose to watch Part 3 of the Ingmar Bergman Film Festival that is currently taking place in our living room. Bergman died last week, and I missed the first two or three waves of his popularity in the second half of the last century. I'm only now beginning to appreciate his work. By the library reserve lottery, I checked out 'Scenes From a Marriage', 'Saraband', 'Autumn Sonata', and 'The Magician' and watched the first three. Besides being visually amazing - large parts I would gladly watch again without any sound, they are shot so beautifully - the writing comes across well, even in subtitles, and the musicaly soundtrack seems to play a major role. And who wouldn't want to look at Liv Ullman for two hours?
Wednesday was busier yet, but I had the advantage of a taiji class before coming home to Zelda, Jessi, and Alex sitting peacefully on the patio on probably the hottest day of the year. After a brief negotiation, we ordered pizza and opened a large bottle of chilled white wine. The spider lilies that Grandpa Golly gave us a couple of years ago chose this week to bloom - long, thin, white petals with bright orange-tipped stamens - five of them in big pots on the patio. By the time the table was set, the pizza was delivered, and our friends the Gormans arrived with ice cream, it was cooling off on the patio. By dessert I was the most contented man in the universe. Good food, a tiny bit too much wine, people I care about, and conversation to die for, no amount of pre-planning could have made it more right.
We had to get up early Thursday morning to make it to the bus station on time, but we did, and saying good-bye so soon was bittersweet. I will review this time in my head for the next few days: wishing I had said things I forgot to say, wishing I hadn't run my mouth so much, wishing we'd had time to go to the state fair, wishing we'd had a chance to go for a bike ride, hoping there will be many more opportunities, but mainly grateful for the time toegether.
The bus from Philly to Pittsburgh to Columbus is running an hour late, so I have some time to contemplate the son and his girlfriend, their arrival and reception in our humble home, their first impressions, their second impressions, their levels of comfort and discomfort, their adaptability in a midwestern middle-class alternative funky works-in-progress cultural milieu. I watch a little quality daytime TV, something about vampires, check my messages, make some notes, try to be patient.
There they are, both tall and angular and slightly rough around the edges, a little tired after an all-night bus trip. Jessi's hair is longer than last I saw it, and Alex has a new lip ring. I hug them both at once, and we walk out to the car, drive north from downtown to our little suburb. We talk about Alex's dream and a Neal Stephenson novel Jessi is reading, the way a fictional dystopia can be part of the problem instead of part of the solution, and for a minute it's like old times, talking about books with the kid who remembers long chains of detailed narrative while I chime in with analytical observations, but now his critical analysis goes way beyond mine, and it's fun to vainly try to keep up.
It's only a little bit shocking to see them, somewhat changed since their last visit last year from a very different subculture in a very different city, but then so am I. It will take a day or so to settle in, relax into a comfort zone, and enjoy a few days together. We are already finding ways to accept and overcome these surface clashes and really see and get to know each other. Kafka meets the cyberpunks.
J and A spent the day settling into the upstairs room that Zelda kindly gave up so that they could be comfortable. I had a longish, nerve-jangling day at the office and came home haggard to a scene that immediately lifted my spirits. The two of them enjoying the backyard that is my labor of love. Jessi was walking around the vegetable beds checking out the volunteer squash (or melon?) vines, tomatoes, pappers, and the compost setup. Alex was moving from room to room within the yard with her large-format camera, framing and shooting various angles and elements of the space. I think they have accomplished re-entry on Planet Methodistville.
Jessi and I had a few minutes to sit and talk in the den that looks out on the backyard. He told me about the chicken they have at their house in Brooklyn and about some issues with the neighbors, the landlady, the housemates, and the chicken. Zelda and Gven came home, and we decided on a place to go for dinner. The margaritas at El Vaquero were sweet, salty, and delicious; the food was predictable and tasty. I don't remember what we talked about, but it felt good to sit in a booth, kill the fatted burrito, and have a meal together.
Tuesday was another longish workday, and "the kids," as Gven is now calling them, spent the evening at Jessi's friend Andy's place. This could have been my opportunity to get some work done on a manuscript that's sitting on my desk, but no. I chose to watch Part 3 of the Ingmar Bergman Film Festival that is currently taking place in our living room. Bergman died last week, and I missed the first two or three waves of his popularity in the second half of the last century. I'm only now beginning to appreciate his work. By the library reserve lottery, I checked out 'Scenes From a Marriage', 'Saraband', 'Autumn Sonata', and 'The Magician' and watched the first three. Besides being visually amazing - large parts I would gladly watch again without any sound, they are shot so beautifully - the writing comes across well, even in subtitles, and the musicaly soundtrack seems to play a major role. And who wouldn't want to look at Liv Ullman for two hours?
Wednesday was busier yet, but I had the advantage of a taiji class before coming home to Zelda, Jessi, and Alex sitting peacefully on the patio on probably the hottest day of the year. After a brief negotiation, we ordered pizza and opened a large bottle of chilled white wine. The spider lilies that Grandpa Golly gave us a couple of years ago chose this week to bloom - long, thin, white petals with bright orange-tipped stamens - five of them in big pots on the patio. By the time the table was set, the pizza was delivered, and our friends the Gormans arrived with ice cream, it was cooling off on the patio. By dessert I was the most contented man in the universe. Good food, a tiny bit too much wine, people I care about, and conversation to die for, no amount of pre-planning could have made it more right.
We had to get up early Thursday morning to make it to the bus station on time, but we did, and saying good-bye so soon was bittersweet. I will review this time in my head for the next few days: wishing I had said things I forgot to say, wishing I hadn't run my mouth so much, wishing we'd had time to go to the state fair, wishing we'd had a chance to go for a bike ride, hoping there will be many more opportunities, but mainly grateful for the time toegether.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
