The Paper Tyger

Serious Moonlight

2011-11-10T17:35:00.001-05:00

With all due respect to David Bowie, that was some serious moonlight last night.

I have, admittedly, not been terribly successful at blogging here every day in November. More days than not, but that's not the point of the exercise. The good news is that on the days where I haven't put up a post here, I have worked on other writing projects.

The past couple of days I've been en route from Minnesota to Connecticut and internet access was spotty along the way, but I had a really wonderful trip. Snow was to begin falling in Minnesota shortly after I departed, and as I crossed the Mississippi River into Wisconsin the sky looked as though it might snow at any moment. Looking down the river the bluffs were already a wintery blue, looking as though they were part of an old-fashioned cyanotype.

Crossing Wisconsin is rarely my favorite part of the journey east, no offense to my badger state pals, but it can be a terribly annoying drive what with the folks in their Crown Victorias who seem to feel they were born with an entitlement to drive in the passing lane on I-90. At a speed of 50 or so miles per hour. In a 70 mile per hour zone. This lead foot admittedly has little patience for those who won't slide over for those of us who are really through traffic.

From Wisconsin--where cheese curd and bread cheese were procured--it's basically onward to Chicago. Even though it was drippy and dark, I love the drive through Chi-town. It's such a great city and even though the skyscrapers were shrouded in a dense fog bank, I wasn't disappointed. Chicago always feels a little like home to me.

I stopped for the night in Mishawaka, Indiana. It's basically South Bend, but I suspect they don't like it when you say that. Typically I'd go farther on the first day of my drive, but I was getting a little drowsy and my knee definitely needed a break, so it was likely for the best. I didn't rest as well as one might when one is exhausted, but I still decamped for points east at a properly early hour making short work of the remainder of Indiana and then crossing into Ohio. Now, if you scroll back through my posts, I believe you'll see a certain amount of negativity toward Ohio (in general) and the Ohio Turnpike (specifically) which I generally rename the Ohio Turnip Pike. To be fair, there are some really pretty stretches of Ohio with rolling hills and bright fall colors...as you get close to Pennsylvania. The first hundred-plus miles as you go past Toledo (Remind me, someday I'll tell you about The Catholic Club and Toledo. It's not a story for the faint of heart...) are just not a lot to look at. I will say that I do enjoy the drive through Cleveland and the way that Lake Erie just kind of appears as you make the sharp right hand turn.

When I left Indiana at 0-dark-hundred hours I wasn't sure whether I was going to take the sensible route--I-80 though Pennsylvania (where you cross the state in relatively direct fashion, and then wind around the Scranton-Wilkes Barre area)--or the way I've come to prefer, the Southern Tier Expressway which takes travelers from Erie to Jamestown and then winds through Allegany State Park (Allegheny in PA) and then across New York State down into the Catskills before depositing exhausted sojourners back onto I-84.

Drawn by the possibility of one last Steak-and-Shake stop in Erie, PA, I took the road that is (I think, anyway) the road less traveled, the Southern Tier Expressway, also known as New York State Route 17 and Future I-86. I know, it's a lot to take in...so let's just call it the scenic route.

Via my BlackBerry, Allegany skies in the rearview.

The first time I took this route west, I was avoiding some of the typical construction on I-80 in Pennsylvania. I thought it would be a one-off as it is a bit longer in distance, and most certainly less direct. But as I crossed New York, mostly in daylight that first trip, I was so happy that I'd decided on this road.

Here on the scenic route you can drive from Cuba to Salamanca and Panama to Damascus. Painted Post, Horseheads, Friendship, and Amity aren't far off, either. The road rises and falls with the undulating hills of the Allegany Range and the crisp "mountain" air is punctuated by smoke from wood-burning stoves. Chautauqua Lake greets drivers not long after Erie, Pennsylvania, and from there it's beautiful hills and gently rolling, brilliantly verdant meadows. The setting of the sun as I made my way east meant deep rosy pinks and warm amber clouds gleaming back at me from my rearview mirror. And that was only the start of Mother Nature's show for the evening.

So back to that serious moonlight I mentioned above. The moon rose higher and higher in the sky and by the time I was reaching the Catskills region it was shining down from the midnight blue sky like a torch. And the sky was just that blue--exactly like the Midnight Blue crayon in the big box of 64 crayons from Crayola--and that clear. Stars were everywhere and the bright beacon of Jupiter, holding court just to the right of the Moon, was simply gorgeous. There's something both comforting and nostalgia-inducing about the full(ish) moonlight shining down on valleys, towns, hamlets, and villages with warm lights and white steeples peeking back at you. As I approached the Beaver Kill River area, the moon was glinting quicksilver off the river, cool and haunting. I needed to take a break and have a little coffee so I pulled off and listened to the water tumble over the rocks as the moon shone down...it was idyllic and the best nocturne I could imagine. I'm not a painter, but when I see the moonlight on the water, I always wish that I was one. I can see the light, the cold silver reflections are etched in my mind. Moonlight in Vermont has nothing on Moonlight in the Catskills. I couldn't have asked for a more beautiful late stage of my journey.

This happy traveler is also happy to be home in Connecticut. As Judy Garland once sang in Connecticut Is the Place For Me...

I know the spot, peaceful and fair,

I'd be so happy if I were there.

No matter where I chance to be,

Connecticut is the place for me.

Miss every lake, miss every hill,

Even in dreams I think of them still.

And when you see them you'll agree,

Connecticut is the place to be.

Village greens and childhood scenes,

Are things I remember yet.

Land of dreams and moonlit streams,

How close to heaven can you get?

Nights full of stars, hearts full of joy,

Paradise for girl and a boy,

I guess it suits me to a tee,

Connecticut is the place for me to be,

Connecticut is the place for me.

Reporting from Rrrrochester...

2011-11-06T22:54:00.001-05:00

Even though I'm not anywhere near old enough to actually remember anything other than you-tube clips of The Jack Benny Show, Benny's drawling call out to Eddie "Rochester" Anderson has somehow crept into my subconscious along with too many Monty Python routines and most of the dialogue from Gone With the Wind, The Sound of Music (I blame my Mother for this one), Casablanca, a few of the Thin Man films, and St. Elmo's Fire.

Right, now where was I going with this? Yes. Now I remember. Seeing as I'm heading back to Connecticut on Tuesday (and hope we'll all be lit up by then, FINGERS CROSSED!!) I took a few minutes today to stop back down to the Plummer Building and take some more photographs. No crowds, no one hurrying past you and clear shot at any details you wish to capture.

One of the first things I noticed when approaching the doors that I was planning on photographing was the wonderful warmth of old building smell. I'd smelled it last weekend as well, but there's a kind of comforting clean scent that is a mix of old books, old leather, and some kind of polish. This will sound ridiculous to those who don't skulk about old structures, but for those of us who do, I bet you know the aroma I'm talking about.

Last weekend I'd heard the strains of a lovely piano concerto coming from downstairs in the Siebens building next door...this week I met another "fan" for lack of a better term. We exchanged Dr. Henry Plummer stories (his combination of single-minded focus and absent-mindedness for daily life are legendary around Rochester) and he and his small daughter were on their way. I'm always a little surprised when I'm approached because (a) we all know I' have sunnies on roughly 85% of the time and (b) I try terribly hard not to look approachable. But yet, it happens. All the time. In every country I've visited, from France to Hungary and even, yes, Canada, I'm the one who gets stopped and queried for directions. Now yes, often I can be of help and I don't mind doing so, but I wonder if there's a special sign that's flashing from my scarf or my boots that says..."Please Ask Me!"It's a mystery.

And as I was leaving, of course, there was a horse...the lovely (and somewhat angry in this representation) winged horse, Pegasus, occupies a prominent place above the main glass doors. I'm always on the look for signs, I'm funny that way and as I took one last look at the large bronze doors, polished to a deep, warm glow, I caught sight of this...an oak leaf and acorn, the symbols of Connecticut and The Charter Oak. I've decided to consider this a wee sign that my trip back to Connecticut will go well. As the nutmeg state motto goes, "Qui Transtulit Sustinet"(He who is transplanted still sustains).

The Horse That Stops a Nation

2011-11-05T00:35:00.001-04:00

I could be wrong, but I don't think the US has "stopped" for a horse race since the 1938 match race between Seabiscuit and War Admiral. Back then, as was lovingly chronicled in Laura Hillenbrand's book, it was a nation glued to their radios and calling off sick or pulling their cars over to the side of the road to hear the broadcast of "the race of the century."

Things like that don't seem to happen in horse racing anymore and I--along with my racing pals--often bemoan the fact that horse racing feels so much further away from the public's consciousness than it used to be. The beautiful and talented Zenyatta undoubtedly brought new fans into racing, but not many other horses in recent years have had her magnetic combination of grace, star power, beauty, and overwhelming class.

And then onto our collective racing radar screen strode Black Caviar. She's an Aussie mare, a brilliant sprinter, and she's won all of her 16 races with elegant ease. Racing under chic salmon and black silks, the large bay mare is grace personified. I'd say she's never really been tested so we don't know just how good she honestly is because she's yet to *need* to go full throttle. It's easy to run out of superlatives when writing and talking about this superstar.

I've stayed up into the wee hours of the morning or woken up well before O-dark-hundred to watch Black Caviar with a wonderful (and international) cadre of racing fans. We've tweeted, had a Google+ hangout (with cocktails!) and each time shared our collective admiration for this mare. From both coasts of Canada, to Wisconsin, Pennsylvania and down under to Oz itself, we all amble in, as if to some international watering hole in a Humphrey Bogart film, and we cheer for "our" girl. OURS because like all the greats, they can in a small way belong to everyone. We carry a piece of them around with us when we share their victories with our non-racing friends. Every time I "introduce" someone to Black Caviar they comment on how effortlessly she runs, how professional she is. Little by little, "Nelly" as she is called familiarly, winds around your heart and you just have to see her next race. She's addictive. And let's hope that she's got many more thrills in store in the coming year!

And she's good for racing, good for sport, good for us all. The horses who remain in our memory touch us and they share with us briefly their eagerness and their heart...they remind us of all the best qualities we can strive for.

If you're not yet familiar with Black Caviar and her winning ways, check her out. I dare you not to fall head-over-heels in love with this mare, the horse that stops a nation. http://www.blackcaviar.net.au/

And a shout out to the "usual suspects" @inkmarksofsu, @milkmaid58 @hltonini, @ourmaizcay, @cmdevereux who make it such fun to cheer for Black Caviar every couple of weeks!

No mojo for NaBloPoMo (or something like that...)

2011-11-04T00:06:00.000-04:00

Some days you've got it, somedays you couldn't buy it with all the gold in Fort Knox. (That is, if there actually IS gold in Fort Knox...had to toss that in for the conspiracy theorists out there!)

I've taken many photographs over the last two days--of everything from landscapes to interiors to close ups of vintage cooking utensils--and nothing turned out. Over-exposed, under-exposed, slightly out of focus (thanks, autofocus and your gazillion zones...) too close, too far, no depth of field. You name it, there the glaring fault was in any of the photos I've taken. Not wrong enough to be really bad (in most cases), but wrong enough to elicit a sigh of frustration and merit a drag to the trash can in iPhoto.

And maybe it's the same for writing today...because none of my photos inspired me (and likely because I'm pretty tired and in the parlance of a friend "feeling rougher than a badger's arse" from some LONG days) and I'm rather drained, the words just don't want to flow.

So, that said...you're getting a shamelessly lame blog post for today and a perfectly "nice" autumn photo of some chrysanthemums. Let's hope for better things in entry 4...

When in Rochester...

2011-11-02T23:02:00.000-04:00

Since I'm still in Minnesota (and why not since my part of Connecticut is still mostly dark and rather chilly) today's entry will once again be centered around good old Rochester.

On the day when the Northeast was being pummeled by the Nor'easter, I was enjoying a quiet stroll around the Mayo Clinic campus here in town. The weather was lovely and since the clinic buildings themselves aren't really open on weekends (the Mayo hospitals are, obviously, but not the clinic buildings) it's the perfect time to soak up the beautiful plantings, the architectural details (as per yesterday's post) and enjoy the bells pealing out from the carillon tower. The carillon is rarely--if ever--on tour, but if you get the chance to visit it, snap it up immediately. The tower offers stunning views of the hills surrounding Rochester and you can really appreciate the terra cotta work and the gargoyles from that vantage point, too.

And since Mayowood, the former home of Dr. Charles H. Mayo (and later his son Charles W. Mayo) has been in the news lately, I took the time to stop and "chat" with Charlie and his elder brother, Will, in the small plaza where they hold court behind the Gonda building. It seemed only fitting to stop and spend a few minutes with two wise and utterly old-school gentlemen. The two men were incredibly close, living next door to one another during their early married days in homes that were connected by a speaking tube. There was even a double rocking chair on Charlie's front porch...for the Mayo brothers even rocking in a chair was a cooperative effort. Charlie always looked a little rumpled and somewhat like the town grocer, whereas Will was steely eyed and the picture of sophistication and stoicism. Charlie, who would eventually move his large and active family out to the farms that made up Mayowood (there were seven farms including a dairy and greenhouse, riding stables, and a sulky track), considered himself an agriculturalist, not a farmer. The difference being that farmers made their money on the farm and spent it in town and agriculturalists such as Charlie made their money in town and spent it on the farm. A subtle, but keenly observed difference.

I think their own words..."Always do what is in the best interest of the patient" ring as true today as they did 80 or so years ago and I hope that the Mayo Clinic in the broadest sense will keep those words in mind as they go forward with their new partnership at Mayowood.

Dr. Charles H. Mayo (l) and Dr. William J. Mayo (r)

Charlie (l) and Will (r) with the new(ish) Gonda Building in rear

The view of Will (l) and Charlie (r) from the back, I like to think their
families often saw them similarly positioned.

NaNo Something Or Other, Entry 1.

2011-11-01T23:09:00.000-04:00

It's November 1st and that means it's National (fill in your favorite form of writing) Month. I'm generally wary of these kind of "marathons," but as I'm toiling away at getting a writing project ready for primetime, I thought that this challenge might be a good way to keep the creative thoughts flowing and keep the words streaming from brain to keyboard and/or notebook. So in addition to the new levels of productivity on my non-fiction project, I'm also committing (wow, even typing that word makes me shift a little in my chair...) to a new post here--of some kind--each and every day during the month of November. No doubt some will be short on words and long on photographic content, but I hope that it will help reinforce the general writing habit.

With that in mind then, I'm going to start November with a little photo study of The 1927 Plummer Building, part of the Mayo Clinic campus in downtown Rochester. Dr. Henry Plummer was the local genius, a physician who designed the structure with the architects from Ellerbe and Company. I would doubt that there is an ornament or motif in this building that he didn't have a direct hand in. His interest in (and respect for) art, history, literature, and medicine can be seen in every corner of this building. It's beautifully constructed and while it's not used for patients any longer, it's an architectural gem with some wonderfully ornate and detailed interiors. Wandering around the exterior on a quiet weekend is a real pleasure. The giant bronze doors (16 feet high, 5 inches thick) have rarely been closed over the history of the Mayo Clinic, so when they close it's a historic occasion. They were closed after the assassination of JFK, after the 9/11 attacks, and if I'm not mistaken for the deaths of the Mayo brothers in 1939.

The upper floors and carillon

Astrology beside mythology on the building's facade

St George, mid-slay

The Canada Geese that (over) populate Rochester

Minnesota's state mascot...the humble gopher

There are little gophers hiding in many spots, here on the large, solid bronze doors

Interior door detail

The newer (1960s) Mayo Building reflected in Plummer's windows

Griffins on the entry doors

The beautiful lighting fixtures in the main lobby

What appears to be a caparisoned horse, used as a door handle

The 1927 Plummer Building reflected in the sleek glass
of the very recently built Gonda Building

Fear of Falling...Water, That is

2011-10-19T16:43:00.000-04:00

Kent Falls, mid-October

One summer long ago, my parents and I--accompanied by my aunt and a cousin--took a trip to Pipestone National Monument in far western Minnesota. I have many fond memories of the places we visited en route which included Walnut Grove and Sleepyeye, towns that are immediately recognizable to any little girl who was a fan of the Little House on the Prairie books and television series. We saw the place where the Ingalls family had lived in a sod home--a kind of childhood mecca for readers who had grown up reading Laura Ingalls Wilder and her stories.

After I'd lived out my Little House fantasy, it was on to Pipestone. Excited to be at our main destination we took a tour of some sort that wound through the park and would lead visitors to where the reddish stone was mined. It wasn't a long walk and it was enjoyable until I heard the sound of rushing water. I'm not sure that I'd ever realized before that point that I did NOT like waterfalls, but at the moment we began to walk across the bottom of Winnewissa Falls it became perfectly clear. While I admit to having a flair for the dramatic, in my recollection I had an absolute category 5 meltdown as we prepared to cross the stream below the falls. I was not happy and even though I vividly remember standing there and looking up at the waterfall while crying and (most likely) screaming, I don't recall how--or indeed IF--my parents cajoled me into continuing the hike. As a side note--this information page from the NPS on Pipestone shows a photo of the fearsome waterfall...http://www.nps.gov/pipe/parknews/index.htm

Needless to say, for most of my youth (and beyond) I had a deep-seated fear when it came to waterfalls of any size/force. And not just waterfalls, but dams as well. In fact, I think I disliked dams even more. My aunt, who has always been a little "woo-woo," always said that in a previous life (**cough cough**) something frightening or bad must've happened to me near to or involving a waterfall of some kind.

Whatever the case, I avoided both waterfalls and dams whenever possible. I was less bothered when I could see the falls or dam (meaning they weren't under a bridge and that I could attempt to avoid them) but even then, when they were in the open, I would start to get chills and gooseflesh even hearing the sound of water rushing through a gorge. Walking on a bridge that was over a dam? No way. Never happen. And yet, I am at heart a water girl. I'm a Pisces who is always centered and calmed by the sea, a river vista, or the lapping of lake water in the summertime. I am naturally drawn to the water.

Somewhere along the line I decided I had to get beyond this fear or at least learn to manage it better. After all, there was no basis for it, it was just there. I managed to do quite well...by my late teens I was happily aboard the Maid of the Mist sailing right into Niagara Falls and loving every minute of it. Confident that I was conquering the fear, I began to really enjoy the sound of the moving water and trying to capture it with my camera.

And over the year I'd thought I was doing pretty well...until this weekend. For the record, I still do not really like dams. There's just something about them that makes me queasy and uncomfortable. I wish it weren't so, but there we are...the muddled dichotomy that is me: drawn to water, fearful when gravity brings it crashing down.

So this past Monday as I drove the Mohawk Trail in Massachusetts, I found myself in Shelburne Falls. A gorgeous little town with bookstores, cafes and, not surprisingly, FALLS. I parked on the main street and could already hear the roar of moving water. Cautiously I walked over to a small scenic overlook, the whole time attempting to hide the fact that my knees were becoming increasingly rubbery. As I peered around the foliage I could see a dam in the middle of my line of vision and large rapids below it. What to do...there were two bridges I could cross and that sense of childhood dread once again filled my mind. Surely there weren't more rapids above the dam?

Well, reader, there were not more rapids. And I'm happy to report that I was able to wander Shelburne Falls and enjoy the Bridge of Flowers without a care as to the dam that roared down stream a few hundred yards. But as curious as I was about the glacial potholes (natural wonder!) that are near the dam and rapids, I wasn't able to make myself go closer. If you take a moment and enter Shelburne Falls Glacial Potholes in your favorite search engine you'll see wonderful photographs of the many who are much braver than I am. Here's as close as I dared go...

Looking toward Salmon Falls, Sherburne Falls, MA

(I will say, however, that I highly recommend the Mohawk Trail--Route 2--that goes through northwestern Massachusetts. It's a beautiful drive and I'll definitely be back to explore further. Parts of Rt 2 were severely damaged by post-Irene floods, so they'll be glad to have visitors back as soon as they can.)

Farther down the road and later in the day, I found myself quite close to home in Connecticut and just as the sun was setting. Since there was still a little light, I stopped at a spot I enjoy greatly--and coincidentally, a waterfall--Kent Falls State Park.

I think part of the reason I'm drawn to waterfalls is a desire to overcome my ridiculous fear, so I push myself to get as close as my nerves will allow. I'll admit, albeit a little sheepishly, that I was surprised at how much dread I felt upon seeing/hearing the dam and rapids at Shelburne Falls. Maybe some days we're better equipped to slay our dragons than others, or maybe we never really get fully beyond the things we fear as children.

The Brookfield Horse Trio

2011-10-18T14:34:00.001-04:00

The stallion (l), foal (c), and mare (r) on the Brookfield Municipal grounds

This morning I had to make a quick trip up to the Brookfield town offices. Today has been another picture perfect New England autumn day so I thought it might be a good time to take some photographs of my favorite sculpture installation, the horse family on the Brookfield Municipal grounds.

During my last visit there had been an outline sprayed on the grass and I wondered if my ponies were getting a pond or perhaps a colorful flower bed. Today the sod has been removed and yes, it looks like the family is getting a water feature or some kind of planting to "munch" on. For reference purposes as to how large these horses are...I'm about 5'6" and I *barely* come up to the withers of the small foal. I can almost walk under the bellies of the mare and stallion. And in case you were too polite to ask, the sculptures are anatomically correct so yes, one is a mare and one is a stallion and the foal appears to be a filly.

This grouping, by artist Peter Busby, is so appealing to me because of how it changes throughout the seasons. Yes, it's horses so of course I'm interested, but from the verdant green backdrops of summer to the colorful autumn patchwork, the way these horses are created allows the viewer to appreciate the varying moods of Connecticut's seasons. Brookfield is in the midst of lovely rolling hills and it would be hard to imagine a prettier spot for this equine family.

As we progress from the warm mid-autumn glow to the blue and periwinkle hues of winter, expect to see more images of this threesome. In the vein of van Gogh, Monet, and others, when I find a photographic subject I like, I return and attempt to capture it in different conditions.

Now to my knowledge, none of these horses are named...but I'm thinking they ought to be. Thoughts? Names?

Shadows

Blue sky horses

The foal

The mare

The stallion and his shadow

A Sad Farewell to a Faithful Friend

2011-10-11T19:29:00.000-04:00

Lady F shortly after joining the family

Dateline: 11 October, 2011-- Rochester, Minnesota

I am saddened to report the loss of one of Rochester's best loved citizens, Lady Fleur. Lady, or Bugs as she was known to her family, lost her battle with cancer this morning. Her sunny presence will be most sorely missed by her family and all the people who stopped by to visit her.

A few years ago, after the passing of the charming (and slightly off-balance) Remi-Roo, Lady's family looked to RAGOM (Rescue a Golden of Minnesota) to see if there were any dogs which might fit into the family. A few months would pass and then the stars aligned and brought Lady, who had been found running loose in Iowa, to her new family in Minnesota. Lady had undergone some kind of service training, though what kind exactly we'll never know. She was utterly uninterested in most games or play (and had even less interest in water, ducks, rabbits, etc.), but she was very focused on her people. She had a kind of centered calm one often sees in old souls. She'd been there and done that. Even the family cat, Stonewall Jackson, couldn't do much to rattle her.

Ove the next few months Lady and Jack (sometimes jokingly referred to as Ernie and Bert) would come to some kind of understanding known only unto them. An armed truce, with moments of acceptance might be the most apt characterization of their lives together. When Stonewall Jackson passed away a couple of years ago, Lady would often look around as if she thought he was still there, waiting to jump out at her from behind her sofa.

Lady and her human "sibling" enjoyed a friendly rivalry. Who had priority choice on the sofa was a common bone of contention. The strawberry blond canine usually won that battle, as she had very sad looking brown eyes and a very serious flair for the dramatic.

The entire family will miss her golden smile and goofy looks, as well as her preference for green beans on her dog food (which had to be warmed up) and her deep sighs. She was literally the ideal dog for her people and they are forever grateful to RAGOM for bringing her wonderful spirit and joy to the family. Her paw prints are impossible to fill, and it is hoped that she is sharing silly stories of Glenn, Doris and Michele with Beaujolais, Remi-Roo, Jackson, Muffin, Koji, Mittens and even Thomas O'Malley Shandar Diablo.

---------------------------

Please give your beloved pets a little extra love tonight in honor of our absent and beloved Lady and if you'd like to see some other photos of herself, there's a photo tribute on my FLICKR page. Requiescat in Pace, dear friend.

The Music of Last Night

2011-10-06T12:06:00.000-04:00

A shady avenue, Pere Lachaise

I love the Phantom. That would include Gaston Leroux's muddled novel (and any and all references to the Opera Garnier) and Lon Chaney's enduring silent masterpiece. I can even manage a kind of esteem for Claude Raines 1943 version--which is more of a vehicle for the awkwardly wooden Nelson Eddy than anything--though I found it mostly high camp from the first time I saw it as a teen. And then there's the mother of all Phantoms: Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, The Phantom of the Opera.

Phantom can inspire a fair amount of eye rolling and dismissive scoffing, with the non-infatuated complaining vehemently about a cloying score and syrupy romance. The critics will point to pedestrian lyrics and derivative story lines. To those people I say read no further as the following paragraphs will make your teeth hurt.

So, now that I'm chatting with you, perhaps a similarly afflicted fan of Phantom, who could believe it was celebrating a 25th Anniversary this fall? I certainly couldn't as it seems as the music, the show, the story has been part of my life since the very beginning. I'd guess that most of us who are fans recall our first Phantom experience with a kind of reverence.

It was 1989 in Toronto, at the Pantages Theatre, and there were a number of us attending the show as guests of a Canadian friend of my parents who kindly brought us all as part of his birthday celebration. I'd been to plays before, but this was spectacle on a completely different level. This was major. My father wasn't feeling well the evening of the event and I remember thinking that NOTHING, not a thing on this fair earth of ours short of nuclear Armageddon, was going to keep me from the Pantages that evening. (Selfish only child alert!) Let the record reflect that the entire PaperTyger clan did indeed attend--including a well-known artist friend who was in the party and decided to dress casually--and in a baseball cap (!!)--for the evening. Yes, the cap stayed on for dinner and the entire show. Yes, I was mortified. This was an event, an occasion! What did I wear? A cream silk charmeuse blouse with passementerie detail and a black moire silk skirt. In retrospect, that's not all that important, but it does go to show the extent to which that evening imprinted on me. The pageantry, the soaring orchestrations, glorious voices and lush costumes...all of it left me a little in awe. And I mean real awe. The kind you experience the first time you walk into Yankee Stadium or Fenway Park; the first time you see a great horse race in person; the first time you lay eyes on your favorite painting a few inches in front of you. Awe. The rich Irish tenor of Colm Wilkinson gave voice to The Phantom and even though I'd already committed every nuance of Michael Crawford's London performance to memory, Wilkinson's portrayal stuck with me. It's the Toronto cast album that holds priority on my iPod these many years later.

After Toronto, well, the obsession only grew. I wore out at least one set of cassette tapes listening to the entire score over and over--in the car and at home--and I even learned to play a few of the songs on the piano. Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again sounded plaintive and melancholy when played on an old piano, but the real show stopper, the impressive opening organ theme, was reserved for the ca 1914 Aeolian pipe organ at Mayowood. I was a summer tour guide at the time and nothing impressed the tourists like a few bars of a Bach organ fugue or, better yet...the instantly recognizable opening chords of Phantom of the Opera. Between tours I'd play little bits of Phantom, assured that any ghosts in the mansion would appreciate my musical efforts.

22 years later, I write this having just returned from seeing the 25th Anniversary production at my local multiplex. (The actual performance was staged at London's Royal Albert Hall last weekend.) There were so many things to love about the production, and the one thing I will say is that the team at Royal Albert did a phenomenal job adapting large, complicated, and difficult scenes/sets to their stage. I didn't love some of the camera work and I thought the costumes in some cases looked less rich than in the various stage productions I've been to, but nothing that really detracted from the experience for me. The leading performers were outstanding. Sierra Boggess IS Christine Daae and Ramin Karimloo's Phantom was a delicious combination of sensuous and poignant. For a musical to have the staying power that Phantom does, it needs to resonate with audiences, and this show continues to do so. For a musical to celebrate a 25th Anniversary people need to love your characters and music and want to see it anew, and that's something of a feat in itself.

OH...and the best part? The "gathering of Phantoms" at the end of the show. Once the anniversary cast had taken their well-deserved bows, Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber came out and brought with him the original London cast and production group as well. I was scanning the London cast for Sarah Brightman and Michael Crawford, but didn't see them. Then, Sir Andrew announced that Sarah (whom he still calls his "angel of music") had agreed to sing. She came out with classic Phantoms including my Phantom, Colm Wilkinson and proceeded to sing The Phantom of the Opera main theme with all of them. CHILLS. I had chills. Michael Crawford was on stage as well but did not sing, which while disappointing, was maybe for the best. He looked great but he also looked rather overwhelmed and overcome with the emotion of the day. There seemed to be nothing but love and good will on the stage as they looked out at the audience's standing ovation.

I'd actually planned to be on my soapbox tonight and writing on a totally different subject, but I left the theatre feeling so much nostalgia that I couldn't let it pass without a small acknowledgment. On my first trip to Paris a couple of years after Toronto I couldn't wait to get to the Opera Garnier. The Musee d'Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame--they'd all still be there (and be visited later in the week), but I needed to see the Paris Opera first. And on a subsequent trip to Paris I had Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again streaming liltingly through my head as I walked up and down the shady lanes of favored haunt Pere Lachaise. Phantom--in all of it's many incarnations--has managed to thread itself into unexpected corners of my memory, for which, in all cases, I'm most genuinely pleased.

October. New England.

2011-10-04T14:29:00.002-04:00

Mother Nature saves her best autumn finery for New England

This is without a doubt my favorite time of the year. Whether it's a loop through the White Mountains in New Hampshire, a lazy trip down Route 7 through the graceful Litchfield Hills or an afternoon spent gazing out at Hudson River vistas, you absolutely cannot go wrong. I soak in the crisp autumnal air like a sponge, savoring the earthy aromas and magnificent displays of color.

There's really nothing like autumn in New England. Majestic white steeples on stoic old meeting houses rise against a cobalt sky while the surrounding hillsides blaze with red, orange, and golden leaves. Even the most pedestrian of leaves shine with an autumnal glow. Smokiness wafts through the evening twilight and we brace ourselves against the chill with apple cider, apple crumble, or even Applejack. Mother nature truly does show off all her best attributes here each autumn. Harvest festivals and fairs abound and everyone seems to be a leaf-peeping tourist for these few weeks. Pumpkins and apples and corn mazes, oh my! The pleasures are heartier, more rustic, and simpler. Soups and chilis are once again simmering on stoves as are New England standbys like baked beans and chowder. Favorite old worn in corduroy takes the place of sun bleached summer attire and tall boots with woolen socks begin to stand in for summer's barely there sandals. The comfort of a well-loved flannel shirt or a cozy cardigan are not to be scoffed at! This is my beloved New England at her very best--even if the Red Sox are not in the playoffs, the Patriots are enjoying a typically winning start--and I hope you're taking a moment to revel in this year's fall finery wherever you may be.

Gleaming autumn sun shines through the golden leaves

1st Congregational Church in Litchfield, CT
Autumn, 2010

And as I so often do, a nod to Longfellow for his assessment of the season:

"My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves,

Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed;

I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves,

O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside.

Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride,

The dreamy air is full, and overflows

With tender memories of the summer-tide,

And mingled voices of the doves and crows."

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, October, from The Poet's Calendar

And PS...Hockey season starts for real this week. Huzzah!

The Shock of What Happened, Or The Ache For What Never Will

2011-09-10T22:52:00.000-04:00

When I found these photographs a week or so ago, I wasn't sure if I wanted to even look through them let alone share them. And then when I decided to post them there was the issue of adding some narrative, which I liked even less. The photographs themselves say everything better than I could and therefore I'll be uncharacteristically brief. Love each other. Really. That's it. Love each other and be kind to others whenever you can. And tell the people that you love that they matter. Don't assume they know. Tell them.

I recently read a beautifully written book by Simon Van Booy entitled Everything Beautiful Began After. It's rare that I take time to copy or memorize sentences from books anymore, but a few lines were heartbreakingly authentic, and in this instance, timely.

"You were unsure which pain is worse--the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will."

The Connecticut 9-11 memorial wall

The ghosty image from the SI Ferry...how
the Towers will forever remain in my memory.

FDNY

2011-09-10T14:59:00.000-04:00

There's nothing I could say about New York's beloved FDNY(aka NY's Bravest) that hasn't already been said more honestly or eloquently by many other people. It is their collective badass, balls-out courage in the face of such genuine horror that I find to be almost inconceivable. The large scale and depth of their loss was felt in every corner of every borough. These photographs are from Squad 18 in the West Village...here's their website with more of their story: http://www.fdnysquad18.com/

For months after the attacks many of the city's firehouses and police stations were draped in black and purple mourning bunting. A kind of veil had dropped on the city and even as we slowly returned to the rhythm of our days, there was not any tangible feeling of normal. Not when "normal" included fighter jets making their frequent passes over New York City's airspace. And yet, there was a kind of learned comfort that came with the sound of those protective aircraft. As if you could trick yourself into feeling slightly less helpless when bolstered by their fierce speed screaming overhead.

Union Square

2011-09-09T17:45:00.000-04:00

Washington looks out over the sea of flowers, candles, and
posters at Union Square Park

I remember emerging from the subway at Union Square and being slightly bewildered. My neighborhood on the Upper West Side had some small memorials and there were supportive signs for the FDNY and NYPD, but nothing on the scale I witnessed at Union Square Park. Candles, photographs, prayers, pleas, home made poster board "have you seen?" signs--they were everywhere. Taped to the triumphant statue of Washington, on the subway station supports. Everywhere. Unlike most occasions of ubiquity, however, these small bits of remembrance and support never failed to elicit a deep, emotional response. You couldn't NOT look, and when you looked, you would feel another wave of sadness envelop you.

Union Square Park

Union Square subway station

One of the brilliant editorial cartoons, Union Sqare Park

Another of the small "altars" left in the park

Remember them, too...

2011-09-08T20:11:00.000-04:00

St Vincent's, and Yet Another Sad Farewell

2011-09-06T00:30:00.002-04:00

I was working on Hudson Street on the morning of the September 11th attacks. I'd heard something odd as I walked into our office building, but nothing that really gave me pause. The timeline of that day, for me, started with my cubicle partner getting a phone call from her husband who worked farther downtown than we were. He was calling to tell her that a plane had flown into one of the towers of the World Trade Center--and said we should turn on the television. (At this point I'll admit saying something that has haunted me ever since...) As my colleague hung up from speaking with her husband (who I'm happy to say was unharmed) I quipped, "Well, at least it wasn't the Chrysler Building!"

Obviously, I felt like the colossal ass that I can be from time to time when events unfolded so horrifically later in the day. The scope of that day still is beyond my comprehension and I think I'm grateful for the memory gaps that do exist in my timeline of both that day and the following weeks.

We all stayed put for most of the day, either glued to the television in our spectacularly intimate "conference room" or trying to get thru to loved ones and let them know we were okay, at least for the moment. Once the fighter jets began making their flights over the city, a few of our staff ventured out to St Vincent's to give blood and see if there was anything they could do. St Vincent's would become the site I most identified with as I often walked past it in the months after the attacks. It was where the doctors and nurses waited in vain, mostly, for patients that never arrived. Watching the missing persons wall and all the photographs and flowers and wishes wither away as the days at "the pile" dragged on was heart wrenching and now and then, tragically, you'd see the person's obituary in the NY Times.

So when I heard months ago that St Vincent's was to close, I felt especially sad and as though a nearly decade old scab had been pulled off, exposing long buried pain. For me it was a spot by which I could ascertain small steps of progress, healing. Herewith, St Vincent's Hospital during the immediate post-September 11th days. The photo at the bottom, the ambulance with the "Last Roll Call" newspaper on the dashboard may have given me the roughest punch to the gut when I saw it among the other images.

Love is everywhere, light is everywhere

2011-09-03T19:23:00.001-04:00

Following up on my post from yesterday, here are a two more photographs. Homemade signs like these were everywhere in the days and weeks that followed September 11. Missives and messages were attached to buildings, mailboxes, railings, light posts--practically anything that stood still. I photographed many signs but these two stood out as memorable, meaningful, and straightforward. And in the sign below, with two seemingly commonplace words that many of us use nearly every day, a deep resonance was achieved. Remember. Rebuild.

Just when you think it's safe...

2011-09-02T19:31:00.002-04:00

I went on the hunt for a couple of pictures of a failed preservation project I'd worked on with a friend who passed away yesterday. My digital archive, (thanks mostly to iPhoto and DropBox) is far easier to sort through than my actual photographs, which are, to put it bluntly, a jumbled, bollocksed up mess. TOTAL CHAOS. And yet, occasionally chaos points us toward something important; important and safely tucked away.

In two oversized Spectra Photo envelopes (from when I took actual photographs and had them developed at the wonderful Spectra store on W 72nd street), wedged between packets filled with romantic photos of London cemeteries and my photographic "homage" to Henry Adams Mont St Michel and Chartres, there they were. Not the hoped for photographs of the old pool house at Soldier's Field where we'd waged our failed preservation campaign, but instead a treasure trove of a different nature--my photos of NYC in the early days after September 11, 2001.

I've said before that I am perpetually surprised at how quickly and powerfully that day and the maelstrom of memories attached to it flood back to the surface. The deep, dull ache is nearly as immediate and as raw as it was a decade ago. The tug in your gut never totally goes away. The emotions grasp at you, pulling in every direction from sadness, to anger, to uncertainty and back again. I cannot begin to fathom what it was or is like for those who lost loved ones and friends, the depth and breadth of their pain is on a completely different level. I was merely a bystander--a proud New Yorker--and I was and am forever altered.

I'm quite certain that back then I could not even begin to project out into the future ten years ahead, and I'll wager that I haven't looked at these photographs since I took them. Maybe now is the time to share them. So over the next few days I'm going to scan a few of the images and will post them here, perhaps with some other odds and ends of remembrance from those days.

I, along with many others, I think, took a kind of comfort in being out and gathering with people--mostly complete strangers--to share stories and do whatever we could do in our own small ways. There were some incongruosly beautiful autumn days right after September the 11th, at least as I recall (and admittedly, there are large blank gaps in many of those days that I can't remember, and I'm guessing that's for the best) and I spent a lot of time wandering around the city and taking photographs.

This isn't where I expected to end up today, but here we are and here's photo 1. Taken from a Labor Day, 2001, walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. It's one of my favorite photographs ever.

Oh the weather outside is frightful...

2011-07-19T18:02:00.000-04:00

Winter at Bull's Bridge near Kent, CT

I have a zero tolerance policy for vicious heat indices and drippy levels of humidity. Let's face it, I'm a weather whinger. It's too hot, too cold, too wet, too windy. I'm like Goldilocks when it comes to weather, I want it just right. Just right means picturesque snowy winters, temperate springs, balmy summers (with ocean breezes and low dew points, maybe the occasional thunderstorm) and chilly evenings that follow warm autumn days. So thanks in advance to whomever is working on this kind of Utopian climate for New England in the future. (As Craig Ferguson might say,"Thank you, I look forward to your letters.")

Weather fantasies aside, how do you beat the heat? Obviously cool drinks--lots of water and iced tea in my case--light colored clothing, don't over do it in the sun, the usual "dog days of summer" admonitions. I know it isn't in the official summer swelter survival handbook, but I'm also a fan of the summer cocktail. Sangria, a margarita, or my personal choice, a refreshing gin and tonic. I'm far more partial to this option than hot coffee. Seriously. Hot coffee. According to family lore, when my grandfather was farming in Wisconsin back in the 50s my mother recalls that she or her sister would have to take him a big old thermos filled with hot coffee for lunch and breaks. When I looked at both my mother and grandmother with utter disbelief at this nonsense, I was given some claptrap having to do with hot beverages acclimating your body to the heat better, blah blah, blah. I've no idea if there's scientific basis to this idea (it seems unlikely) but I won't be testing it out any time soon. Science aside, I do have a wonderful mental image of my overall-clad grandfather--thermos in hand, steaming coffee being poured--taking a break under the tree that sat in one of the fields.

All this said, I'm going in a slightly different direction to keep myself cool...a few favorite hibernal photograps and a bit of Longfellow guaranteed to fool us all into thinking it's January all over again. Ahhh, January, the layered clothing, the short days, the low angle of the sun, the long shadows, the bitter windchill, the...oh, wait...hmm. Right. Well, at least winter is photogenic?

Looking down the Hudson from the Vanderbilt's little jewel box on the hill.

Hiking trail in Lover's Leap State Park, New Milford, CT

Woods in Winter

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the hawthorn blows the gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill,

That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods,

The embracing sunbeams chastely play,

And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,

The summer vine in beauty clung,

And summer winds the stillness broke,

The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,

When birds sang out their mellow lay,

And winds were soft, and woods were green,

And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear

Has grown familiar with your song;

I hear it in the opening year,

I listen, and it cheers me long

Mayowood Road, Rochester MN

The Rustling Leaves of Memory

2011-07-04T17:26:00.000-04:00

Just stopping by and clearing away some of the cobwebs that have filled this space in my prolonged absence. With other projects at the forefront of my daily work, I've been a very poor landlord and correspondent. But I've got a virtual broom and bucket, so here we go.

While I was spending time in my hometown in Minnesota I had a fair amount of time to think about the importance memory. Picture it as my bouncing a tennis ball against the old garage door...pondering, considering with each toss. And not just memory, but the ways, large and small, that we keep people and places (and the memories associated with them) close to us.

Photos, letters, cards, recipes, traditions...each item can be a touchstone for keeping a memory or a person near to the heart. I think of the little mementos that I hold dear--small pieces of what most would consider to be "just stuff"--and how each small item launches an anecdote or memory that is integral to how I think of person. The recipe for my Grandma K's "no fail pie crust" (that I have yet to master) or seeing my Grandma A's singular handwriting on an old birthday card, or the tradition of lifting a glass to the memory of absent loved ones when a bottle of Champagne is uncorked. Each little piece of the memory puzzle is important and necessary...each seemingly minor key opens a part of the vault for us.

I was privileged to spend a good number of days up at Mayowood--my second home in many ways--while I was in Minnesota. Between writing and leading the behind the scenes "Nooks and Crannies" tour and painting a few outdoor chairs, I had a fair amount of time to myself to just be in the house. As we worked on the tour script and added Mayo family tales and trivia (there are 732 pipes in the main Aeolian pipe organ, 183 in the echo chamber...), I was reminded how much it always meant to the tour guides--and to the visitors--to keep the Mayo family stories alive. When I used to give tours, way back in the day, I always enjoyed the personal stories about pieces of art or furniture and the reactions they elicited from guests. Each day the names of 4 or 5 generations of the Mayo family are mentioned on the tour. Though many are long gone, their accomplishments (as well as their quirks and idiosyncrasies) are kept present in that way.

Similarly, I have many, many fond memories from a very young age about my Grandma A (some of which I've shared here in earlier posts) but I knew very little about she and my grandfather as a couple. She was often my babysitter when I was a child, and she was a riot. Often she'd regale me with her tales of her unbridled youth, she was utterly blessed with the Irish gift of gab. A bloomer wearing girl basketball player in the 1920s, she met my slick looking grandfather while at a girls versus boys basketball game. He was watching, SHE was playing. Because my grandparents divorced and my paternal grandfather was gone well before my arrival on the planet, I never really knew much about their early years, especially in comparison to how much I knew of my mom's parents. So I decided to interrogate my dad, get some of the details from him. The stories were great, as were the photos he shared with me. I'd never seen photographs of his parents when they were young people and in love. Seeing them as they were brought unexpected perspective and a feeling like I knew my grandfather a little, finally. There's a unique kind of comfort, knowing more about them, about their lives.

My *gangsta* looking, dapper grandfather, Glenn, in Chicago.

The Old Heidelberg Bar ladies bowling team, ca 1943-44.
My grandmother, Norma, (with the wild hair) is 2nd from the left in the top row.

There's something important about sharing the stories, too, about keeping the torch lit. Whether it is a beloved pet or a person, the stories matter. I know for a fact that when my dad would sit on the patio outside chatting with our second Golden Retriever, Remi-Roo, that he was telling Remi all the stories of our first Golden, Beaujolais. I have no doubt that Remi was well-versed in all the Beau stories. I'll say it again, the stories matter.

And the sharing matters not just for us, but for others, as well. I had an incredible day of interviewing local senior citizens about an inn that is now long gone from my area here in Connecticut. I went into the day with modest expectations of what I'd learn, but I left feeling like I'd been able to share a little in return by taking them back 50 or 60 years with old photos, postcards, and menus that I'd collected. The expressions on the faces of the women who'd been waitresses or the woman who'd been married there were wonderful, as were the great stories they shared. The little bits of information--where the serving station was or the stories about Dewey the Bartender--were beyond what I could have hoped for and they brought the place to life for me in a whole new way. Share your stories. One of the great privileges of writing can be that you receive some incredible stories, stories for which you become responsible. Stories you are fortunate to be able to share.

Wilde wrote that memory is the diary we all carry about with us, I like that thought. I like thinking that the people whose stories I know--the ones I love and miss--are maybe a little less gone because I'm lucky enough to carry a bit of their memory around with me.

ENOUGH! or...The High Price of False Progress.

2011-04-21T19:49:00.001-04:00

While I've certainly had other things on my mind this week, the one image I can't shake loose is that of the so-called Gatsby House (Lands End, properly) being razed on Long Island. If you haven't seen the footage or read the article, here it is... CBS Sunday Morning's "The end of an era for the "Gatsby House." Beyond this single house, though, what does this say about us? About how shabbily we often treat our landmarks and important buildings? We're paying a tremendously high price for what often is the antithesis of progress.

The old Mount Vernon-esque pool houses at Soldier's Field in Rochester. RAZED.

I'm basically a bleeding heart preservationist at my core and waste of this nature is painful for me to watch. Honestly, I've fought against this kind of thoughtless destruction since before I was even a teenager and it never gets any easier and it seems that so often we fight the same fight over and over. From a seemingly innocent zoning change to barrages of development proposals, it's a street-fight waged daily all over the country.

The former Chateau theatre, now a Barnes & Noble in Rochester. SAVED.

As I look back over the preservation battles in which I've participated--as well as those I've been on the periphery of--it always seems to come down to money and more often than not, greedy and/or unprincipled land developers. It is seldom about what is actually best for the community, what is best for the landmark or historic structure, but rather about how much more money is to be made by simply knocking down a structure rather than spending any amount of time finding creative and workable outcomes that benefit everyone. Wanton destruction for the sole purpose of lining someone's pockets infuriates me. And when I hear the disingenuous strains of "I'm so sorry this had to happen" spilling from the mouth of a land speculator, my blood absolutely boils...because it so rarely HAS to actually happen.

Why tear down a well-constructed and usable building to quickly slap up one more ubiquitous strip mall? I mean really...why? If the money is to be spent anyway--to tear down and then put up new construction--why not explore and pursue a retrofit or restoration of the extant structure instead? It typically fits better within the character of the neighborhood, to be sure, and still provides numerous construction jobs. And lack of commercial real estate can hardly be raised as a serious issue. Most every road I travel these days has empty storefront upon empty storefront staring out from ugly and nameless plazas and centers with FOR RENT signs plastered all over the windows. It's one of the worst symptoms of sprawl, this proliferation of quickie, unattractive, and often disposable architecture that seems to have invaded almost every corner of the country. If this is allowed to continue, and continue virtually unchecked, we will be a country with far too little left of our architectural past.

It's certainly true that when a building has been abandoned for a long time, either through a campaign of managed neglect or by bad luck and ownership problems, it can be expensive and even almost impossible to restore it, but those cases are fewer and farther between than we're asked to believe. And I don't advocate preservation merely for its own sake or laudatory back-slapping, but some buildings are part of the fabric of a community, others embody an era or bygone way of life and sometimes they need a little TLC in order to rejoin the modern world and resume their rightful place as an integral part of a neighborhood.

And isn't it ironic--and tragic, really--that most of the time people in this country would rather build a replica of something than spend the time, energy, and money to restore the original. And why stop at a replica, if we can build a theme park around it, even better. That way no one has to deal with all the challenges that are part-and-parcel of caring for older structures. There are, after all, often stockholders who expect a return on their investment and if an extra nickel or dime can be wrung out for them, then what's the harm of razing a building with character, one that is well-built, and putting up an eyesore in its stead? Do I sound bitter? I am. I am bitter and angry at how readily we disregard the importance of our built heritage.

Now and then, someone has to stand up and say ENOUGH. Sometimes it can't be only about the $money$--what is best for the city, community, next generation and history of a place all have to be taken into consideration and the right thing has to be done. Don't we owe both our ancestors and our children at least that?

For a much more level headed take, my friend, Pat Murkland, writes beautifully about a lost landmark in her community here...
http://banning-beaumont.patch.com/articles/an-icon-of-the-pass-past

With that, I cede my soapbox...for the time being. (And #Go HABS Go)

Jailed! And other Thursday morning adventures...

2011-04-14T21:18:00.001-04:00

I spent a good amount of my morning in the local jail--in the slammer, the pokey, gaol, the cooler, doin' time--and I enjoyed every minute of it. Sadly, there's no daring tale of escape and I can't even claim that I waved my favorite Liberty scarf out of a barred window to attract a rescuer.

The old Danbury jail

I was, this morning, while checking out a minor (and wholly unexpected) holy grail for my research, presented with the opportunity to spend some time in the old Danbury jail. A building I'd driven by umpteen times, I never expected I'd get to actually see the interior. They're doing a lot of work and it will, I think, house the local WIC program, but it was still pretty fabulous to see the interior details up close and personal. There are many layers of paint over the beautiful mouldings and some of the once elegant hardwood floors show their age, but what a great building it is and I was thrilled to be able to see that they'll really be making good use of it. The elegant long windows--even those that are still barred--let in a surprising amount of light and made the room we were working in quite sunny. Oh, and while I didn't see any of the men's area, I did peek into the eerie bricked and barred walls of the women's cells--not somewhere you'd want to spend any time. Typically not someplace you want to start your day, but in this case it was far too much fun!

And my little photographic grail? Even better than I'd allowed myself to hope for. The photo taken with my BlackBerry can't possibly do the real image justice, but it gives you a good idea. Photo is ca.1899 of the old Gregory place, located in Brookfield, CT, just over the Danbury border. The structure itself is ca.1760, but it looks fabulous for being more than 130 years old back in 1899, don't you think? And notice the 12 over 12 windows--wonderful.

The house on the old Gregory place, ca1899.

I also wanted to give a little plug for the folks at the Danbury Museum and Historical Society. They've been beyond swell and helpful. Danbury was, of course, the hat mecca of the US for many years and this summer DMHS will be showcasing some really incredible hats, fascinators and beyond. I was lucky enough to catch a sneak preview of some of the exhibit and could've spent a day just looking at all the styles on offer--from the most delicate of hats to sturdy quilted velvet bonnets--spanning much of the long history of the millinery trade. The grand opening of the Magnificent Millinery exhibit is in June, plan to stop in if you're in the area! Info: http://www.danburymuseum.org/danburymuseum/Home.html

All in Good Time

2011-04-06T22:09:00.001-04:00

NC Wyeth's title page illustration from The Boy's King Arthur

After a weekend where I just couldn’t make the words fit and every piece I started was unfinishable--not to mention unreadable--what a pleasure it was to break out of my slump today. Now if my beloved Red Sox could do the same…**deep sigh**

As is well documented here, I love the digging and research involved in a good story. I could sit (and let’s be honest, I have done) locked up in an archive with old newspapers, documents and books and be completely happy. While I’ll admit to a wandering eye whilst browsing old newspapers in particular, I’m very content settling into the written records of our collected past. (I am slightly less inclined towards actual person-to-person interviews, but I'm getting over that!) Happily, today's breakthrough was the result not of my nose being buried in a bound volume of land use documents or property transactions, but rather because of a delightful conversation I had over the telephone.

It should be noted here that I’m not generally a big fan of the phone these days, I’d rather take care of most of my work via email, especially when it comes to people whom I don’t know all that well. Email is efficient and you needn’t worry about catching someone at a bad time or sounding over/under enthusiastic--business can be taken care of and both parties get their needs and positions heard.

To every rule or preference, though, there is an exception. In my previous blog entry I wrote about finding a relative of an artist I’d been researching, George E. Porter. The artist’s niece, who has been wonderfully helpful, was kind enough to also put me in touch with his widow who lives in Pennsylvania.

Since then, I’ve been lucky enough to have two productive and utterly enjoyable discussions with this witty and charming woman. She’s lived an incredibly interesting life in her own right and her pride in her late husband’s art is evident as she speaks of his work, commissions, and catalogue. During our chat today we discussed the Society of Illustrators which is located on E 63rd Street in New York City. I shared with her that I’ve grown up with a father who has always had the utmost respect for illustrators, especially when it came to those featured in his favorite childhood books--artists like Howard Pyle and NC Wyeth--and how he’d shared that with me. (I’m one of those people who will argue passionately for holding illustrators and commercial artists in high esteem.) As we spoke, I told her I’d not been in the Society’s museum (though I’d lived on E 63rd Street for a time and tried in vain to attend an exhibit there once) but I’d admired many of its artists. She proceeded to tell me that an original oil painting that George Porter had done hung (and maybe still hangs) in one of the lobbies. I literally laughed out loud at the possible what ifs.

If I had made it to that show I’d missed at the Society in the late 90s, and seen the Porter painting, would I have made the connection? I’d like to think I would have, and that maybe I’d have pulled a staffer aside and found out more information on him then rather than now. His work is compelling and I imagine I’d have been naturally drawn to it, but who can say?

Silly to look back, of course, at roads not taken and connections missed, but it’s amusing to think of the random possibilities--the hits and misses--that we encounter on a daily basis. The truth is that even if I had touched all those bases back then, I wouldn’t have been motivated to write about it. I was too busy finessing and rearranging the words of others to even consider much of my own work at that time, so maybe, on occasion, we’re also given the chance to connect the right dots at the right time--we get the gifts when we’re ready to receive and make the best use of them.

I’m not exactly sure where all this dot connecting will lead, but I am LOVING the journey thus far. What I do know is that I’m fortunate to have the opportunity to correspond with and speak to people who knew and loved George E. Porter--and his work, obviously--and are willing to share that with me. I have a lunch date for when I next find myself in the area of West Chester, Pennsylvania--one appointment I’m very much looking forward to keeping.

A 21st Century Message in a Bottle

2011-03-24T17:58:00.003-04:00

There are days when nothing works, no one returns your phone calls or emails and regardless of how hard you search, you can't seem to find the elusive piece of data you're looking for. On occasion we can fight through these periods and make progress and on other days it is just best to have a glass of wine and surrender for the moment, mentally reconnoitering for the next day's campaign. Once in a while, though, some of the lines we cast out into universe--messages in a bottle, if you will--find their way back to us.

MANY years ago--and I hesitate to say how many years ago, but lets just say it was toward the end of the previous century--I was trying in vain to research an artist whose work hung in one of the bedrooms at Mayowood. We were doing a living history Christmas tour that was intended to give visitors a glimpse into life on the homefront in Rochester, Minnesota ca1944. Dr. Charles W. Mayo, patriarch of the generation of the Mayo family that was living at Mayowood during the war, was stationed with one of the Mayo Clinic hospital units** in New Guinea. There's a lot of interesting art at the house, but there were a couple of portraits of Dr. Mayo that, for whatever reason, I was always drawn to. They were done by an artist named George Porter during the period of 1943-44. Both are watercolors and show the good doctor (and colonel) in his khakis and looking rather thin and a bit weary when compared to his pre-war photographs. There was also another watercolor done by the same Mr. Porter of a tropical scene within the same room.

My curiosity was piqued. First, I'd found a reference to this combat artist, young George Porter, in a piece of V-mail that Dr. Mayo had sent home to the family in Rochester. V-mail was pretty well censored and your time/space was short so you mentioned important things or interesting things--as well as things that would make it past the heavy-handed black pen of the censor! Secondly, the quality of the work was wonderful. I thought the way Porter had managed to capture Dr. Mayo was uncanny. As a portrait sent home to a worried family, it would have conveyed a sense that things were as good as could be expected, but difficult, to be sure, even on the best of days. The enigmatic twinkle that I'd grown accustomed to seeing in Dr. Mayo's eye by way of decades of photographs and portraits was still evident, but slightly dimmed by all he'd no doubt seen during the war. This young artist had captured a side of this famous doctor that I'd not seen from anyone else. I wanted to know more.

Needless to say, back in the mid-90s it wasn't as easy as it is today to find art--or people. We didn't have enough solid information to get anything from the VA or service lists and there were no serious art databases that we knew of at the time that could help. I sent out a few inquiries, all either went unanswered or came back with nothing to report. Once the tours were over for the season I had other work to attend to and the mystery of George Porter would slowly fade to the back of my mind.

Then a few weeks ago I was looking to verify and expand upon some information for some special tours they'll be holding this summer to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the building of Mayowood. Emerging from the fog of my somewhat overcrowded memory, there was George Porter again. I couldn't recall his middle initial, but I figured that with some clever searching I could piece together something that would yield results.

A couple of hours on the laptop, scrolling and scrounging through old issues of YANK (The Army Weekly) and Stars and Stripes among others and there he was, or at least, there his work was. I was staring at a cover image from Yank Down Under magazine dated August 1944, cover credit to George Porter, or Geo Porter as he usually seemed to sign his work. The brush strokes, the evocative shading, the signature I'd looked at so many times, it had to be the George Porter I'd looked for all those years ago. Just as he'd managed to convey so much in the portrait of Dr. Mayo, these boots are stirringly poignant. Ordinary and utilitarian, they bear witness quietly, with dignity.

"The well worn, expressive GI shoes were painted by Sgt. George E. Porter Jr., who is with the 5th Photographic Technical Squadron in New Guinea. Sgt. Porter spent six pre-induction years in New York City doing commercial art work with one of the larger advertising agencies. In addition to this, his paintings in the field of fine arts have been exhibited in the 57th Street Galleries in New York and in Florida. The sergeant didn't say whether his own (or somebody else's) brogans served as the models for this painting." (from the YANK Army Weekly Blog...@ http://yankmagazine.blogspot.com/2009_08_01_archive.html)

Armed with a middle initial, an army rank and his unit information, I was fairly certain I could make more progress. A quick click over to the askart.com website and I was able to see a bit more of Porter's work, all with the same feel to it, the same qualities I'd admired in the works at Mayowood. From the website I learned that he'd passed away more than a decade ago, but that he'd still been alive in the mid-1990s when I'd looked for him. As I looked over his pages on the site I noticed an email from someone who said she was his niece. Well, surely it was worth a try, right? I mean, I'd already come this far, it was obviously worth sending an email out into the vastness of the Internet. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Fast forward to this morning. I've been more than a little ~~pre-occupied~~ obsessed with my inn project so when an email showed up on my BlackBerry this morning with an unfamiliar address, I expected it might be in reference to one of the myriad inquiries I'd sent out. Through the haze of sleep, though, I noticed the subject line...re: George E Porter. My eyes opened wider and I reached to grab my glasses to be sure I wasn't seeing things. Then I hesitated a moment...opening the email would confirm that this was another false start, or, it would throw open the window and shed a little light. I'm happy to report it was the latter of the two.

I had the great pleasure of speaking with George E. Porter's niece this afternoon and hearing a little more about this artist to whom I'd felt so inexplicably drawn for so many years. This is not, thankfully, the end of this story, but only the beginning. So stay tuned...

As a research geek, writer, and editor I'm more than happy to spend hours perusing old newspapers in archives or sifting through clippings and photographs in small historical societies and museums. In fact, it's often the best, most rewarding part of my day. And when you can connect a few dots, connect with a relative or family member to help you piece together more of the puzzle, you know you've won the day with the help of fortuosity and a little perseverance.

**Activated in January 1943, the 71st Army General Hospital personnel were commanded by Drs Charles W. Mayo and James T. Priestley II. The two Mayo army hospital units were sent to New Guinea in January 1944. The 233rd station hospital was positioned at Nadzab and the 237th at Finschafen. These hospitals provided the first treatment for casualties evacuated by air from the campaign against Japanese occupation in this area.

Hydro therapy

2011-03-20T16:59:00.005-04:00

Kent Falls State Park

I'm a water girl. When I need to clear my head or think something through, there's no place so soothing for me as a lake, stream, ocean, brook, pond, river, or creek. And I'm awfully lucky that I can drive a very few miles south and be quickly on the beach near Long Island Sound or I can drive a few more miles to the north and be in the beautiful hills of Kent, Connecticut. The rhythmic sound of waves rolling onto the beach or the powerful buzz of rushing rapids are among my favorites. So I headed north on Route 7, unsure of my destination, and as I approached Kent I decided to visit a favorite spot of mine where I knew the water would be rushing madly...Kent Falls State Park.

The first day of spring meant a good crowd--from motorcyclists to families using the grills and bbq-ing--would be out enjoying the glorious sunshine. The picnic tables were crowded with couples and groups basking in the mid-March warmth. Back in 1938, the Connecticut Guide (one of the WPA Federal Writer's Project books) had this to say about the area, "At 53.1 m. is the entrance to Kent Falls State Park (R), containing one of the most spectacular of Connecticut's waterfalls, where the brook, arched by hemlocks, rushes over a precipice in two cascades, down a 200-foot drop within a quarter of a mile. The lower falls have cut their way over white marble steps and have scooped out many potholes in the ledges. The best view is obtained by following the brook a short distance on foot. Fireplaces and tables offer picnic facilities." These old guides are wonderful and on the occasions where you stumble upon a place that is largely unchanged--and completely recognizable--from the 1938 description it's hard not to experience a little frisson of timelessness.

I couldn't help but notice the van Gogh-esque swirls and curves as I sat next to the brook. If I was an artist I'd be obsessed with capturing the play of light on water as it washes over stones and moss. You can almost hear the rush of the water and feel the cool refreshment as the breeze rises and falls.

A lonely picnic table (one of the few not in use) sits on a hillside where the snow stubbornly clings to the grass and refuses to yield to the sun's warmth.

I waited patiently (well, almost patiently) to get a shot without the usual assortment of other photographers in it.

And if you love the sounds of water as I do, a little video--apologies, it's not terribly well done--but you'll get a taste of spring as the water rushes over the falls here.

Blue. Moon.

2011-03-19T20:04:00.010-04:00

Steichen's The Pond--Moonrise, 1904

The Light of Stars
by our beloved Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The night is come, but not too soon;
  And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon
  Drops down behind the sky.
There is no light in earth or heaven
  But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given
  To the red planet Mars.
Is it the tender star of love?
  The star of love and dreams?
O no! from that blue tent above,
  A hero's armor gleams.
And earnest thoughts within me rise,
  When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,
  The shield of that red star.
O star of strength! I see thee stand
  And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
  And I am strong again.
Within my breast there is no light
  But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
  To the red planet Mars.
The star of the unconquered will,
  He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
  And calm, and self-possessed.
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
  That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
  Be resolute and calm.
O fear not in a world like this,
  And thou shalt know erelong,
Know how sublime a thing it is
  To suffer and be strong.

Out of Focus

2011-03-17T19:29:00.003-04:00

No, it isn't your eyes...this IS way out of focus.
(Interior, St. Patrick's Cathedral, NYC.)

I've struggled a lot with what I wanted to write about this week and my focus has, it seems, shifted every few hours between the uprisings in the Middle East, the labor protests in Wisconsin and other midwestern states and of course, the tragic earthquake and tsunami in Japan. And as much as I've been deeply moved by each event in one way or another, every time I open the laptop to try to put something together, the words simply refuse to come. I wouldn't say it was a case of writer's block so much as a case of failure to focus. You know how the lens on your point-and-shoot camera will sometimes just continually zoom and retract refusing to focus on the object or scene you wish to photograph? Well that's been my brain this past week--though thankfully (mostly) without the annoying noise that usually accompanies a non-focusing camera.

Added to this already murky mixture are the pitfalls, roadblocks, and detours associated with researching and writing. Fits and starts seem to be the way of it lately for me and I must say that from time to time I feel as though I've hit a dead end and begin to wonder if I have utterly lost the plot. When you're researching and the trail cools down--or seems to disappear completely--it's a challenge to persevere, particularly when you don't even know exactly what else you're looking for, let alone where it might be found. Then, just as the inky many fanged beast of doubt begins to rear its ugly head, once in a while, from nowhere, a small glimmer appears on the horizon. Not exactly an instance of the fingerpost, perhaps, but a welcome guidepost and something for my mind's lens to focus in on.

Yesterday an accidental guidepost appeared, bringing with it a bit of much needed focus. With the focus came a little luck. You often hear about how sporting teams that are good also tend to be lucky. I'd like to think that sometimes, by virtue of perseverance alone, luck can be encouraged and coaxed into yielding a small, but precious dividend. In this case, a ridiculously lucky and unexpected souvenir found for sale on e-bay that maybe raises as many questions as it answers, but is still an important find.

Predictably, I was hooked again and focus began to be return. As I've said before, I love the research aspect of most projects because while it can be thankless and frustrating, it can be so satisfying and exciting. Granted, discovery of real linchpin moments is few and far between, but it does happen and when it does, even on a small scale, it's energizing. The doubts about the project begin to dissipate and with a renewed sense of purpose, you forge on ahead. I guess that's the nature of life, the pieces, the things we need ebb and flow, toward us and away from us...recognizing that has been a real revelation for me. I'm often surprised by both what does still exist when it comes to paper trails and what doesn't. And when it's not extant in a nice, succinct package, that's when you get creative and search differently. I guess that's part of the fun of it as well, I love a puzzle (crossword, Scrabble, etc.) and I get my kicks sorting through and putting together all the seemingly incongruous pieces.

Thus, with a modicum of focus restored and armed with a menu and a mere passing mention of chocolate filled little wax turkeys (yes, you read it right, small wax turkeys that when cracked open were filled with chocolate) I head off tomorrow in search of more official and concrete kinds of documentation. Wish me luck!

OH...and Happy St. Patrick's Day! If you thought you'd find a boozy reverie (and you'd have been right to think you might) here's a post from last St. Pat's with a few fond Guinness soaked memories...http://thepapertyger.blogspot.com/2010/03/wearing-and-drinking-of-green.html. Slainte!

Older, yes. Wiser? Hmm...

2011-03-07T18:05:00.001-05:00

So my birthday is tomorrow, March 8. No, no...put away the noisemakers and balloons, keep the confetti contained, this isn't a milestone birthday, at least not from a numeric standpoint. I do, however, hope this will be an important year and one that will kick off with little treats like shamrock shakes and cupcakes.

Perhaps because my birthday does fall in the early part of the year, it is often my mental starting point for the year, especially as I've grown older. I make and break New Year's resolutions just like the rest of the planet, but I think it's the arrival of my birthday that really feels like the start of a new year for me.

What does the coming year hold? No crystal ball here but I've thought about it and have come to a few conclusions...

# More little road trips to the nearby racetracks & polo matches and more time spent in the company of not only horses but other people who also like horses.

# Be a better correspondent. From small thank you notes to actual letters sent via the US Mail, it's time to reacquaint myself with the pleasure of stationery and handwritten cards.

# Practice being content.

# Finally, engage in more storytelling. I can't say that I really enjoy the writing process--it is god damned hard work--but it is a growth process as well. For most of the past decade I was very content to help others get their stories in order--to help their voice come through in the best and clearest way possible. I've also felt that generally, someone other than me--anyone other than me--was better equipped to tell most stories. Even if I was passionate about the subject or it had a strong resonance for me, I believed that others could tell it better than I could. No more. There are stories I want to tell and if I want them told properly, I'm actually the only one to do it. I wish it hadn't taken me so long to be willing to see that, but at least I'm up for the challenge now. I care about too many places, people, and events small and large to let them fall from memory or worse, go utterly unnoticed. World, you're on notice.

Many years ago, at a drive-in in Lake City, Minnesota, where we were for a high school basketball game a waitress left a note on the back of our bill. My father used the contents of the note for years with his young track athletes and it's perfect for me as a motto for the year ahead, as well. The 10 most important two letter words...If it is to be it is up to me. As true now as it was all those years ago.

Now to find the aforementioned shake and procure a birthday cupcake...

I've Got a Bridge to Sell You...

2011-03-01T17:20:00.003-05:00

The glorious Brooklyn Bridge, not, however, for sale.

It's March and with the sun being a bit higher in the sky and the snow mountains melting down into smaller snow hills it seems a good time for a bit of a rant, no?

Let me say at the outset that I am an utter non-believer when it comes to most any of the positive spin put out about corporate America. I think they'd sell just about anything to just about anyone if there was buck to be made and if they could simply indenture their workforces so as not to have to pay them a wage at all, they probably would. Cynical? Yes. But I know what often happens when stockholders--who rightfully have expectations of a return on their investment--start to demand a higher rate of return. Jobs are shed, product quality often suffers, and the remaining workers are, in many cases, left to do their own jobs in addition to taking on the responsibilities of their former colleagues. Bottom line, corporate America rarely (if ever) has the best interests of average Americans on their radar.

This isn't news, I know. And it isn't even new, but I am consistently surprised at how willingly we cede our actual best interests and real needs to corporations. A couple of examples...

The budget-repair bill that is--what I understand to be--at the heart of the protests in Wisconsin contains many disturbing clauses, but one of them that stood out to me pertains to, wait for it...Koch Industries. Yes, *those* Koch brothers, the ones who were major donors to Governor Walker's campaign. The part of this bill that I'm referring to deals with the no-bid sales of several Wisconsin power plants. No-bid? How do you offset a budget deficit with non-competitive no-bid sales? Now Koch Industries denies any interest in any of these plants, but (and here's where my bridge sale offer comes in) that seems somewhat implausible. Lobbyists for Koch Industries consistently try to lower, if not completely do away with any restrictions on the emissions from their various plants. They are NO friend to any environment. There are many other things at stake in the Wisconsin budget-repair bill, but I was struck at the level of deviousness that seemed to be inherent within this particular section. Here's a Milwaukee Journal Sentinel article that offers a little background on this particular provision http://www.jsonline.com/business/116965798.html.

Honestly, when Big Coal or Big Oil (or Koch Industries) tell you that you have nothing to fear from them, they are beyond disingenuous. Witness any mining disaster that has occurred over the past 50 years--how many times do we hear of all the safety violations that are dismissed (or worse) by management and the corporations running the mines? And if the whole of the mining industry doesn't make your heart ache a little, then I'd humbly suggest you aren't paying enough attention. Ken Ward, Jr., whose work I started reading during the Upper Big Branch Mine disaster, has a fantastic blog called Coal Tattoo on the Charleston Gazette website...http://blogs.wvgazette.com/coaltattoo/. Read a little of his work, you'll be hooked.

And if coal doesn't resonate with you, maybe natural gas does. You've no doubt seen advertisements on television about clean natural gas, often fronted by one T. Boone Pickens. (I've commented on Mr. Pickens and water rights/issues before...you can read it HERE.) There's little if anything that seems to be clean about the process necessary to retrieve natural gas from the Marcellus Shale fields. If you haven't seen Josh Fox's documentary, Gasland, I can't recommend it highly enough. Not only is the damage to groundwater rather frightening to contemplate, the sheer amount of water they use is incredible. Once again, the "bridge" we're being sold is not one of a clean energy future (as is often suggested) but rather yet another energy source that is often very difficult to retrieve and severely damages the environment (including ground and drinking water) during the retrieval process. Here is Gasland's website, have a look around...http://www.gaslandthemovie.com/whats-fracking/.

Finally, a little moment on historic preservation. In the event that you aren't as angered, in general, as I am by corporate America, perhaps you'll identify with this instead. Over the course of the research I've been doing for a book project I've stumbled across several interesting documents (I've got a lot more to sift through, mind you) regarding zoning and land use as they pertain to a specific historic property. Between the newspaper accounts, the paperwork of the association that formed to fight the development and the actual zoning meeting comments, it's all rather sad. At the time, the land in question wasn't an island surrounded by commercial development, but it was definitely a piece of land that developers were willing to pay top dollar for. There are telling quotes by an attorney for the developers stating that the neighborhood homeowners have "nothing to fear from the change of zone because damage there has already been done..." as if to say, look, we've ruined most of this area already, so really, why would you care if we ruin the rest? Calm down and take the money we're offering. The individual who was attempting to quietly offload the land to the developers had the nerve to comment that indeed the place in question would be much missed by local residents, but that this was "a beautiful example of ugly progress." The neighbors fought valiantly and won many rounds. In a July 1967 newspaper article their spokesman said, "Frankly, we expect further attempts by a few people--by their own admission 'selfish' --to continue their harassing applications for commercial zoning, either immediately or on a prolonged 'hit and run' basis." Further to that he commented, "We shall have to be vigilant and we shall have to meet them head-on every time." In the end, ugly progress--and I must take issue with that word, "progress"--won out. I've seen this scenario, or ones very similar to it, play out more times than I can count and it's heartbreaking every time. So often neighbors or proponents of a site or structure are either lulled into a false sense of security or they are finally overwhelmed by the deep pockets and the scale of the challenges posed by the developers.

So in summary:

1. Take the time to read the fine print and follow the money--whether it's in regard to industry, energy, or land use and preservation. If a corporation stands to benefit monetarily from a loop-hole or deregulation, they will lobby hard to make it happen.

2. When the land developers tell you that you have no reason to worry about a little ol' zoning change, be on your guard. Keeping a weather eye on zoning and planning meetings in your community is always a good idea.

3. If you think that big business (in general) is really worried about much more than profits, I've still got that lovely bridge for sale...the pretty one that joins Manhattan and Brooklyn and offers spectacular views of both.

Thus endeth my rant. I yield my spot atop the soapbox. For now.

Road to the Roses

2011-02-24T15:22:00.001-05:00

It's a kind of interesting day out, weather-wise. There's an almost candlelight warmth filling the sky and mixing with steely grey clouds. If I weren't on my deathbed (okay, not literally, but I do feel pretty *gross*) this is a day that I'd want to be out with a camera trying--often in vain--to capture the glorious light.

But since I'm not feeling up to snuff, it is the perfect day to assemble a Road To The Roses stable--a virtual fantasy stable not unlike something you'd set up for football or baseball, but instead of human athletes you choose from their equine counterparts. And yes, this can be done perfectly well from the privacy of your own home, underneath your favorite quilt, on your comfy sofa and in your flannel pyjamas. In my head it's a little like the treasure box of paper horses that Velvet Brown kept next to her bed.

In the past I've always kept a list, usually scribbled on a scrap of paper when I saw a horse I liked and wanted to follow or even a pile of sticky notes scattered around my desk. But this year I decided to participate and make my picks--such as they are--official.

Unlike the old days where I helped my father pick the fantasy football teams for his office pool--and by the way, I was pretty good at it--horses are often a very sentimental attachment for me. Therefore, my stable is comprised of 5 horses that I think actually have a chance at doing quite well in Derby prep races and the Kentucky Derby and 5 other horses chosen because I liked their name or their sire or dam. Nothing remotely scientific about this process for me, some horses I like, some horses I don't. Horses like First Dude (he's a four year old so he's not eligible anyway) or The Factor will never factor in my stable because they remind me of people I find mostly unpleasant. On the other hand, a horse named Robie the Cat reminds me of Cary Grant and there's nothing unpleasant about that connection.

A few horses like Black N Beauty and Printing Press didn't make the cut, but I'll be watching them anyway in addition to Brethren, Jakesam, Premier Pegasus, Wine Police (genius name) and Vengeful Wildcat. Here's to a safe and interesting Derby trail for all the contenders and their connections! If you'd like to make your own RTTR stable, you can begin here...http://www.roadtotheroses.com/ .

Without further ado...here is The Paper Tyger virtual stable (10 horses, 5 of which have to be designated as Power Horses) --

Archarcharch, Jack London, Master of Hounds, Queen'sPlateKitten, Robie the Cat. Most of these have a name or connection that I just couldn't pass over. I love cat and tiger related horse names so Queen'sPlateKitten and Robie the Cat were impossible not to choose. And Jack London is not only a wonderful writer but his equine namesake is out of Tale Of The Cat so another easy choice. And how could I pass up Master of Hounds? Archarcharch is the odd horse out in this grouping. I just like him, like the look of him and hope he's got a nice future ahead of him.

Power Horses (I feel like I should inform the horses they are my designated "active power horses" so that we're all clear about who has to do what here.) Elite Alex, Mucho Macho Man, Sway Away, To Honor and Serve and finally, Uncle Mo. I have had an affinity for Afleet Alex ever since we watched him win the Belmont Stakes in 2005, so his progeny will always get my attention, thus the choice of Elite Alex and Sway Away. I've always liked Macho Uno (as well as his daddy, Holy Bull) so Mucho Macho Man was an easy choice as well. And finally, Uncle Mo and To Honor and Serve are both classy colts with wins under their collective belts and they appear to be serious contenders.

There we are then...I hope there are a couple of sensible picks mixed in with all the sentimental ones. I know there are many contenders who aren't in my stable and that's fine...I've perused the lists and options and these are horses I'm happy with and will look forward to watching as they mature over the next few weeks. With any luck we'll get to watch many of them well beyond the first Saturday in May.

Buy Local! (Historical edition)

2011-02-19T22:20:00.004-05:00

The Brookfield Historical Society and Museum, Brookfield, CT

Anyone who has spent any amount of time at all doing research--whether it is into family history or a particular historic event--realizes the treasure trove that may be found at local and county historical societies and their research libraries.

I spent a few years working in a small county historical society myself so I am generally aware of how vastly the fortunes of places like this can vary depending on funding, donations, and sadly, politics. Some town and county museums are blessed not only with thoughtfully and carefully curated papers, books, documents and photographs, but also with a staff--often many of them are volunteers--who are helpful, friendly, and knowledgeable. So in the same way that buying local produce and meat is better for both you and the economy, spending some time at your local historical society or museum is also mutually beneficial. You'll learn about your family and/or your community and you'll support an organization that has kept the lamps of history lit in quiet corners for decades upon decades.

Yes, there is a lot of one-stop-shopping to be done when it comes to research and genealogy, and I'm not suggesting there's anything wrong with that. I'm only proposing that if there's a small entity that might hold a document or record that you've been looking for, give them a shot. These (often) small gems can be the repositories of a town's memories or they can track a county's transition from agriculture to medical mecca. And while the state historical society or state library can also be of great help, the smaller sites are so important to the fabric of a community. And hey, in some cases your tax dollars have helped fund these sites so pay a visit and see the good work they are doing.

I've been researching a small book project off and on for a while now and even though I've had some fun and useful finds online and through the NYT and New Yorker archives, the real gist of what I've been looking for has been uncovered with the help of the hardworking archivists and staff at two local museums--in Danbury and Brookfield, Connecticut.

I can't say enough about the folks I've been lucky enough to work with at both spots and honestly, I could spend days at the Brookfield Historical Society. It's a charming building and they are rightfully proud of the heritage of their community. A few other people walked in with some queries while I was there and it was fun to eavesdrop on their reminiscences...it sounded just like my dad when he and his old high school buddies get together. Needless to say, I felt right at home there, sitting at a large pine table covered with old newspapers and photographs as the shutters rattled in today's harsh wind. I knew basically what I'd hoped to find today, it's always a challenge with a structure that has been gone for a few decades now, and my expectations were exceeded. But not only did I spend time with the "White Turkey Inn" file, I also learned about the Copperheads in Connecticut during the Civil War and chatted about a Revolutionary era cannonball that a local couple had been found on their property. The hour or so I'd planned to spend turned into nearly four hours and I left with a stack of photocopies and a total buzz from all the documentation I'd found. The staff shared their memories with me of a place I'll never see in person but have, nonetheless, completely fallen in love with. Yes, even reading about zoning battles can be exciting when you look back in hindsight and can piece together how the proverbial dominoes began to tumble.

A gift certificate from the White Turkey Inn

I'll be back for more at both the Danbury and Brookfield Historical Societies because they are important and the work they do is meaningful--just like the indie bookseller or the local coffee joint. We all know to buy local whenever possible, so give your local museum or historical society the same treatment. It's even possible you'll learn something about yourself in the process. It is far too easy to take these places-- and the work they do for granted--only to bemoan their passing after they've disappeared.

http://www.brookfieldcthistory.org/

http://danburymuseum.org/danburymuseum/Home.html

Pansies and tulips and hyacinths, oh my!

2011-02-18T20:01:00.004-05:00

Hyacinths and tulips outside Rockefeller Plaza, 2006

I'm generally fan of all the seasons, at least for a certain amount of time--I know I could never live in a place where it was one climate all year round. However, when the august swelter of August drags into September, I'm ready for an immediate (and wishful) transition to autumn. And when it comes to the first snow I can barely contain my envy when my more northerly New England neighbors are blanketed with a layer of fluffy, white, snowy goodness before I am. Patience is not among my virtues, generally speaking.

The time has come, though, where I'm starting to daydream about spring. These past two days of balmy goodness--60 degrees in February?!?!--do have a way of setting a girl's mind to wandering. I found myself drawn to the lilac and jasmine scented candles as I passed shops on my errands today...sure signs of an emergence from hibernation. I know full well there's more snow and dreaded "wintry mix" still to come and I'm not nearly ready to put away my tall boots (for which, my pathetically white legs are more than grateful, I'm certain), but I thought I'd add a little floral inspiration to extend today's sunny temps a little longer. The weather folk are forecasting a chilly stretch to come, so I'm going to enjoy some virtual flowers and a little HWL while I patiently await the arrival of the hyacinths, crocuses, daffodils, tulips and all their hearty floral compatriots.

Fiery tulips from the Boston Public Garden, 2008

My favorite--purple pansies, 2008

Flowers

by our beloved Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,

One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,

Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history,

As astrologers and seers of eld;

Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,

Like the burning stars, which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,

God hath written in those stars above;

But not less in the bright flowerets under us

Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,

Written all over this great world of ours;

Making evident our own creation,

In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part

Of the self-same, universal being,

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,

Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,

Flaunting gayly in the golden light;

Large desires, with most uncertain issues,

Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men are more than seeming,

Workings are they of the self-same powers,

Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,

Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing,

Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,

Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,

And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,

In the centre of his brazen shield;

Not alone in meadows and green alleys,

On the mountain-top, and by the brink

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,

Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone,

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,

Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons,

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,

How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection,

We behold their tender buds expand;

Emblems of our own great resurrection,

Emblems of the bright and better land.

You Want a What?

2011-02-16T19:08:00.002-05:00

Toss the confetti, release the balloons, and pop the Champagne corks--only The Widow or better, please--The (prodigal) Paper Tyger has returned. For those of you unaware that I'd been absent, well, no worries...you didn't miss too terribly much.

I've kept busy working on writing projects small and large, and other little endeavors as well. So what broke the proverbial ice dragging me back here? A photograph, actually, or the lack thereof, more specifically.

About a year ago I wrote about my trip to Yorktown Heights, NY, to engage in a match with a few other ex-Jeopardy! contestants versus the now famous Watson. It was great fun as I related in the post at the time--more fun than the actual Jeopardy! experience by a long stretch. Not only was there no pressure--though it was still a highly competitive atmosphere--but the IBM campus there is almost perfectly bucolic. Nestled amidst rolling hills the Eero Saarinen designed main building was an unexpected pleasure and absolutely added to the overall experience.

Fast forward to today and I was giving a quick interview about my experience versus the lightning-fast Watson to a reporter when I was asked for the thing I dread most, a photograph. Of me, I asked? Really? Wouldn't you like a gorgeous picture postcard view of the Saarinen building with the sun setting behind it? Or better yet, surely you can come up with some clever graphic or other to fill the space, right? Nope. A photograph of me. Is it too late to back out of the interview? (Cut to ridiculously rare photograph of an actual tiger backing down from a challenge. Can't find one, right? Exactly.)

After much ado--come on, I do fancy a spot of dramatics now and then--I came up with a suitable image (one with my glasses on, even, huzzah!!) and the problem was solved. Right...so moving on then. Or, not...

The photograph in question is a perfectly nice image and yet, I'm still uncomfortable with giving it over to someone else. I am, reader, a person with control concerns. (And yes, that's a euphemism.) I, apparently, am much happier being the observer and recorder, not the observed and recorded. Admittedly I'd have much rather written something myself and had them edit it down or use a few quotes, but that wasn't an option. So there I was this morning, giving an interview to an absolutely nice and very capable reporter but the entire time I was mentally editing myself and framing things the way I'd have written them. Not perhaps the best way to conduct an interview and I'd have been annoyed if I sensed someone doing that with me. But when you're firmly rooted in your comfort zone of being the quiet observer in the background (also known as the anti-George Plimpton) it takes a good old-fashioned hockey check to unseat you.

Clearly it is a good thing to be shoved out of the comfort zone now and again. For me, getting back to writing here is as much a part of that as sending on my photograph to the nice interviewer who was only doing her job. Hitting that send button was harder than it ought to have been and it served as a healthy reminder for me to step back out into the light again. The entirety of the Jeopardy! experience was a good distance outside any comfort zone I've ever owned, so now is as good a time as any to toss my hat back into the ring. Welcome new friends and a hearty thanks for the patience of my old, faithful readers.

In the event you haven't read my scintillating (that's hyperbole in action there, folks...) account of Watson and Jeopardy!...they are here:

Elememtary, my dear Watson...

I lost on Jeopardy!

A Window! My Kingdom For a Window!!

2010-11-22T20:15:00.005-05:00

I live in a safe, pretty quiet place. Or at least I thought I did. And then on Friday I was awakened by a phone call telling me my car had been broken into. The driver’s side window was obliterated and a honeycomb of shiny aquamarine colored glass was strewn across both seats and the dashboard.

Bits and pieces of window saved for future artistic projects.

The maintenance staff was already cleaning up the shards on the pavement around my car and helpfully putting a temporary plastic covering on the space where I’d formerly had a window. They pushed the black plastic back so I could look around and see what, if anything, was missing.

**Before I continue, let me make this disclaimer: I am the girl who locks her car no matter where it is, including her parents' driveway in Minnesota. I am also the girl who keeps her car in meticulous condition, inside and out. I love my car and treat it with great care. It is neither an old car, nor a customized car of any sort.**

Right, so where were we…? Oh yes, I was going to tell you what was missing. On first glance the only thing missing was an ancient 2nd generation iPod which I use only in the car and worked about, oh, say 50% of the time. It’s been obsolete for a few years now and it honestly never occurred to me in a million years that anyone would actually break into a car to get it. Everything else seemed to be intact, from my full little Liberty of London coin purse to a Dunkin Donuts gift card that was also pretty full.

Annoyed as I was, I came inside and called the police and was informed that this was a pretty typical crime, some kid looking to pawn something to buy a “dime bag” of some drug. I’m not actually sure what most of that means, but it suffices to say that it was unlikely I was going to get my iPod back. The policeman never even got out of his cruiser, looking over at the mess with a disappointing nonchalance. He then handed me a card with a number on to get the police report.

Excellent, I figured, police report taken care of, I’ll call my insurance company and file a claim and get working on a replacement window.

Um, not so fast. I have a $500 deductible and while the replacing of said window is not cheap, it is under $500. Okay…not amused but, that’s the deal. After a few calls to dealers and glass places, I settled on a national company--recommended by my insurance company--that said they could be out that afternoon. Huzzah and Halleluiah!!

Well, readers, let’s just say that things went down hill from there. I barely got the final chorus of Halleluiahs out when, while doing a more thorough check for missing items I found that the bastard thieves had also taken a small good luck piece--a tiny gold wishbone pin--that had been given to me by someone whom I love very much and which had, in turn, belonged to someone whom he loved very much, his mum. The small pin had been given to her by her father and had watched over me from my car's visor for a couple of years now. I’d not been angry about the iPod, but with this discovery I could immediately feel hot, angry tears streaming down my face and a sourness churning in my stomach. Insult had been added to injury and on top of everything else I needed to break the news that the pin had been stolen. I figured that once I had the window back in and the glass cleaned up I’d take care of that difficult task.

The glass company (to remain nameless for the time being) sent out a very nice gentleman who got straight to work and told me what to expect, etc. About 45 minutes later he calls me back down to the car and tells me there is a small problem--the window wasn’t the right one. It was the right shape, but two small holes, needed for bolts at the base, were not there. He did a quick little plastic treatment and told me they’d reorder the part and someone would be back out the next afternoon. I wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t his fault and I went about my business after a bit of a rant on Twitter.

Saturday morning rolls around and lo and behold, a call from the glass guys. The part had come in wrong again. It was going to be Monday (today) before they could get the part from a dealer or dealer’s vendor. Less amused than ever, but I was polite and thanked them for letting me know.

Morning came today with a renewed sense of hope and feeling that I was going to have a car with all four lovely windows in place once again. Alas, it was not meant to be. This morning’s phone call alerted me to the fact that the dealers hadn’t told them this was a special order and was going to take an additional 3-5 days…and when you add in the holiday, well, it was going to be ANOTHER WEEK. Next Monday. Meaning my car was STILL vulnerable and by the end of this all it would have been so for 10 days.

I really didn’t know what to do upon hearing the news this afternoon. I was furious beyond reason, but no one else was going to get me the glass any sooner at this point since it clearly had to be ordered and shipped in. After a few phone calls to area dealers I realized I was just going to have to suck it up. I asked the young woman on the phone if someone could come out and do a “new and improved” window treatment to get me through the next week…one that is forecast to include inclement weather. She said absolutely and they sent out a very thorough repairman who gave me about as sturdy a temporary window as a girl could hope for. Not perfect, but with any luck, it’ll do.

The "new and improved" temporary window, thanks to Paul!

As for blame…well, I’m as upset with myself as anyone for leaving even a crappy old obsolete piece of electronics in a visible spot in my car. As far as I can tell both the glass guys and the car dealers are equally responsible for how long it will take to get me an actual window, so that’s a wash, I guess. What is always interesting to me, though, especially in a time of crisis, is who steps up. Who comes thru and who doesn’t. It’s a good reminder of who has one’s back, isn’t it?

Oh, and the pin…I did finally tell him about the pin being gone. I sobbed through the telling of the whole sordid story and he interrupted by telling me it was going to be all right. I sniffled through more details and he said of course he was disappointed that the pin had been stolen, but what was most important was that I was okay. This induced more tears at which point he said, ”the pin may be gone, but the sentiments behind it still remain, okay, no one can take those.”

That'll do...that'll do.

The Queen Mum

2010-11-18T13:46:00.001-05:00

Ah, there's nothing like a match between an attractive, talented, elegant and well-bred young couple to send the media into a minor feeding frenzy. The speculation about offspring and heirs is quickly zipping across cyberspace and every punter has an opinion.

Zenyatta paddock schooling on November 4, 2010
with her groom, Mario Espinoza. Photo courtesy of Frances J. Karon.

No, no, I'm not talking about Wills and Kate, though I'm sure the punters and speculators are having their fun with them as well--not to mention the boon to the commemorative china trade. I'm referring to the lucky stallion who will get to be the sire of Zenyatta's first foal and take the meaning of royally-bred to an entirely new level. Who will it be? Who could possibly be good enough for Zenyatta? One of the most poignant moments of Mike Smith's pre-Breeder's Cup 60 Minutes interview came when he was asked about Zenyatta's future in the breeding shed. His response was heartfelt and honest, something you'd expect to hear from any proud human father...no one was good enough for her, not for his special girl.

Z and Mario arriving at Churchill Downs. Photo courtesy of Frances J. Karon.

And she is special. She's brought nothing but joy, grace, and inspiring athletic achievement into the skeptical and often jaded world of racing. But the Queen is now off to bigger and better things, which got me to thinking, anthropomorphically, of course, about what kind of offerings her prospective suitors might bring...

Typically it is the bride's family who worries over a dowry or fortune (see Maureen O'Hara's character in the The Quiet Man for the ideal portrayal of this) but in Zenyatta's case, I think the stallion's connections ought to be, for lack of a better expression, ponying up big time for a chance to be romantically linked (to put it delicately) to a mare of this stature. They ought to come bearing precious gems, special hybrids of apples and carrots, the softest straw and the tastiest oats. Perhaps they can offer up deals with Guinness or luxury bridles and blankets from Hermes. Or maybe one of the stallions is connected to a peppermint manufacturer and brings that to the table, along with just the right balance--an alchemist's secret formula for that magical combination of speed and stamina. And let's not forget the dancing, this girl has serious moves and any worthy male must possess not only the elegant agility of Fred Astaire, but also the sweeping athleticism of Gene Kelly.

Trainer John Shirrefs chats with Z. Photo courtesy of Frances J. Karon

While I realize that equating human comforts and traits to a horse might seem a bit silly, I can't help but want a happy and comfortable future for Zenyatta. I'm personally saddened that I won't get to see her race again, but I take heart in knowing that she'll be as well cared for in motherhood as she was during her racing career and that's how it should be. This wonderful horse who has buoyed spirits and made even non-racing fans sit up and take notice deserves nothing but the best, she's more than earned it.

For those of you who haven't checked out the piece in The Thoroughbred Times about her likely mates, here it is...Zenyatta Retires. And a special thanks to Frances for her up close and personal photos of Z that she kindly let me use for this piece.

Hold on a minute...

2010-11-16T13:10:00.003-05:00

Still autumn here in southern New England, let's enjoy it while we can!

I got into my car yesterday to run a few errands and switched on the radio. It was still tuned to one of my favorite XM presets, 40s on 4, from the weekend. Instead of hearing a swingy melody from Benny Goodman or a forgotten treasure from Bing Crosby, I heard Dean Martin singing Silver Bells. Huh? Wah? All due respect to Dino, whom I truly do love, but WHAT THE HELL?? It was the only 15th of November, still 10 days out from Thanksgiving (!), and my radio was already pushing Christmas at me.

Well I'm stopping the presses and slamming on the brakes this year. Autumn transitioning into to winter is my favorite time of year. From the hazy, warm, Indian summer days that are sprinkled throughout October to the first snow flakes, I relish every bit of it and I enjoy taking it in.

And yet, even as I mulishly dig my heels in to slow the progression of the coming weeks, I know that outside forces will be conspiring against me. Okay, that sounded a wee bit paranoid, but you know what I mean. The always lovely Christmas windows at Lord & Taylor in NYC were unveiled last night--complete with an appearance by Santa. Target barely got the Halloween candy into clearance aisles before restocking the shelves with Christmas candy. And let's not allow the television adverts off the hook, they've jumped the gun entirely by bombarding us with Christmas products. I mean really, don't we deserve a little breather between the bellicose and cringe-worthy political campaign advertisements and the silly, over-the-top commercialism of the holiday season?

I always assume that Americans are worse about this than other cultures because of our general state of rushing about and hurrying in, but in truth, I suppose all of Western culture is guilty of this non-stop quest for what is next or new. In the process, though, we rarely seem to stop and enjoy the present, the now. And I'm as guilty of this as anyone, always longing for, say, the start of the summer season in Saratoga or looking forward with great anticipation to the first snowfall each year. It's great to have things to look forward to, but I know that I sometimes I do so to the detriment of the present. This year, though, even the moody fall days that blow in on a chilly breeze will get their due. It is, after all, autumn in New England. So enough of the pre-Thanksgiving Christmas rush, there'll be plenty of time for Christmas after Thanksgiving, I promise. So save your Christmas tunes and colorful lights, your holiday cards and candy canes, please, until November 26th, at which point I will joyfully and happily share in the countdown to Christmas.

In the meantime, how about a little lost Bing Crosby-Judy Garland treasure that celebrates my beloved nutmeg state, hmm?

On Legacy

2010-11-11T01:22:00.002-05:00

I've been besieged of late, for lack of a better word, by multiple thoughts on the nature of legacy. Musing on the nature of how a story is told or interpreted is nothing new for me, it's been part of my work in both the museum and publishing worlds, but for the past week and a half everything I've encountered--from election results to horse races--seems to boil down to that double-edged sword of a word, legacy.

This entire thought process began about 10 days or so ago when the Snow Monkey and I visited Springwood, Franklin Delano Roosevelt's estate in Hyde Park. I've been there many times, most often to wander around the grounds and soak up some inspiration, but himself, well, he'd never been there so we opted to take the house tour in addition to having a good walk around the grounds. As we meandered through the home it was interesting to eavesdrop on the quiet comments murmured between our fellow tourists and the inquiries made to our guide...there was an air of unspoken respect for the man and for, I hope, his place in history. I'm always amused by his well curated and somewhat cheeky collection of 18th and 19th century British political cartoons; just as I'm always moved by the dumbwaiter (originally used for cumbersome steamer trunks) that was re-purposed as an elevator to allow a wheelchair-bound FDR to get himself to the other levels of the the home. He pulled himself upstairs, essentially, in a small dumbwaiter car, using a rope that must have tested and tired the strength of his entire upper-body. Once outside, amidst the rolling hills and ridiculously beautiful views of the Hudson River, it's nearly impossible to leave Springwood without a sense of the Roosevelt legacy of Franklin and Eleanor. Stop to consider that in addition to repealing Prohibition (my personal favorite of FDR's myriad accomplishments) he also is responsible for creating Social Security, Unemployment Insurance, the CCC, the WPA, the SEC, and the March of Dimes for starters. And for as much as I fully understand the flaws and foibles of FDR's alphabet soup of recovery programs, this time I left with a sinking feeling that some of the things he'd fought for and left in trust for future generations were actually in a kind of danger.

Yes, I said in danger. Prior to that Sunday afternoon, pre-2010 election, I had read of and watched politicians from a handful of states stumping and advocating for the dissolution (or serious dismembering) of programs like Social Security and Unemployment Insurance. These upstart sorts, to my mind, were tampering not only with FDR's legacy of compassion and social responsibility, but they were also, in their own way, demolishing important and necessary safety net programs that people count on. Beyond that, we (yes, WE) have also contributed to these programs all of our working lives. This isn't charity, it's something that working people have earned. The Roosevelt administrations of the 1930s and 40s fought hard for us to have these rights...it's one of the most important parts of his legacy as far as I'm concerned. Seeing these necessary and enduring pieces of legislation challenged and almost made light of by cavalier and common politicians was worrisome, to say the least. It seems we all need reminders that vigilance is the price we must pay to ensure the future of important legacies handed down to us for protection.

And then, nearly a week after our little Roosevelt excursion, there was the big upset of this past Saturday, Zenyatta being nosed out of her 20th victory and a Breeder's Cup Classic win, by a horse called Blame. For those of you who don't follow horse racing and are now wondering who these horses are, I'm a little sad on your behalf. Go ahead...Google Zenyatta, watch ANY of her races, and then come back, we'll wait for you to get up to speed.

Impressive, right? Kind of makes you want to go back and watch all of her 19 brilliant victories, doesn't it? It's okay...you'll find yourself a little teary and most likely cheering wildly for this amazing mare in spite of the fact that you know she's going to win all 19 in style--patented Zenyatta style--coming from behind, her long, rolling strides seeming to eat up the ground.

So this brings us to her 20th start in the Breeder's Cup Classic against the boys. There was talk that she might retire to the breeding shed after this race, and surely with a win, her legacy of greatness would be cemented. However, as most racing fans learn early on, the racing gods and goddesses can be terribly cruel. Heartbreak is built into both baseball and horse racing, it's part of the bargain we accept for the pleasure of sweet swings or an amazing turn of foot. Just as there was no joy in Mudville when the Mighty Casey struck out, there was no joy at Churchill Downs (or anywhere that racing fans congregate) when Zenyatta lost. The elegant, smart, stylish, and cunning mare who had so nobly borne all of our wishes, dreams, and hopes for perfection on her well-bred shoulders came up a nostril short.

Her legacy? Absolutely untarnished for this fan. She's a wonder and a marvel and she has more than earned her place in history with her incredible record of 19 consecutive wins. Race fans will debate and debunk the sometime rivalry of the mighty Zenyatta and Rachel Alexandra, but at the end of the day, Zenyatta's record speaks for itself. I have such love and respect for both these mares and their connections that I mostly just consider myself lucky to have been able to watch them race so many times. I often bemoan not being around to watch in person Secretariat's Belmont blow-out or Seabiscuit's match race against War Admiral, but instead I've been able to watch Zenyatta and Rachel. Not such a bad trade off, all things considered.

My hope is that when Zenyatta does eventually make her way to the breeding shed that she'll throw beautiful and talented foals for us to marvel at and cheer on for generations to come. Now that's a legacy...smart and stunning little mini-Zenyattas making their way to a racetrack near you in 2014 or 2015!

On a closing note, a much smaller, but more personal legacy that I consider myself the keeper of--along with my family, of course. The photo of the clothespins above was taken on the porch of my maternal grandparent's home in Fountain City, Wisconsin. The porch looks out over the Mississippi River, rather lazy at that spot, and bears witness to seasonal voyages of numerous barges and the occasional long ago visits from the Delta Queen, a historic sternwheel steamboat, complete with calliope. The twine clothesline and clothespins pictured are a tactile representation of my grandmother's philosophy and work ethic. Hand embroidered dish towels, plastic baggies turned inside out for reuse, and colorful--if threadbare--aprons were fixtures on that length of twine. After big dinners with lots of cousins and family present the day would end with the lines covered with wet dish towels, or pieces of butcher's paper--all hung to dry with a view of the river rolling calmly by.

The sight of an old wooden clothespin never fails to remind me of my "Grandma K" and her own little legacy of daughters who sew, embroider, and quilt (to this day) and grandchildren who cherish and recall fondly her handiworks, fresh bread, popcorn parties, and chaotic fishing expeditions.

Legacies can be national, political, ordinary, and even equine in nature. More important is that we recognize the pieces of history, large and small, that are entrusted to us to care for and nurture for coming generations.

The Tailcoat

2010-10-22T01:05:00.003-04:00

Clothing makes a statement, it gives clues to the world as to who we are and even, to an extent, where we've been. Imagine Humphrey Bogart's Rick Blaine character in Casablanca wearing something other than his classic ivory colored dinner jacket. Sure he'd still be Bogey and he'd still deliver his lines in that inimitable fashion, but it wouldn't be the same. Nor would Mad Men be the fabulously addictive program that it is if it didn't have such an impeccable wardrobe for its talented cast--consider Pete Campbell's blue suits or Don's variations in grey. And the women's clothing, I'm terribly envious of the wonderful day dresses, gowns, gloves, and hats that are often sported by the female cast members.

And this brings me to The Tailcoat. For the past couple of days I've been able to visit dear old friends and help out with the work being done to ready Historic Mayowood Mansion for its Christmas season which begins in early November. I've loved Mayowood since I was a wee girl taking riding lessons in the Mayo's former stables and I learned a lifetime of lessons working at the house as an adult, it's as much a part of me as New England or horses or France.

On Wednesday we were putting away a few small artifacts in an upstairs closet and I noticed a beautiful gentleman's wool tailcoat with some other clothing. Because so many generations of the Mayo family called Mayowood home, there are clothes spanning eras from 1911 when the house was built all the way up until the early 1960s...there is everything from old style riding togs to beautiful handmade silk chiffon gowns. This coat stood out though. It was made from a beautiful medium weight charcoal grey wool and as we removed it from its special container for a closer look we could see it was custom made tailcoat in mint condition. The seams and hand sewing were works of art created by a skilled hand and the buttons on the front, tails, and sleeves were covered in a woven silk damask. Folded carefully beneath the coat was the matching pair of deep grey wool trousers and a silk vest with delicate pearl buttons. The entire suit was in perfect condition, not a moth nosh to be found. But who might have worn it?

We examined the interior pockets on the coat a little closer--those slick, slim, secret pockets that held letters of transit or fashionable cigarette cases once upon a time--and found it had been made by Fieldcrest in Chicago for Dr. J. Mayo.

I felt an immediate and powerful pang of sadness at seeing his name in this beautiful garment, my heart sank a little in my chest. As my friend left the room to answer a question elsewhere in the house, I whispered quietly, "Oh, Joe, this is heartbreaking." I couldn't help myself, I always felt a real connection to Joe--Dr. Joseph Graham Mayo--from the first time I saw his portrait on a wall at Mayowood.

Joe had been the second son in a family where the first son, Dr. Charles W. Mayo, bore a immense responsibility on very capable shoulders. Joe was an avid horseman and hunter and a lively soul. From all accounts, he had a big personality and razor-wit--possibly because he enjoyed freedoms that eldest sons from prominent families often don't have the option to pursue. He also was, to my mind, the great tragic figure of the Mayo family. He was killed in a car-train collision in November of 1936 (at the tender young age of 34) while on a hunting trip near the Alma/Cochrane/Buffalo City area of Wisconsin, leaving a young widow, Ruth, and two small children behind...as well as a heartbroken family and devastated older brother. His beloved hunting dog perished in the accident as well and it is said that the dog is interred with him. The premiere issue of Life magazine from November 16, 1936 featured a photo and short obituary of Joe Mayo in it--right below a blurb announcing the marriage of John Barrymore. President Roosevelt sent a letter to the Mayos the next day assuring them of his deep sorrow for their great loss. The stack of telegrams the family received after Joe's death was immense and a measure of the void he would leave in the lives of many people.

The tailcoat, vest, and trousers were a sharp reminder of the unfulfilled promise that young people like Joe Mayo leave in their wake. Had he worn them while dancing with Ruth at a lovely party, had the suit been made for a special occasion? They'd been cared for meticulously, the owner clearly intending to wear them again when the opportunity arose. Beautiful garments--be they gowns, tuxedos, or tailcoats--are meant to be worn. They are part and parcel of occasions large and small and this suit was a physical reminder of all the moments that Joe didn't have enough time to experience.

Even after I'd neatly packed the suit up again, I couldn't get it out of my mind and I was (and am) still a little surprised at how deeply a mere garment could resonate with me. The passage of time can sneak up on us in unexpected places and in the oddest of ways, but I'm glad I spent a kind of stolen moment and spared a thought for a gentleman whom I never knew, but one I feel sure would've been a kindred spirit.

Cheers, Joe, and here's to all the happy times you must have enjoyed in that magnificent suit.

If These Walls Could Talk--A Glimpse Into a World Long Gone

2010-10-07T17:09:00.000-04:00

This morning as I was scrolling through my always-interesting Twitter feed I noticed a piece posted by Valerie (aka @swannoir27) about a Paris apartment that had been shuttered for some 70 years. The link pointed to a piece in the UK Telegraph newspaper about a valuable piece of art that was found within the flat and had recently sold for 3 million or so dollars at auction. The painting itself is interesting, if not more than a little over the top, but I found myself far more interested in everything the article did NOT mention and despite my best intentions to accomplish other things, I’ve spent much of today daydreaming over this long-abandoned Paris flat. There's a link to the Telegraph piece HERE and a link HERE with more photos to the lovely The Paris Apartment blog; plus THIS link with a few more images of the flat.)

The newspaper article mentions that the apartment had been closed up since before World War II--when the owner fled to the south of France--and it remained unoccupied until the owner died sometime in 2010. That means that this space was, for all intents and purposes, a kind of time capsule--a “through the looking glass” place that existed in its own time--free from the march to modernity that we've all been part of. Untouched, from what I can figure out, through the D-Day invasions at Normandy, the liberation of Paris, and V-E Day. It’s a kind of silent witness…if those walls could talk.

Then imagine being the first person to open that door after 70 years--in my romantic mind it would have been a little like when Howard Carter first peered into the wonder that was Tutankhamun’s tomb. The photographs give us a tiny glimpse at what appears to be a place that was left abruptly. Had the occupant fled Paris, or merely left it for a safer existence in the south? Why did she never return? The rent, taxes, and other fees were continually paid, but apparently the owner, the granddaughter of Marthe de Florian, never went back after vacating the flat. Can you imagine having a comfy flat in the middle of Paris and not using it...for 70 years? This is a mystery as delicious as your favorite French pastry!

Some of the furnishings and items that we can see in the photos are rather remarkable, others typical of early 20^th century life. Attractive chairs and artwork in various states of framing are prominent in the pictures, as is the fantastic mirror that dominates the left side of the image. Even though there’s visible water damage, some of the wall coverings look to be a once-lovely damask and there appears to be some impressive plasterwork or carved wood moulding as well. The tall windows and heavy draperies belie a once elegant space with marble fireplace mantles and beautiful old carpets. Even the harsh angle of the walls as they meet in the corner evokes the quirky appeal of the quintessential Paris flat. There's an adorable stuffed Mickey Mouse toy (and is that a Porky Pig doll I spy behind him!?) sitting at the feet of an extraordinary stuffed ostrich--more than likely purchased from the famed Parisian taxidermy shop Deyrolle.

What I’d really love to see photographs of, though, are the contents of the kitchen, bedroom, or bathroom. What kinds of potions and tonics (in my imagination they are in charming, flowery bottles with glass stoppers) lined the glass shelves of the bathroom? Were there beautiful tiles on the walls so typical of many early 20^th century baths? In the kitchen were there ancient tins of spices and bottles of liquor and spirits? Did a bottle of Veuve Clicquot happen to be stashed away in a cupboard for a special occasion? Perhaps there were piles of fashion magazines from the period, filled with the latest couture and haberdashery. One article does mention a number of calling cards from prominent individuals of the time--another treasure of a bygone era--as well as piles of love letters held together by ribbons of various colors.

There are so many things I want to know about this apartment, about the woman who occupied it--or didn’t, actually--for all those decades. I’m sure the contents were carefully inventoried and cataloged by a wonderfully bureaucratic French official, but I hope that someone else was there to document it all as well. I’d love to have a French writer’s take on the place and how it was allowed to exist out of time for so long. This apartment is a time capsule of the most wonderful sort and a veritable feast for any historian, archivist, curator or writer. The real story of this space is likely better than any fiction writer could conjure, but I wonder if we’ll ever know?

Not so long after stumbling upon this piece I read Roger Ebert’s poignant (and wonderful) review of the forthcoming Secretariat film. At one point during the review he mentions that his beloved friend and long-time co-host Gene Siskel used to say that, “his favorite movies were about what people actually do all day.” I immediately thought it was precisely that feeling which resonated so strongly and moved me so about this abandoned apartment. It was a scene from a day in the life of a pre-war Parisienne, a glimpse into a world long gone.

The Willing Heart of a Champion

2010-10-03T15:27:00.003-04:00

Sporting events large and small over the course of the past few days got me wondering about the nature of greatness. What separates the good from the great, the historic from the fleeting, the moments of collective memory from smaller instances of personal victory? It’s too simplistic to say it’s just about numbers. The most victories, the largest scores, and most copies sold are all measures of a certain kind, but are they the most important ones? I think there’s another yardstick, one with no numbers, which is a vital component of greatness--heart.

A huge heart--literally in horse racing legend Secretariat’s case--is for me the unifying thread among so many of my heroes and heroines, literary and athletic, human and equine. It is the act of recognizing in another being an iron will, a divine spirit, or a heart for battle. Heart is the intangible, unquantifiable nugget that elevates the good to great and the ordinary to extraordinary.

I realize none of this is particularly revelatory, but I think every now and then (not unlike Ferris Bueller) it is worth stopping, looking around, and assessing just to be sure we don’t miss something important. It’s easy to throw stones or snicker derisively at another’s accomplishments, but it’s far more interesting to step back and take a moment to appreciate moments of greatness. It’s the road less traveled and that path is almost always the more scenic and more enlightening. Records come and go, statistics will be asterisked and analyzed, wins and losses quantified, but when all is said and done, I don’t think that’s what remains with us. And that brings me to Zenyatta.

Anyone who was fortunate enough to be in attendance at Hollywood Park for her penultimate race yesterday got to see a genuine beauty in whom beats the willing heart of a champion. I have to say that for me, while her 19-0 unblemished record is damned impressive, what I love about this majestic soul has less to do with her statistical place in history and more to do with the manner in which she’s raced to such heights. It’s the same thing I love about so many horses, their grit and determination, their will to win…but add to that her natural ability and you know you have a once-in-a-lifetime athlete. Special and amazing are overused these days (and I’m as guilty as anyone) but Zenyatta is, simply put, a great horse. She is the kind of horse that people in the future will look back upon and say they wish they’d had a chance to see race in person. As the neighborhood nostalgic--to my mind, anyway--witnessing one of her victories will be the equivalent of having seen a race run by Seabiscuit, Secretariat, or Man o’ War during their glorious salad days. The best of the best, those who embody the word great, find ways to win and Zenyatta has always found her way to the wire like a perfectly calibrated heat-seeking missile. It is a privilege to watch truly great athletes compete and to see her run a race without turning a hair or sweating a drop--all the while toying with her competitors--is to witness greatness amplified by heart and elegance. I won’t ever see Zenyatta race in person, but I'll look forward to visiting her in the coming years and seeing her beautifully dappled bay coat glistening in the sun as she dances across a field. As time passes I’ll likely forget whom she beat in which race or by how many lengths she won, but I will never forget--nor cease to be in awe of--her love of running, her exceptional heart, and her classic beauty. And I’ll leave the comparisons and rankings to those with minds more mathematically inclined than mine.

Rachel Alexandra: An Appreciation

2010-09-28T19:30:00.005-04:00

I couldn't decide whether I wanted to write anything about Rachel Alexandra's retirement...and then I read through some of my old pieces about her and realized that I really owe her (and her team) a sincere thank you for two spectacular racing seasons. (And she appears no less than 28 times in the 150 or so blogs I've posted.)

The first time I ever even heard the name Rachel Alexandra was when she emphatically won the Kentucky Oaks, before Jess Jackson, before running against the boys. I remember hearing Tom Durkin's voice escalating with excitement as she pulled farther and farther away from the field. As I walked in from the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about, there she was...a big, beautiful bay striding, almost gliding, over the sloppy track at Churchill Downs. Had I really seen that? A few quick keystrokes brought me to a race replay that confirmed what I'd just seen. It was love at first sight.

From then on I followed her 2009 campaign like I suspect little boys once followed Joe DiMaggio's hitting streak or Lou Gehrig's consecutive game streak, I was an obsessed fan. I'd be fidgety the day of her race (like I was racing myself!) and make myself practically sick. I wasn't ever concerned that she'd lose, I was worried that she'd break down. I've loved a lot of horses, but this time, thanks mostly to the Internet, I was able to follow and fuss over her workouts and race placements in a way I'd never really been able to before.

So when the opportunity arose to see her for myself, I knew I needed to make the quick trip down to Belmont. She wasn't slated to have much competition in The Mother Goose Stakes, but I was there to see her--for all I'd have cared she could have been racing against a stable pony. All my expectations were met and exceeded when I saw her in person, she was gorgeous and she ran like the wind that day. I practically floated home from the track, thrilled that I'd been able to see her race in person.

Rachel Alexandra heading out in the Mother Goose Stakes at Belmont

Flash forward to the Woodward, also known in my personal memory as "the day I couldn't watch the race." My maiden trip to The Spa to see Rachel again, this time, running against older males. I knew she had a Herculean task ahead of her, but I'd potted myself right by the finish line along the apron so I'd have a good view--regardless of the outcome. Well, it suffices to say that when she tossed Calvin Borel during the post parade, my heart sank like a rock. So after an entire day of camping out on the benches, I left and watched the race, chewing on the sleeve of my cardigan, from the televisions beneath the grandstand. The reverberation and screaming as she came down the stretch battling Macho Again would have led any sane person to believe that not only were the rafters being raised at The Spa, they'd soon be caving in, too. It was a collective and epic release of joy when she crossed the finish line first. Post race I was calling everyone telling them what I'd just witnessed. Driving home with the Adirondacks behind me and the Catskill's on my right, I felt like I was soaring over them all!

And when she won her controversial Horse of the Year award in January of this year, I celebrated with a split of pink Veuve Clicquot in her honor...it sits on my desk (labeled with her victory and the date) next to the old-style pink baseball cap that I have (in her original Dolphus Morrison silks) with the words Alexandra the Great across the front.

This year, even when it became clear that Rachel version 2010 wasn't the same Rachel as 2009, I still hoped she'd finish out the season at the Breeder's Cup Championships. Even if she isn't the same as last year (and hey, who amongst us really is...) I love watching her compete and would've enjoyed seeing her race. I'm insanely loyal and as long as she came out of a race okay, I could never really think less of her or her efforts. Losses are tough and disappointing, but there's so much to be enjoyed and praised in the effort and she never gave less than 110%.

However saddened I am about her retirement, I'm grateful above all else. Grateful for all the anxiety, thrills, chills and tears. Grateful for getting to see one of my equine athletic heroines in person and be there to cheer for her win or lose. Thank you Rachel Alexandra, for sharing your gifts of blazing speed and great heart with us for a few short months. Thank you for making my heart beat faster and sending my thoughts wandering about the true nature of greatness. Your career would never be long enough for those of us who enjoy watching you, but that's okay, we'll remember you--and your singular and beautiful blaze--fondly for decades. This racing fan is in your debt.

And here are my pieces--with photos--from Rachel's 2009 campaign:

Rachel running in The Mother Goose

Rachel's victory in The Woodward

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

2010-09-26T15:06:00.003-04:00

New Moon (Maxfield Parrish)

Yes, I know the song is about Christmas, but I love autumn. And I especially adore autumn in New England with our crisp apples, incredible foliage, and starlit evenings. So what else am I looking forward to in the coming weeks?

1. The wearing of the suede, the corduroy, and the wool. Suede is much less seasonal than it used to be, but I still can't really bring myself to do much with it until the leaves start to change. Growing up in chilly Minnesota corduroy and wool were wardrobe staples for most of the year so I always enjoy bringing out the wool cable knits and cardigans. There's one giant, schlumpy wool sweater I particularly adore; it's at least 13 years old, a hand knit fisherman cable crewneck from JCrew in a dark charcoal grey, and probably 3 or so sizes too big. It's not in the least bit flattering but it's sheer wooly comfort cancels out any other considerations. When worn with a well-loved pair of corduroys it is absolute wardrobe heaven.

2. The wearing of actual shoes and boots. I spend most of the summer in strappy sandals, sneakers, or flipflops--with the occasional light driving shoe on a rainy day. With cooler temps comes the need for more closed toe options. Oxfords and flats and boots, oh my! I have a beautiful pair of black, Church's Diplomat semi-brogues that came into my possession last year and I'll be happily sporting them this fall. Oxfords and brogues of one sort or another are very fashionable this season and it's fun to mix it up now and then. Plus, how can you help but love a pair of fit-like-a-glove bench-made brogues?

3. Black. I did wear my share of black and white this summer, but there's nothing like autumn and the approach of winter to really bring out my love of New York's staple color. I was a bona fide New Yorker for a decade and black is still a comfort color for me. The moment the temperatures start to drop in the evenings I start to roll out more black clothing. And my favorite complement to black? Navy. Black and navy...once you go there you will nevah evah go back.

4. Baseball, football, hockey. Even though "hocktober" is nearly upon us, I love September and October baseball. The pennant races, the posturing, the last game heroics...it's great stuff. I miss my Red Sox being in the hunt this year but I'm thrilled that the Minnesota Twins have had such a winning inaugural season at Target Field. You can bet I'll be cheering them on in between Pats and Canadiens games and singing "We're Gonna Win Twins" down the stretch. Once upon a time (1991 during a Twins World Series run) I stood at a Dairy Queen window buying ice cream in a near blizzard (because the Twins had won the previous game and we'd had DQ that night) to keep a winning streak alive. They did win and I was not alone that night at the DQ. (Yeah, I'm that superstitious. Didn't we all learn from Crash Davis in Bull Durham that a player--or fan--has to respect the streak??)

5. Seasonal cuisine. No, not just the pumpkin spice lattes at Starbucks (of which I'm not a fan) but pumpkin pies and soups, apple tarts and pies, casseroles, hearty stews, and mac & cheese. I can almost smell the caramelized onions for my French onion gratinee. Did someone mention pot roast with Yorkshire pudding?

6. Long shadows. There's a bright, almost harsh feel to summer due to the sun's high angles. Autumn is a gentler, more flattering light--it's a candlelight glow in comparison to summer's sometimes unkind glare. That glow showers us with fiery leaves and crisp blue skies during the day and offers Maxfield Parrish-esque sunsets as evening draws near. Parrish-colored night skies are among the best parts of the cooler fall weather. I don't even mind the shorter days that are part of our descent into winter, it's a good excuse to sit down with a warming glass of wine and steal a few extra minutes of reading or writing.

7. Okay, it really is all about the leaves. The aforementioned things are all lovely and I am looking forward to them, but let's not kid ourselves...this is New England and it is all about the leaves. Our beautiful, rolling hills and picturesque river valleys are decked out in their autumnal finest for the next few weeks. Tall, white steeples on old churches and meeting houses pierce the red and orange patchwork hillsides and gleam against the bluest of blue skies; rivers tumble over rocks and past pools with colorful leaves that float playfully downstream. Hell, they've even written songs celebrating it...Autumn in New York, Moonlight in Vermont! This is the season to don a sweater, toss away the map, grab your favorite apples and go for a good old-fashioned ramble along the by-ways of quintessential New England. Follow the earthy smell of the leaves to your favorite vista and just marvel. If you're short on inspiration--quelle horreur!--read a little Longfellow or Whitman or Frost, they'll get you sorted.

Oh, sweet September, how you've flown by, we hardly knew ye...

The Sound of the Sea

2010-09-20T18:04:00.004-04:00

The Sound of the Sea

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
  And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
  I heard the first wave of the rising tide
  Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
  A sound mysteriously multiplied
  As of a cataract from the mountain's side,
  Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
  And inaccessible solitudes of being,
  The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
  Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
  Of things beyond our reason or control.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Journey to Valhalla

2010-09-18T00:13:00.003-04:00

Yesterday (pre-tornadic activity) was another spectacularly beautiful day in New England. I needed a little artistic inspiration and the thought of walking around an indoor museum was just not all that interesting. I wanted to be outside, enjoying the dappled sunshine and smell of freshly mowed grass and fallen leaves. I also didn't want to have too drive far to get there, so the obvious choice was a visit to Kensico Cemetery in Valhalla, NY.

I don't have anything against I-84 and the other big highways and byways of the northeast, but I do love the less manic local roads, too. I wasn't in a big hurry so I took a bit of an old-timey route taking Route 6 west (generally) until it met up with my old friend, the Taconic Parkway.

Route 6 tends to meander, but it winds through villages and hamlets (literally, Carmel Hamlet) along the way and there are some beautiful little architectural gems, many in need of some TLC. Mansard roof-lines or rickety widow's walks peek out of the trees and stately Colonial era homes overlook the placid waters of the region's reservoirs. Not surprisingly, signs of the times are everywhere, with shuttered businesses and for sale or for rent signs on most blocks.

By the time I hit the Taconic, I was ready for the open road. I am a big fan of the area's parkways--The Saw Mill, the Taconic, The Sprain Brook...all of them. I'm sure I'd feel very differently if I had to commute via these busy roads every day, but for the occasional traveler, they're attractive--gentle curves and tree lined vistas--and enjoyable to drive.

Arriving at Kensico the first thing visitors see is the charming faux-Tudor manor house that is the office. They have maps that show you were the famous are interred, but the map also has a lot of excellent historical information that's good background on the who, what, and why of some of the residents. Many of those memorialized here (Bonwits and Bendels for example) are early New York captains of industry or the like, so their monuments are impressive and architecturally interesting. There are also a large number of actors, songwriters, and other creative sorts at Kensico, making it a veritable (and very creative) sculpture garden. Some of the larger family plots are decorated with ornamental trees and shrubbery (not unlike Mount Auburn or Forest Hills in the Boston area) that will only be more beautiful as the seasons change. The aroma of boxwood is prevalent and contributes to the feast for the senses that is Kensico.

My favorite spot is the Bell monument...it is one of the most interesting sculptural grave markers I've ever seen. Last year, after having newly discovered the Bells I did a little digging and wrote this post about them and Kensico-- read it here, The Bells of Valhalla.

Without further delay, then, some of the wonderful and unexpected markers and monuments I was inspired by on my outing. Full disclosure I scaled the saturation on the photos WAY back so they'd look very nearly black and white.

The Bell monument

The BPOE plot, Elk's Rest

Intricate Celtic cross

Doorway to the Sulka mausoleum

Wall in front of the Kroger mausoleum

The Landon mausoleum

The Rohde monument

Detail of the Rohde monument

The pool within the Storrs plot

I'll close with the inscription from the beautiful sculptural marker at the Storrs' plot, "Life is a book, a different page is turned each day. The happiness of the next, none dare say."

It Puzzles Me

2010-09-16T00:45:00.000-04:00

On my best days I hope I’m a citizen of the world.* This probably makes me generally rather unpopular with a few segments of the American populace who take issue with my global view on issues--I firmly believe we are all connected. So since we’re all in this together (like it or not) these things puzzle me**…

1. How can people continue to deny climate change? The planet is hot and angry…and can you blame her? Even if the dire predictions prove not to be completely accurate (and we should all hope they don’t) why would you not act prudently to try to do what you can to mitigate further impact? Hello, we clearly can’t turn back the clock, but we can do better in the future, right? The answer is obviously yes, but not if we don’t get out of bed with big industry (big coal, big oil, the natural gas lobby). Nothing good can come from allowing them to continue dictate environmental policy.

2. And speaking of big oil (and their cohorts) why would anyone usher these foxes back into the proverbial henhouse? They will continue to compromise safety, the lives of their employees, and our environment in the name of profit as long as they have no oversight or regulation. Allowing them to regulate themselves is like allowing a drunk driver to have the keys--deadly. And if you think natural gas is the answer to all our energy troubles, watch the HBO documentary Gasland, it is an eye opener. T. Boone Pickens and his friends, who own millions of dollars in natural gas leases, also have spent a fortune buying up water rights and leases. When you see the havoc these corporations have wrecked on our environment, imagine what they can do when they get to ration and control water rights.

3. How can inflammatory sorts like Glenn Beck even begin to suggest that violence is going to come from the Left when it’s his followers who have all the guns? That’s ridiculous! Much to my dismay, President Obama has not been a friend to gun control advocates in this country, and yet Beck’s minions seem to think the president is going to come after their guns any day now. Are they living in the same world as I am where disgruntled employees--bearing both legal and illegal weapons--walk into work places and take their murderous revenge out on their colleagues? I cannot fathom a reason why an average person needs a semi-automatic or automatic weapon. I’m not anti-gun, I’m anti stupid guns in the hands of stupid people.

4. How did it become so unpopular to be smart? When did having a brain, an opinion, and an erudite voice become unfashionable? There’s a strong wave of anti-intellectualism in this country and it’s really rather worrisome. The sillier and more down home you talk, the more “real” you are. And if you really butcher the language--repudiate, refudiate, what's the difference?--so much the better. Your loyal followers will leap to your defense and tell the nasty, pedantic grammar police not to be so elitist. I think of FDR--one of my favorite historical figures and certainly one of our best speakers--and how he’d likely be viewed by certain factions today, and it really saddens me. Good ideas can come from everywhere and just because they come from someone who is well educated doesn’t mean they are anti-American or subversive. I want someone smarter than me to be my representative in government!

And a few other less political puzzlers…

5. What genius at TVG decided not to broadcast most of the opening day’s races from Belmont? Yet again, racing seems (in my opinion) to shoot itself in the foot.

6. How could the venerable Grey Lady even consider ceasing to print newspapers--albeit at an unnamed future date? What would a Sunday morning be without ink on your hands from doing the NYT crossword? Madness I tell you.

7. How could my Habs have traded my favorite goalie, Jaroslav Halak?? Yes, I’m still a little bitter. Halak carried the team a good distance into the playoffs with little or no help (other than the occasional pout) from Carey Price. Only a few weeks ago Halak returned to Montreal where he signed autographs and raised tens of thousands of dollars for a local hospital. Jaro was and is a class act and I’m afraid any positive opinion of Carey Price remains to be formed. I know, I'm working on getting past this.

* The citizen of the world phrase always reminds me of Humphrey Bogart's response to Major Strasser (the criminally good Conrad Veidt) during an early scene in Casablanca. When asked about his nationality he says he's a drunkard and Captain Renault (the brilliant Claude Rains) replies "that makes Rick a citizen of the world."

** "these things puzzle me" should be read with your most Tim Gunn-like inner voice

Decisions, Decisions: The van Gogh or the Homer?

2010-09-12T19:43:00.000-04:00

It felt today as if autumn was serious about its arrival. After yesterday’s crisp blue skies and plentiful warm sunshine, today was a cool, almost brooding reminder of this being a transitional time of year. The sounds of football and smells of fall’s heartier fare drifted out from windows all over New England today. And while I’m not prepared to completely pack away my summer clothes or take my always-at-the-ready beach supplies out of my car’s backseat, there are important changes to be made: yes, it’s time to change the wallpaper image on my BlackBerry.

The BlackBerry wallpaper decision is, for me, never quick and rarely simple. I love many artists and there are some paintings that buoy my mood just by appearing on the inch-and-a-half square screen each time I turn on my electronic brain. I’m not one of those girls who can just choose a pre-loaded image, no, I’m rather fussy (read as: slightly obsessive) about what graces my little screen.

All summer I’d had Edward Hopper’s The Long Leg (1935) as my background. I love the sea and the palette of the work is so marvelously blue that it is the perfect summer painting. The small sailboat passes close to the shore, dunes, and lighthouse, but at no point does the viewer feel anything but freedom and relaxation—the way the best summers feel.

The Long Leg, 1935

Prior to the beautiful calm of the The Long Leg, I’d had a few spring wallpapers that I’d rotated between. A favorite for the early spring was Grant Wood’s The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere (1931). For me it’s a wonderful, if simplistic, painting that gives a wink and a nod to the tradition of Longfellow and the cult of Revere. Even though the piece is somewhat naïve and utterly inaccurate historically, I do love the rolling hills, the classic New England structures and the rocking-horse-like figure of Revere’s fleet and fearless steed.

In rotation with Revere was a much less artistic image, but one that always brought a smirk—a great Montreal Gazette/The Sporting News photograph of Ryan O’Byrne upending Sidney Crosby. This happy image carried me through the entire Habs run in the Stanley Cup playoffs. Seeing “Sid the Kid” horizontal never fails to elicit a grin and moment of schadenfreude.

Houses of Parliament, 1881

So what to do about early autumn, then? There are a ridiculous number of Hoppers and Homers that I love, seascapes and moonlight images, are always favorites and there’s an exceptional Homer watercolor, The Houses of Parliament (1881) that would fit perfectly into the tiny screen. And then there’s dear Vincent. How could I go wrong with a van Gogh? There are few artists of any medium who have the power to move me as consistently as van Gogh.

Hopper, Homer, Wood--maybe a Breughel? There’s a wonderful autumnal Kandinsky, hmmm. So much wonderful art, such a tiny screen. Of course I could change my wallpaper more often, but I like my mostly seasonal approach. This way I get to look forward to a new season as well as a new image to pore over on my BlackBerry.

So who won out…

Mulberry Tree, 1889

Of course, Vincent did. It’s Mulberry Tree, 1889. The fiery, unruly warmth that emanates from the tree and the swirling blue skies seem to me an ideal representation of what I hope autumn will be.

Remembering The General

2010-09-10T21:27:00.004-04:00

Sometimes when you can’t decide what to write or which approach to take, it is wise to take a step back…and decide to clean out your summer bag to make the transition to one of your autumn bags. It’s surprising the amount of debris that accumulates in both wallets and handbags over the course of a season’s use; movie stubs, tote tickets and straw sleeves from Dunkin Donuts.

While sorting through one of the pockets in my wallet I came upon a photo that cleared away all the cobwebs and I knew I had to put together a long-overdue obituary for my beloved Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson Moscovitz Davidusky Schmenckmann, whom we lost on the 11th of September 2008. (Talk about making a difficult day exponentially more difficult.)

The Schmenckmanns from left to right: Simba Louise, The General and Mieux

Young master Schmenckmann began his life on a farm in Wisconsin as the runt of a litter of tabby-striped barn cats. He and his two fortunate sisters escaped a life of cold winters, drafty barns and serious mousing for a slightly more gentrified life as the trio of mousers (their quarry included but was not limited to mice, bats, chipmunks) in a historic home in Rochester, Minnesota.

The trio would become known to tour guides and visitors alike as The Schmenckmanns. Mieux Schmenckmann was obviously named after hockey great Mario Lemieux, while Simba Louise took her name from The Lion King. And then there was Jack. The General, as the museum’s director called him, he gradually just became Stonewall Jackson. He was alternately known (depending on how naughty he’d been) as Jack Schmenckmann, Stonewall Jackson, General Jackson, or JACKSON!@#

The General

Jackson would pass his days lazing around in the mansion’s staff quarters, usually sprawled out in one of the wide, old windowsills while his sisters would be on the lookout for the various varmints that found their way into the house. He clearly enjoyed watching his talented and ambitious sisters leap acrobatically while knocking down a bat or two or terrorizing a mouse, but he didn’t show any interest in exerting that much energy himself. He was, after all, The General.

When the time came for me to leave, two loving tour guides adopted the Schmenckmann sisters and Jackson came home with me. I couldn’t leave him, he’d grown up to be a beautiful tabby with eyes as green as envy.

And so our feline friend enters the next stage of his life. No more mansions, no more mousing—as if there’d been much to speak of anyway—but there would be another well established cat (portly and used to being in charge, Koji) to win over. Oh, and a big orange dog.

Koji, the current occupant and HCIC (Head Cat In Charge) would prove most challenging to win over. Koji by then was well into his teens and must have been terribly annoyed by the young and still kittenish Jackson. The first few days were filled with standoffs and hissing and then gradually a kind of détente was reached. Territorial battles were still pitched, but they were rare, and when the two of them managed to squeeze into a small basket together, they looked like a perfect two-tabby version of Yin and Yang.

Jackson would outlive Koji and Beaujolais (the aforementioned big orange dog) and go on to co-exist peaceably with Remi-Roo (a second big orange dog) and even Lady, (a third big orange dog.)

He was mischievous to a fault. Green eyes gazing and cajoling, daring you to be cross about the vase of flowers he’d knocked down from on top of the piano or that he’d snuck outside and required long minutes of shaking the treat container to bring him in. Jackson was a gorgeous and beloved cat and he knew it. If cats have egos, Jack’s was the size of Texas. I always imagined him as being the real live counterpart to the impish and carefree cats Edward Gorey drew with such charm.

When the time came for me to move to New York, Jackson had to stay in Minnesota. I was heartbroken, but I knew my parents loved him and would take very good care of him in my absence. Every time I flew between Minnesota and New York I’d threaten to take him back east with me, after all, he was already cozily curled up in my suitcase.

Jackson had a terribly comfortable and coddled existence after I left. He was the lone housecat and Lady, the Golden Retriever, was made immediately aware that Jack was neither interested in, nor amused by, her presence. Now and then Lady would watch Jack playing or tearing through the halls and look like she wanted to play too, but she mostly knew better than to try to join in.

Lady and Jackson, an armed truce being observed

When Jack got sick and eventually had to be put to sleep I was beyond devastated. That his beautiful, tiger-striped face and lively green eyes wouldn’t be there to greet me when I visited my parents was unimaginable; that I'd never again feel the warm rumble of his contented purr, heartbreaking. And that it all happened on a date already rife with difficult emotions and hair-trigger memories meant torrents of tears. Not only was he a beloved and loving pet, he represented a time in my life that while not necessarily perfect, was important and memorable.

In hindsight, that I got to say goodbye to him, albeit over the phone in a call to the vet’s office, before he was put to sleep, was a real blessing. I owed him that, to know that even though I couldn’t be there, I loved him and knew this was what was best for him. I couldn’t bear the thought of him suffering, not after all the laughs and joy he’d brought to our whole family over the years.

The little runt of the litter that grew up to be a strapping tomcat left quite a hole in our collective hearts. I am happy to report, however, that he now lives with me, or at least his ashes do. He’s on my dresser where he’s watched over by a stuffed lion that he used to love to sleep next to on my bed.

Goodnight, Jack Schmenckmann, your charming, furry, striped soul is still missed and is certainly not forgotten.

If On a Late Summer's Day Two Travelers...

2010-09-06T15:30:00.003-04:00

Was there anywhere I’d like to go for the day? How about a little road trip? I know just where to go and it’ll be like a tonic, I tell you, a tonic. That’s how the day had been proffered.

Donning whites, linens, and seersuckers—decked out with a hat for him, a scarf and Ray-Bans for her—our duo traveled north by way of the Taconic State Parkway’s graceful curves. North through Dutchess County’s undulating hills and farms, soon the Catskills began to appear off to west, purplish and distant, but majestic. The bright greens of high summer had already begun to give way to autumnal browns and the occasional sumac bush that was prematurely ablaze. (It should be noted here that in keeping with the spirit of the moment speed limits were casually observed—more as loose, general guidelines, less as actual posted limitations.)

Passing the capital region the air began to change, and as our travelers entered Saratoga County any stresses and cares of the day drifted away silently and swiftly like the puffy clouds in the late summer sky. This would be the day they finally added historic Saratoga Race Course to their list of us places—shared destinations where their mutual (and pari-mutuel) love of history, tradition, architecture, and atmosphere combined to create a magical day.

She was the more experienced, Saratoga-wise at least, of our pair. Showing off a place she dearly loved to one she dearly loved was an undeniable pleasure. She realized immediately that seeing it all through his eyes—from the incredible painted white ironwork to the witches-hat peaks on the grandstand—reminded her of her own maiden voyage to The Spa only a year before. To a pair with artist’s eyes, if not their talents, the feel of the place was old world in the best of all possible ways. Winslow Homer would likely recognize the view (costume aside) as not so different from the one he immortalized in August of 1865 for Harper’s Weekly in his print, Our Watering Places—Horse Racing at Saratoga. She’d been certain her companion would love the place, but the level of his appreciation, how fully he got it, outdistanced even her lofty expectations.

They visited The Big Red Spring, the closest either cared to come to “taking the waters” on this particular day, and lunched next to the saddling paddock admiring the rippling, muscular visions of equine athleticism who were prancing and pawing in front of them. Observing the usual customs, his wagers were based on an unusual recipe of pedigree, hunch, looks, jockey and gate placement. Success is hard to quantify in cases like this (or not, perhaps) but the sheer pleasure of watching the competition and taking part in the day’s activities was more than enough of a payout. Fully immersed in everything that is Saratoga and horse racing, they reveled in each moment, smell, gaze and vista.

But as so often happens on days that you just don’t want to end, no matter how valiantly and stubbornly you may resist, they fly by like calendar pages in an old movie. Thus was to be the speed at which this day passed. Post times seemed to get closer and closer together as the day progressed and the long, late afternoon shadows reminded them that this was late summer as well.

Our happy pair of travelers lingered awhile after the 11^th race, savoring the beauty of the end of summer light that left the entire grandstand shadowed and in silhouette. Slowly, as the crowds began to thin, they made their way under the grandstand laughing a little at the piles of torn up tickets that littered the floor like fallen autumn leaves. The gentleman feigned anger and shook his fist in solidarity with all the other losing punters. She consoled him, albeit in a slightly mocking fashion, reminding him that he was doing his bit to assist the ailing racing industry.

After a lingering, backward glance at the ironwork that had so appealed to them both, they strolled back in the general direction of the car, passing the empty silks room where only a week before the entire rainbow had been represented, row by row. On this evening, the penultimate night of the 142^nd summer meeting at Saratoga, the hooks were barren and wooden crates with bits of color spilling out were packed and ready to be shipped down to Belmont for the fall meeting. Even the cool breezes that blew through the tall pines seemed to be sighing a kind of farewell. One last drive around, she suggested, and then we’ll hit the road. They drove past the barns and Oklahoma training track, admired the incredible high-Victorian architecture of Union Avenue, saw the blue lights of Siro’s emanating from behind the trees and did their level best to firmly commit it all to memory.

Wistfulness was the prevailing emotion of the journey home; both of our travelers left to marvel privately at what a wonderful day they’d shared. So wonderful that it would compare favorably with other classics in their Pantheon of Amazing Days—an evening celebrating the Canadiens in Montreal, a day amidst the Breughels in Vienna, and numerous walks across the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset. It was one of their best days.

Homeward bound, the night sky was worthy of van Gogh with one of the dipper constellations spilling out stars in front of them. The car was filled with crisp and newly autumnal air that carried with it Bing Crosby’s melancholy rendition of I’ll Be Seeing You. Summer was over and they’d been privileged to end it with a bang and in a place that any of their forebears would have both relished and envied.

Had it been real?

Saratoga sky

The easily recognized witches-hat peaks of the Saratoga grandstand

Underneath the grandstand at day's end, the ground littered with losing tickets

The nearly empty jockey's silks room at Saratoga

Packed and ready to ship to Belmont for the fall race meeting

Car Wash: Labor Day Weekend Redux

2010-09-04T18:05:00.003-04:00

Rinse...

Still rinsing...

Lather...

Repeat.

(then clear coat)

My car--interior and exterior--was in need of a good cleaning. Since Mother Nature hasn't seen fit to grace us with much rain, I had utilize a more conventional route. The textures and colors and water flow are intriguing to me, some images look like wavy watercolors, others like squiggly, soapy abstractions.

A Lolo filter was used on the second image, Helga filter on the fourth image and 1962 on the final image. (Camerabag app for Mac.)

Putting the Labor Back Into Labor Day

2010-09-03T19:13:00.003-04:00

It’s Labor Day weekend once again and another summer will soon retreat into the recesses of memory. In the coming months as the leaves change and the temperature cools I’ll fondly remember balmy days at the beach, quiet Adirondack ponds, and breezy, carefree days at Saratoga. Many of us will transition—albeit gradually, and maybe even grudgingly—from our summer gin and tonics to our autumn and winter martinis. Hot coffee and tea will start to replace their refreshing iced counterparts as Labor Day puts a kind of full stop on the bright, sunny glare of summer.

The first Monday in September should also serve as a reminder to consider the unemployed and the underemployed. I know, I was just up on my soapbox a week or so ago and here I am again, but as one who is in some ways both un- and underemployed, I’d like to remind the world that there are a lot of people out there of my ilk.

Most everyone I know who is marginally employed wants only to make a comfortable living and be productive; they want to make something, do something, be something. It is no small task, these days, finding a decent job that allows you to share your skills, learn some new ones, and make a contribution to society. And even if you are fortunate enough to find such a work environment, often they are short term or freelance/non-benefitted gigs. Despite what some loose-lipped and addle-brained politicos might have you think, those of us who are underemployed want to do more, not less. We want to be part of the workforce, not a statistic or a wedge in a colorful pie chart. Every time a politician takes a crack at the American worker we lose a little faith in ourselves and begin to wonder where—or if—we fit into the American dream.

Our government representatives have all had a nice, august August recess and I hope they return to Washington with a firm resolve to do something to jumpstart job growth and assist the members of the workforce whom they seem to have, for the most part, utterly abandoned. It would be truly refreshing to see Congress working as zealously for American workers as they do for their own re-election.

Maybe while we’re enjoying our barbecues and cracking open our cold beer this weekend we can all take a moment to ponder the plight of the forgotten members of the workforce for whom Labor Day is less of a holiday and more just another day without work. And then remember them (us) again in November when you cast your vote.

Reflections

2010-08-30T21:07:00.001-04:00

Adirondack Reflection I

Adirondack Reflection II

Adirondack Reflection III

Small Acts of Kindness

2010-08-29T23:22:00.002-04:00

I know I'm not the only one disappointed with Rachel Alexandra's loss earlier today, but as her co-owner Jess Jackson said, "...we are certainly not disappointed in her." I can't think of a better way of putting it and I'll leave it at that. I'll be anxious to hear that she's come out of the race okay on Monday morning. Saratoga's reputation as the Graveyard of Champions is certainly intact as well.

So after my short sojourn in Saratoga on Thursday, I decided to trek a little farther north into the Lake George area of the Adirondack Mountains. I figured I had time for a little driving, a little hiking, and some plain ol' gawking at the beautiful scenery surrounding me.

My first views of the lake were from the shore in the village of Lake George. As I sipped my iced coffee I was treated to the sounds of a calliope tootling away on a nearby paddle-wheeler. There was a collection of dark green Adirondack chairs situated so as to give the best views of the lake and hillsides. I'm usually rather a purist when it comes to Adirondack chair color choices, I typically prefer they be a crisp, clean white or a deep greenish-black Charleston Green, but these were just perfect and deliciously comfortable to sink down into.

Comfy chairs in the village of Lake George, NY

As I left, I tossed a coin into the fountain near my car...I secretly hoped it meant I'd visit here again soon.

Driving up Route 9N (a road I can highly recommend for a Sunday afternoon ramble) I passed numerous motels with kitschy names like The Do-Rest Inn, The Cozy Nook, The Capri Villa, and my favorite of all, Wade's Canadian. Many looked like small resorts frozen in time that you might see in an episode of Mad Men, or a Doris Day movie from the 1960s. Charming, yes, and with picture postcard views of the western side of the lake, too. Yet somehow it seemed a little anachronistic to see them advertising "Free Internet," "HD Cable TV," or in a very few instances, "Free Wi-Fi!" The signs alone would make a great little photo journal because they are all very unique and vintage/retro in style. *note to self...*

Windows open, chilly fresh air filling my lungs, I turned off the radio and was able to hear the chirping of the birds and frogs as I drove. The breeze would blow through the pines and balsams when I'd stop to take a short walk or hike. Around some corners it was so incredibly quiet that I was a little startled when a frog would jump into a pond or stream, making a tiny ploop sound and leaving a little ripply wake as it swam away.

A totally silent Adirondack pond

Atop one of the larger hills was a small parking area for drivers to pull off the road and spend a few minutes taking in all the surroundings. A few other travelers had pulled over as well and we did a polite dance as we jockeyed for position to get just the right photograph in just the right lighting. I sat on the guardrail (bringing back memories of the "Great Budapest Silent March" wherein I was in BIG trouble for hanging off a parapet--and potentially endangering myself--to take the perfect photograph) looking out at the expanse of the deep blue lake and spotted a small boathouse in a cove right below me. Beautiful and secluded, the inhabitants/owners were clearly enjoying the day as well. I also noticed a small white, plastic picket fence at my feet guarding a pink, flowering rosebush.

Overlooking Lake George

I was immediately struck by how hearty the plant must be to survive there amidst all the sand, gravel, and grit that it endures over the winter and spring. Had someone put it there to mark the site of an accident where a loved one was lost? Maybe it was a favorite vista of a spouse of long lost friend and this was a way of celebrating it. Or perhaps it was a wild rose that had ended up there accidentally, the way you often see stray roses along barns and stonewalls on long-abandoned farmsteads. In any event, someone had taken the time and care to make the modest effort of giving this little rose a chance. This small act of kindness--a touch of grace, if you will--stayed with me all day. What a perfect symbol of how a little kindness and care can go a long way...and a quiet reminder that you never know whom it will impact over the course of time.

Cool Saratoga Breezes

2010-08-28T22:57:00.003-04:00

The beautiful old iron work at Saratoga

There's a change in not only temper, but in temperature once you pass Albany and head farther north on Interstate 87 toward Saratoga Springs, NY. The Spa. It is quite simple to see why people have been flocking to this town and its beautiful racecourse for well over 100 years. The breathing seems easier, the pines whisper more sweetly and even the horses are happier, I think. Despite the hustle, hype and hoopla, Saratoga gives off a vintage vibe that begs visitors to stop, look, listen, relax.

I made my first pilgrimage to Saratoga last fall to see Rachel Alexandra run in the Woodward and I had a whale of a time. (My post-Woodward blog post can be read HERE.) As much fun as I had, though, I knew I needed a slightly more relaxing day exploring Saratoga this year. My goal was to soak up the atmosphere and spend time really observing. Last year I was so nervous pre-race that I couldn't tell you what happened most of the day up until the Woodward's post time.

So on Thursday I made the short (by my standards, anyway, only about 130 miles) drive up to Saratoga via the Taconic--which was so empty as to be my own personal Autobahn--and then a few hops and skips on Interstate 87. I had no expectations of what or who to see, I just wanted to take it all in and immerse myself in the fresh, horsey air of The Spa.

I wandered, camera and notepad in hand, amidst the picnic tables and large outdoor screens, delighting in the varied and tempting odors that wafted from the little carts and food areas. The jockey's dressing area was a constant beehive of activity as the day went on, I enjoyed seeing them coming and going in their vibrant silks and signing autographs for their young fans after the races. I watched the bettors, listened to their conversations and wagering hunches and laughed inwardly as they dissed this horse or that trainer. It was enjoyable in a totally different way from the frenzied, tension packed manic experience of last year. Sitting, scribbling away, while the breeze stirred the pines and watching one beautiful horse after another being saddled and sent off from the paddock to the track was a singular delight. That good, crisp almost Adirondack air had revitalized me--and I didn't even have to drink any of the water!

The famous Big Red Spring

And it actually got even better...

Rachel Alexandra en route to the saddling area in the paddock

A timely tweet from @francesjkaron clued me in to the fact that Rachel Alexandra would be schooling in the paddock before the 5th race. And at her suggestion, with an assist from @jenmontfort I got myself a good spot by the paddock rail and was able to see her (and her ENTIRE entourage) walk over to the stall. I didn't have a proper camera with me, but my little point-and-shoot did okay with this and I was just happy to see her looking so well and strong.

And like last year, I did come home with a little souvenir...

Rachel Alexandra runs again tomorrow in the Personal Ensign and she'll have her hands full with Life At Ten and with the 1 1/4 mile distance, I suspect. I'll be nervous and will have to listen to the race (at least until I get a feel for how she's running) from the other room, most likely. Such is the price of love. If she doesn't win will I love her any less? Nope, not a chance. As long as she comes out of the race well and sound I'll be a happy camper--and needless to say, relieved. With a little good fortune, the refreshing, pine-scented breezes of Saratoga will be as kind to Rachel Alexandra on Sunday as they were to me.

The Dying(?) Art of Choosing One's Battles

2010-08-21T19:47:00.003-04:00

Before I get to the business at hand, I must say that thus far I owe the much-derided (by me, anyway) month of August a sort of apology. August—unlike its predecessor, July, which was a veritable Vulcan’s forge of heat and humidity—has been almost kind and mostly temperate. There have been deliciously cool evenings and sparkling sunny days…more you cannot hope for from any month, let alone the typically tropical August. I symbolically tip my hat to you, August.

And now for something completely different…

Raise your hands out there if you’re sick and tired of ill-mannered louts, offensive (and usually grammatically challenged) verbal assaults, and the general lack of extant civility in our daily discourse. Has your last nerve been well and fully trod upon by people who feel it not only appropriate but their god-given right to be rude, ill informed, and needlessly destructive or divisive? Or maybe you’ve witnessed an online conversation where it quickly dissolved into name calling and personal attacks. Threatening and bullying and harassment, oh my! Sound all too familiar?

Well it resonates strongly for me. Mind you, I’m not talking about silly, gossipy comments about a celebrity hairstyle or poorly chosen red carpet gown…that’s generally good fun and a catty remark now and then is usually in order. I’m also not talking about the good-natured trash talking that often occurs between rival teams and sporting factions. There will always be a fertile rivalry between the fans of certain bands, teams, authors, television shows, politicians, it’s a given. What I’m talking about are the truly mean-spirited comments that denote a profound level of ignorance and tone-deafness.

I’m not going to even comment about the political nonsense because there are entire websites and organizations devoted to that. What concerns and irks me most, I suppose, are these uncivilized and childish exchanges that I see—usually pertaining to horses or publishing on my personal radar—between people that I expect more from and generally respect(ed). Yeah, past tense. I’ve lost boatloads of respect for many people over things they’ve written in regard to Zenyatta versus Rachel Alexandra alone.

Look, I know it isn’t my place to lecture anyone on this (and yet, you know I'm going to), but I generally try to stay civil and on topic when I’m debating my causes and I’d like to be able to expect this of others as well. There are occasions when we all overstep the bounds of good form, I understand that, but there’s no defense, to my mind, for long-term quasi-abusive behavior. I suppose it is anger fueled, I don’t know, but how about we grow up? There are times to fall on your sword and go down admirably fighting for your cause, but if choosing one’s battles wisely is a dying art (and I think it may very well be), than fighting the good fight with passion and civility is as dead as the Norwegian Blue parrot in a Monty Python sketch.

I can’t help but I wonder if those who are prone to nasty and cutting comments ever regret them upon further reflection. My grandmother always said that when you were angry you should write it all down in a letter and leave it sit for three days. If you still feel exactly the same way at the end of that time you should mail it. Otherwise, cooler heads will have prevailed and you’ll have saved yourself from a serving of crow. Maybe even reading their virulent nonsense out loud would be of use…if it sounds slightly awkward or off balance when you say it aloud, it’s only going to be worse when read by others. It works well with writing generally, so worth a shot with angry comments, too, perhaps.

We seem to have lost the capability as a nation to disagree without being disagreeable. We’re all entitled to our opinions and biases, but how we defend or promote them says a good deal about us as well as the cause/person/horse/book we’re backing. The fact is, for me at least, a well-argued and sensible approach to whatever subject you’re tackling is likely to win over more folks than an angry tirade. Don’t misunderstand, there is a time and place for a good old-fashioned angry smackdown, but these days it is often sadly misplaced. By all means defend or comment with a well-informed sense of passion, but enough already of ridiculous personal attacks.

That said, a few further salient (I think) points:

1. If you have to denigrate my horse/book/author/team to make yours look better, you’ve lost me immediately.

2. Being informed AND passionate is much more attractive (and winning) than being a loutish hate monger.

3. Take a moment to consider what you’re saying and what the possible ramifications are. Our words have consequences, choosing them wisely isn’t always easy but it is SO worth it in the long run.

4. Instigators do so at their own peril. Some folks love to stir the pot, that’s their MO, and to each his or her own. But when it comes down to it, I think a lot of credibility is lost by the exclamations of the pot-stirring, “sky is falling” set.

5. I’m serious about the “choose your battle wisely” line. Not everything is worth falling on your sword or damaging your reputation for. I learned a while ago, and in the absolute hardest way, that you have to pick and choose what to go to the mattresses over. (Sorry for the Godfather ref, I’ve never seen the movie but I think it’s applicable here…)

6. On a strictly equine note: It is possible to love BOTH Rachel Alexandra and Zenyatta. I do, and I know a few others do as well. Why we can’t celebrate these two spectacular horses is beyond me. They behave with far more class and grace than many of those who so staunchly “defend” their respective camps. I think we could take a page from the horse’s book on this one…run your heart out, be gallant, always give 110% and afterward do your most stylish victory dance.

Right, that’s me stepping down off my soapbox and taking a deep, cleansing breath. (Sincere apologies to the Python boys for such gratuitous references, but sometimes only the absurdity of Monty Python fills the bill.)

Celebrating Lawrence or How TE Lawrence Introduced Me to Henry Adams

2010-08-16T19:15:00.002-04:00

"All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible. This I did."

The 16th of August is more than just the mid-point of my least favorite month, it is (on a far happier note) the birthday of one of the tortured genius types I'm so drawn to: TE Lawrence. Rather than expound on Lawrence's accomplishments or gush over/trash David Lean's incredible film (and yes, I can argue both sides of the Lawrence of Arabia film debate pretty fairly) I thought I'd wander off in a slightly different direction.

I came to Lawrence in what I expect is the usual way for teenage girls, by way of a VHS tape and Peter O'Toole's azure blue eyes, sun-bleached hair, and aquiline nose. O'Toole's mesmerizing performance sent me to the library to find out all I could about this sphinx-like, desert-loving Englishman.

A more logical and less single minded brain than mine might have tried to learn a little bit more background information on the Arab revolt or Middle Eastern politics of the time, or even read Jeremy Wilson's brilliant biography, but I dove head first into Seven Pillars of Wisdom. (I don't hesitate to say that I'd recommend SPW for *anyone* considering waging a war of any kind in the Middle East. **ahem**) I loved Lawrence's slightly archaic prose and his descriptions of people and places, they spoke to me. While I'm sure some of his military philosophy went right over my head at the time, I knew I was reading a kind of kindred spirit when I learned of his love of reading and all things medieval.

So with my new medievalist mentor as guide, I went in search of a copy of Crusader Castles, the published version of TE's undergraduate thesis for his Oxford B.A. More scholarly than engrossing, it still provided insight into Lawrence's character. The photos he took and sketches he made of Crac de Chevaliers and the other castles/defenses were a revelation to me (remember this is before the Internet of 2010 that we know and love.) And then there were the photos of Mont St Michel and St Malo and his letters home to his mother describing what he'd seen on his bicycle journey around France touring the ruins of medieval fortresses. The architecture of the French Middle Ages absolutely stunned me, and I was smitten. (Yes, I'm a Middle Ages loving cathedral geek--from trefoil or quatrefoil clerestory windows and fan or barrel vaulted ceilings to the elegance of Cistercian Romanesque, I love 'em all.)

My new literary companions, thanks in one way or another to Lawrence, were William Morris and his design and print work with Kelmscott Press and beyond; John Ruskin and his Stones of Venice and Seven Lamps of Architecture; and finally, to my favorite literary traveling companion and virtual uncle, Henry Adams.

Henry Adams' Mont St Michel and Chartres has been my most constant and faithful traveling companion. My well-loved and slightly tattered paperback edition really shows the miles. This volume has accompanied me across the ocean many times (including a trip to London when I told my parents I was going to Chicago...) and been dragged through France, England, Ireland, New York, Boston, Budapest, Vienna and even of all places, Greece. If it would've been possible, I'd have had this book stamped right along with my passport in each country. When I didn't have any other journal with me, it became my travel diary. If I wanted to sketch out a point Adams was making about Le Mont I did so in the margins. This treasure is highlighted, scribbled in, and annotated within an inch of its life. The interiors of both the front and back covers contain notations and exclamations in every which direction and even some colorful language. It has also been a kind of portfolio for travel postcards, train tickets and other small souvenirs. Sand grains blown in from the beaches around Mont St Michel still escape from the taped binding now and then, triggering a treasured memory of sheep grazing in salt marshes and sea water quickly encroaching on the causeway.

Throughout all my cathedral and non-cathedral visits, Adams was my little non-red Baedecker. I followed in his footsteps on my pilgrimages across Northern France to places like Coutances, Rouen, Amiens, and Chartres. At each stop I'd pull out my trusty little book and make my own notations to add to Adams' astute, if often slightly over the top, observations.

I'm quite certain TE would have approved of my obsession as well as my literary companion. He carried a few of his own favorites with him during his various desert campaigns. In London's National Portrait Gallery there is a stone effigy of Lawrence that portrays him as a recumbent medieval knight. (The other one is at a small church in Moreton, Dorset.) The knight's knees are crossed, but otherwise he is clad in typical Arab robes, and there is a small pile of books sitting next to the shoulder of the fallen hero representing the volumes that accompanied Lawrence over the years--books like Mallory's Le Morte d'Arthur and Doughty's Travels in Arabia Deserta.

TE Lawrence brought me to some of the best and most intriguing of my reading obsessions--in addition to his own life I loved reading about Gertrude Bell and Freya Stark. My family has always been more inclined toward polar exploration, but through the likes of Lawrence, Bell, Stark and Durrell I've developed a lasting fascination with the vast expanses of the Arabian desert and a minor obsession with old Cairo and Alexandria during the first half the last century.

For all the rich study and consuming reading, I thank Lawrence. He'd be unlikely to want any credit for it and it'd be decidedly wrong to drink a toast to his memory, but I'm grateful for all the literary richness and adventurous companions that I met by way of this enigmatic and talented man.

A Fair Warning to August

2010-08-04T22:01:00.000-04:00

A quick look at the calendar--not to mention any thermometer--tells us it is, once again, ((((August.)))) Those parentheses, by the way, are meant to denote humidity and a general state of swelter. Stagnant air, oppressive dew points, and ever rising temps do not a happy girl make.

So you can tell I'm not a fan of August, right? Deep, abiding, and august ennui is the only way to describe my attitude toward what I think might actually be the cruelest month, despite what the poets say. But it was not always so...once upon a time I had a much fairer view of the 8th month.

If you would have dropped in on my teenaged life in Minnesota, you'd have found me actually looking forward to August. Back then, a million metaphorical miles from here, I was a city-living 4-H kid and August meant the Olmsted County Fair. The fair was the penultimate moment of summer, only to be outdone by a well-earned trip to the Minnesota State Fair up in St. Paul. The county fair was, for a 4-H kid, the social event of the season. It was where you saw your country friends, where you learned to be wary of the midway and where you shared Tom Thumb mini-donuts or batter-fried cheese curds with your best pals.

The fair was also competition. As I grew older and found my way in the various arenas--thanks fully to my brave parents--I began to formulate increasingly ambitious projects in order to beat out my various nemeses. By the time I was a teenager I knew what I had to make and who I had to beat. I remember very vividly the girls I wanted to outdo with a fabulous Home Environment project or the guys I wanted to one-up with a beautifully built Aerospace project...I was driven, well, kind of.

That "driven" attitude usually appeared in July when I realized that I only had a few weeks (okay, sometimes DAYS) to finish (and/or start) any given project. Understand that I'd signed up for the specific project areas months before and by the time July and August rolled around it was a serious time crunch to complete everything. Sure, quilting or needlework or even a large scale furniture refinishing project sound crazy good and easily done in January...in July, less so. But the competitor in me (and lets face it, the kid in me, too, as there was a monetary value to the ribbons we were awarded) wouldn't let go. That meant having a good lie-about in the sun was replaced with completing an intricate piece of needlework while catching a few rays; it also meant working against the clock--and weather at times--to strip multiple coats of paint from a small side table. (I literally shudder when I think of the chemicals I used to in those days for refinishing!) And my road-trips all those many Julys were 4-H centric as well--I roamed high and low, the entirety of Southeastern Minnesota, in search of the perfect old barn or abandoned farmstead for my photography exhibit. Yes, I trespassed now and then in the interest of "my art," plus ca change, non?

There was considerable upside to all this, though. Not only in all the skills I learned over the years (or the pretty ribbons I won) but all the great and often terrifying experiences with showing and judging. I loved those manic, frenzied weeks leading up to the fair and then savored the rewards--whether it was a corn dog or a state fair trip--once all the competition was over. There was no time--or need--for my somewhat self-indulgent August ennui back then.

My "projects" are a little different these days, to be sure, and there's no state fair trip or purple Grand Champion ribbon awaiting me at the end of them, but there are other late summer rewards to look forward to...things like post-Labor Day empty beaches or the first cool evenings of early autumn in New England. So I'll endeavor to be patient with you, August, in memory of all the good times we've shared in years gone by...but I warn you, don't trifle with me or try to muscle your way into September, that would be very bad form indeed.

Notes to Self--or--Manifesto! The Pre-August Mini-Edition

2010-07-27T19:55:00.000-04:00

Every now and then I enjoy doing my own brand of manifesto. Here's last year's version from September of 2009, To Thine Own Self Be True. I still absolutely stand behind my positions of nearly a year ago, right down to the dark nails, my undying love for Barbour, and my Champagne of choice. That said, some additions are definitely in order, so here goes:

1. Frenemies need not apply. If you think that I'm a dreadful correspondent and feel the need to flog me ceaselessly and snarkily, you are not my friend. And if you take zero interest in my endeavors and pout petulantly when the world doesn't revolve around you? Still not my friend. And as for the intimation that my best years are behind me, they are not. I'm nowhere near the halfway point and quite honestly, I'm only getting started, so any "nattering nabobs of negativism" please get out of my way.

2. Never underestimate the amount of joy to be found by eating some of your favorite simple summer meals...Maid-Rite sandwiches, watermelon-feta salad, root-beer floats, Wally coolattas, fresh buttery sweetcorn, and let's not forget, BERRIES.

3. 3-D isn't going to make a poorly written movie any more entertaining. And if the movie is already good, 3-D could quite possibly ruin it. Been there, done that, worn the silly glasses. *next*

4. If you haven't made plans to go to a racetrack near you, well why haven't you? Saratoga is mecca this time of year as are Monmouth and Del Mar, but why not a trip to Suffolk, Arlington, Canterbury? Pick a track that's close and go. Enjoy the horses, play funny hunch bets and people watch--you won't be sorry! Unless, of course you try for the boxed trifecta (as someone I know does...) when you really should have stuck with the simple exacta.

5. In life, proper attire is a must. If you are running, you wear athletic attire. If you are dining out, you remove your baseball cap, if you are (UGH) still wearing it. If you are at the beach, you wear either a bathing costume or other summer appropriate wear. In short, skivvies and foundation garments are NOT--I repeat, NOT--appropriate at the beach. That goes for men and women alike and yes, this comes from a truly shudder-inducing beach experience. Aside from being unsanitary, it's just GROSS.

6. It is a pretty backward world we live in when Martha Stewart and Lindsay Lohan are such threats to humanity that they have to be jailed, but the villains from BP who have forever altered the eco-system of the Gulf of Mexico are going to yacht races on the Isle of Wight.

7. And finally, building a mosque near the former WTC site is important. Yup, I went there and said that. No more dumbing down or hiding our lights under bushel baskets. We are the country people fled TO because of religious persecution in their homelands, the beacon of freedom to practice whatever religion you'd like or to practice none at all. How about we all, with a gallic shrug and an exaggerated eye-roll for Alaska's favorite daughter, stand up for what America's ideals really are? That means we show the entire world how strongly we believe in our ideals. We believe so strongly, in fact, that we uphold them even when it makes us a little uncomfortable. We show the world by what we do and how we treat people, we lead by example. Just like writing a book, showing is much more important than telling: show the world we mean what we say, don't simply tell other countries glibly to be more like us. Standing up and pointing out the utter irrationality of her views is not likely to sway the aforementioned former governor, but it might just cause others to take notice. We've missed a number of opportunities in the past 18 or so months to lead by example and put our money where our collective and proverbial mouth is, let's not let this one get away too.

There you have it, my Pre-August Mini-Manifesto, here's to enjoying the last few days of July!

BIG weekend...BIG...HUGE

2010-07-25T23:59:00.002-04:00

Yeah, THAT big. Okay, so it was just another sweltering weekend here in New England. And not to jump on the already large "pig pile," but this tropical heat and humidity is NOT what I signed on for. I choose not to live in Florida and I'd appreciate it if New England weather would acknowledge that.

What was worth mentioning this week was television, mostly for the Season 4 premiere of my favorite (by a LONG stretch) show, Mad Men, on AMC. I watched a number of the Season 3 reruns to get myself back in the mood, but honestly, I wouldn't have had to. Their writers and creative folks do such a good job of keeping viewers interested and intrigued, watching a new season of Mad Men is like seeing your old friend from school--you catch up quickly and fall easily back into old rhythms and patterns. It just works when you do it that well.

No spoilers here, but it suffices to say that this was a pretty fantastic episode. No huge surprises, that's not their style, but narrative advancing plot twists, nonetheless. You really can't ask for more than that, only they add in characters that you don't just like and recognize, but some that you recognize and want to dislike, but can't. It can be deliciously frustrating when nothing is exactly what it seems on the outside...just like life.

As a quick side note--no time for a graceful segue here--I really do hope to write a little further on both the Harlem Valley Psychiatric Hospital and the Fairfield State Hospital Campus at Newtown. I'm finding it more difficult than I'd expected to address the topic with the right amount of seriousness while still commenting and discussing the architecture and mental health. As soon as I find the right balance, you'll see another post about one or both.

I'll leave you with one of the best lines from tonight's episode of Mad Men..."I'm from the midwest, we're taught that it's not polite to talk about ourselves."

A Sonic Boom in Connecticut

2010-07-20T21:53:00.003-04:00

I mentioned the other day that errands took me to the area surrounding Wallingford, CT. I’m always up for a new adventure and I was pretty sure I had not previously explored that part of the state.

Sometimes I do actually look at maps or do small amounts of research when I head into a new place and this was one of those times. While there are several notable homes (of both architectural and historical significance) lining the main and side streets, Wallingford was not what I expected. Don’t misunderstand that I was disappointed in the town itself, that’s not it at all. I simply had a clear picture in my mind of what I hoped/wanted to find and I wasn’t finding it. Here’s the REST of the story…

The news last week all over Connecticut was that the first of several planned locations of the very popular Sonic Drive-In chain was preparing for their grand opening—in Wallingford. A very big deal in these parts to be sure. Yes, there are Sonics in both New York and Massachusetts, but this one is in Connecticut. And Connecticut has some great burger history—Louis Lunch in New Haven claims the invention of the modern hamburger sandwich and Ted’s in Meriden has incredibly unique steamed burgers—so we appreciate a good burger in these parts. And I appreciate a well-executed burger—Five Guys or Red Robin, Steak and Shake in Indiana, and my all time favorite, a Shack Burger from Shake Shack in NYC—far be it from me to begrudge a new burger spot a few acres of Connecticut turf.

This is where it all gets a little awkward. I realized, as the news reporters were leading up to the big opening day that the parcel of land where Sonic was building was once the home to a local landmark, The Yankee Silversmith Inn. Normally, that would mean I was fixing to have a rant about preservation, about long-term value, about urban sprawl…my usual bug-a-boos. But not this time.

First of all, The Yankee Silversmith was damaged (apparently beyond repair) in a fire a couple of years ago, so it is a bit of a moot point. Also to be noted, the folks who have bought and built this franchise are the old owners of the Yankee Silversmith so it isn’t the usual case of just off-loading land to developers. The circa 1890s railway car that was also part of the dining area was not damaged (or at least not severely) and was sent to a new home at a railroad museum here in Connecticut. I knew all this before I left home, but I was still prepared to stomp my foot in protest, to lament the loss of this structure and more important, the loss of what places like it once stood for. Those instincts of indignation and disappointment at the loss of important or unique sites are hard to suppress, so even armed with the information above, I had this almost innate sense of rising disapproval.

But as I drove out of Wallingford proper, on North Colony Road (Hwy 5) all I saw was the usual strip mall sprawl. Home Depots, grocery stores, a few bank branches, some little mom and pop pizza shops—the things most of us see on a daily basis while driving to work or running errands. There were also a number of empty storefronts, surely a nod to our dismal economic situation, on both sides of the highway. And even though deep-down I knew better, I still half-expected to see the large shady grove of trees that had once surrounded the bucolic Yankee Silversmith Inn. That was not to be.

As I neared the Sonic Drive-In site, the traffic crush became more noticeable—they actually were turning customers away because the parking area was too full of cars waiting for the drive-thru window and drive-in bays. I pulled into the parking lot of an IHOP across the street to just observe the scene and survey the landscape a little.

What I found myself feeling though, was not indignation, not disapproval, but a weird disappointment that now, Sonic was more at home in this spot in 2010 than the Yankee Silversmith Inn would have been. Looking around at the ubiquitous chains that line the road—literally for miles—Sonic belonged here in a way the old inn could not. Encroaching new development and changes in road and traffic patterns must have made the inn a kind of an oasis of nostalgia (or even kitsch) in a sea of cookie-cutter chain sameness. I was a little wistful, but no matter, the truth was just too obvious to ignore: time, identity, and sprawl had outrun The Yankee Silversmith, that’s all there was to it.

I didn’t stay long, but did snap a quick photo as I was leaving the IHOP lot. The picture doesn’t do justice to the traffic levels that were buzzing around Sonic, but you get an idea of the landscape, or lack thereof. (I fully realize they will be doing more and more finishing of the surrounding grounds, so don’t take this as a slam at Sonic, more of a lament that so many trees had to be lost for parking.) Below my dreary pic is a much sunnier postcard from The Yankee Silversmith Inn.

And no, I didn’t even try to eat there that day, it just seemed the wrong thing to do, feeling how I felt, with the slightly sour taste of disappointment lingering on my palate.

When Life Gives You Onions...

2010-07-19T19:45:00.001-04:00

Like most everyone else, I love summer foods. All the fresh vegetables and fruits, the burgers and salads, the al fresco dining—among the best moments of any summer. At some point during the season, though, I inevitably begin to experience a kind of weariness when it comes to the usual fare. Not wanting to heat up the place too much by baking or turning on a hot oven, perhaps something hearty from the stovetop was still possible.

And that was where I found myself today. I had seen some really nice looking Vidalia onions at the market over the weekend and I couldn’t resist bringing them home. Real Vidalias (grown in a few very specific Georgia counties, the vegetable equivalent of an AOC for the French) are generally available April thru November, so I could even consider that I was still eating mostly seasonally with my slightly untimely meal. And while they are a lovely addition to most any recipe that calls for onions, these sweet gems are for me the basis for one of my favorite dishes of all time—French Onion Soup.

I kind of consider myself a connoisseur of a good French onion gratinée because I’ve been a lifelong sampler of this classic soup. I don’t ever recall anyone in my family making it, certainly not my mother or her mother and I can’t see my paternal grandmother making it either. Instead, French onion soup was a kind of treat that I’d order from restaurants when we at out. And thusly, I’ve had the best onion soups in the world (my own, thank you very much, plus one in France, obviously) and the worst (places where I should have known better than to even think about ordering it, including London) plus everything in between. Granted, what suits my palate may not be to your taste, so my opinions are clearly subjective, but I’ve found that the finished products I enjoy most are those that have the simplest and highest quality ingredients.

I use Julia’s recipe, plain and simple. (And never fear, I don’t have any aspirations to be Julie Powell so no worries this is going to become some kind of food blog!) The only reason I can imagine using any other formula or buying canned onion soup (perish the thought!!!) would be a food allergy or condition. And I say that because this dish is so clean and elegant, like most of the best dishes are, that anyone can make it successfully—even me.

Now to be fair, I do make a few small tweaks to the recipe of “the great one” aka,Julia Child. I don’t make many meat dishes so making stock hasn’t happened for me, though someday it may—but that means I use stock from the box. I do, however, doctor it up with a bay leaf or two and some ground thyme while it simmers. Otherwise, I follow her method to the letter, right down to using extra dry vermouth instead of white wine. (Consider that when Mastering the Art of French Cooking was published in the USA very few people consumed wine the way we do now, so the original recipe uses 1 cup of vermouth, which would have been present in many liquor cabinets.)

And that’s basically it. Onions allowed to cook and then caramelize to a “dark walnut color” (yes, the first time I made it I actually looked at my bag of walnuts to gauge the caramelizing level…don’t judge!) with a little sugar and pinch of salt. A bit of flour and then add the beef stock that has been simmering away with the bay leaf, vermouth and thyme and you’re good to go. Tonight I started early so I was able to let the soup really simmer—for over 2 hours—and that resulted in a very rich, velvety consistency.

Because of the heat and humidity, I opted not to go full gratinée with putting the cheese-covered bowl under a hot broiler. I did, however, have some perfect croutons from day old Wave Hill bread and by putting those in the bottom of the bowl and dusting the top with an earthy, finely shaved Gruyere cheese, it was all just fine.

There is so much to love about this simple creation—the shiny onions as they caramelize and pick up bits from the bottom of the pan; the beefy richness of the broth; the subtle layering of flavor from the thyme and bay. When combined, these basic ingredients are greater than the sum of their parts. I could wax rhapsodic about my soup for a bit longer, but the delightful aroma wafting from the kitchen means, pun intended, soup’s on!

Consult your copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking for the recipe, or here’s an online version from a food blog I thoroughly enjoy called, happily, Gratinée. Magnifique, non?

Connecticut, circa 1938

2010-07-16T20:51:00.002-04:00

On bold, sans serif Works Progress Administration letterhead, is the following typewritten note from WPA administrator Harry L. Hopkins:

"One of the most fortunate results of the American Guide Series is the opportunity it is giving us to

understand the contrasting character of the forty-eight States and to realize how the contributions of each have brought about the unity of the whole.

This book on Connecticut illustrates the point. The third smallest State in the Union, it

has sent out more people than it has kept at home. Connecticut blood is the basis of much that is prized in many States. It is democratic, zealous for education, mechanically inventive, and, being strongly individual, has furnished leadership in every field."

The short missive is signed by Hopkins and is included amidst the front matter of one of (to my mind, anyway) the WPA's great legacies--The American Guide Series. The series was part of the Federal Writers' Project designed to employ out of work writers, editors, etc. All the states (48 at the time) had their own guide in addition to certain regions and some large American cities. Connecticut's edition was published by Houghton-Mifflin in 1938. I think the sentiment I'm most fond of in that little letter is the idea that each state had something of unique value to contribute to the unity of the whole.

I was vaguely aware of these books, somewhere in the recesses of my cobwebby mind, but I'd not really given them much consideration until I was reminded that they might contain some other information I was looking to confirm. It is a good thing, too, that I'd not delved fully into one until now because I've become a little obsessed with it. The writing is a little dated and many of the buildings (especially from the mid-18th century) are long gone, but the detail and history is very interesting. There are black and white photos and maps and suggested tour routes for every corner of the state. No doubt there are a few tidbits of information contained herein that are long forgotten, which makes these valuable in some cases as oral histories, too. In many instances locals were interviewed for these guides so there is a very personal feeling to some of the stories and anecdotes. It is striking to see how much we used to make in this part of the country and how little we now do. From the ubiquitous hat factories of Danbury to the smaller mills and shops of the surrounding communities, industry in general has really declined.

It will come as no surprise that roads--where they were, where they are, and what they were called--can complicate an effort like this immensely. (Consider, obviously there was no I-84 and the Merritt Parkway was under construction at this time.)A little detective work, though, and a few miles of trial and error proved to work just fine and I was able to see a little corner of my stomping grounds through a slightly different lens.

One small digressive piece of information--the little jaunt I made today was slightly haphazard. I had errands that took me near Wallingford yesterday and despite my best efforts, the journey didn't really go as planned. Not a failure, and surely not wasted time either, but frustrating and something that will pop up here later I suspect. Enough said. So today I went with slightly lower expectations and was more than pleasantly surprised with my results.

According to Connecticut: A Guide To Its Road, Lore, and People, here is the description of my day's travels: "US 7 passes roadside markets catering to the motorist trade, numerous pre-Revolutionary houses carefully remodeled, and an old Lime Quarry (L), at 29.3 m. Traversing rolling, agricultural country, US 7 passes the American Beauty House (L), 31.2 m., a brick dwelling (about 1812) with four chimneys and a stone-arched Palladian window, made famous by Edna Ferber's novel 'American Beauty' (1931). The great house is a monument to days when the fertile fields supported country squires in style."

Unfortunately, most of the pre-Revolutionary houses mentioned are no longer extant, but the "American Beauty House" is. The moment I read the guide's description of the "four chimneys and Palladian window" I had a suspicion that I'd been past such a house one afternoon when I was rather, erm, lost. (I'm never really lost, but I'm happy without a map exploring so let's just say I didn't end up precisely where I'd expected to that particular afternoon.)

As I drove along the highway and through what I decided was the old limestone quarry in question, I could see the brick house begin to come in to view on my left. (It is now a furniture store and houses the "Brickhouse Collection.") Four chimneys? Check. Palladian window? Check. It all matched. The location, the 1938 description, all of it. I think I actually squealed in the car when I realized that a) it was still there and b) it was THE house I'd been past a few times. I'd wondered about it since it is one of the only old dwellings on that stretch of the road, but I had no idea of this aspect of the structure's history. I find quite curious the mention of the Palladian window and four chimneys, but nothing whatsoever is said of the beautiful ovals (see better views below) at each end of the uppermost level. Writer's quirk, perhaps?

(The American Beauty House today, aforementioned Palladian window above the door.)

Now if you've never read Edna Ferber's American Beauty, don't feel too badly, it seems it was not one of her most memorable works. I can't weigh in as I've not fetched it from the library yet, but it is, from what I've discerned, an American epic kind of tale about a tobacco growing family here in Connecticut. I'm very curious to read it and see how the rest of the area and scenery is described by Ms. Ferber.

I'm a sucker for a beautiful brick structure. My grandparent's home in Wisconsin overlooking the Mississippi was a younger (1840s) brick home, but one of the oldest extant structures in Buffalo County. That this home has survived nearly 200 years here--through the on again-off again plans for "Super 7"--is quite remarkable.

Thus endeth my adventure for today, one little piece of circa 1812 Connecticut explored in the 21st century via circa 1938 Connecticut.

Going Once...Anybody Else? SOLD!!

2010-07-14T18:11:00.005-04:00

I've been working quite diligently this week on writing projects--so much so that I was in rather a state of information fatigue. Not only did I find many things I was looking for, I also stumbled upon (and trust me, when it comes to me and research, stumbling is the operative word) many more significant threads that are worthy of further exploration. Crazy how well things can go when you've got a little synchronicity and general good fortune on your side!

So after two days of disciplined writing and research, I decided a break was in order if for no other reason than to clear my head and focus my thoughts a bit. I'd seen a good deal of chatter about the Fasig-Tipton sales and when I learned I could watch them online, well, I poured myself an iced tea and settled in for the afternoon of equine fantasy.

Now I've always liked a good auction and in the past have spent many an afternoon and evening attending them--though usually estate auctions and the like where I was buying the occasional piece of cobalt Fiestaware or the odd piece of furniture to refinish for a 4-H county fair project. There was a kind of auction circuit for the local antiques dealers and you would get to know which ones were likely to bid you up and which ones would drop out quickly. Some dealers would show up and you knew you had zero chance of getting the item you'd been eyeing because they always seemed to be willing to pay well above what a piece was worth. And then there were the auctioneers. A few had really good banter and got into a good rhythm with the crowd and their bid takers. At the opposite end of that spectrum were the ones who stumbled, stuttered, lost bids, created chaos and couldn't--for love nor money--keep track of where the actual buyers were. It eventually got to be a bit of game for me and my friends when it came to one older auctioneer in particular. We'd all try to guess how long it was before he'd begin to argue with his son and daughter (who worked with him) over who had the bid and where it was.

The atmosphere at the Fasig-Tipton Kentucky July sale of selected yearlings in Lexington, KY was classier by miles than the country auctions I used to attend. And well it should be, the horses on offer are the beautiful and (hopefully) talented sons and daughters of racing royalty. Colts and fillies sired by Medaglia d'oro, Harlan's Holiday, Street Cry, Empire Maker, Unbridled's Song, Afleet Alex, Giant's Causeway and Jazil were only the tip of the iceberg. But surely some of the buyers--those with the deepest pockets--are not so different from the aforementioned antiques dealers who are willing to pay out whatever is necessary to get the object in question: with horses it is just a more expensive proposition!

The amount of work done by all the farms and consignors has to be immense, but there was some incredibly beautifully horse flesh on display. A few others who were also watching the sales likened them to horse p@rn and I couldn't agree more--and this was high class fantasy stuff. Seeing the shiny-as-a-copper-penny chestnuts and the gleaming dark bays as they came into the auction ring was like seeing an incredible equine fashion show. And the one grey that I totally fell in love with was of course the most expensive of the sale: hip 159, a Medaglia d'Oro colt who brought $450,000. Talk about a stud...*sigh.* (Here's the Thoroughbred Times article on him.)

I sat watching how they'd enter the ring, some more jittery than others. The way the shoulders and withers rippled as the colt or filly would whinny and nicker in the ring; seeing their ears prick as they watched the assembled visitors ogling them, such fantastic stuff. Some clearly were more interested in the proceedings than others and it was fascinating to watch them stand tall in the ring like a runway model at the end of a catwalk. A few enjoyed being cheeky with their handlers and there was some pawing and stomping, but most were quite well behaved for their age, I thought.

What is exciting to me is all the possibility that was on display these past two days. Could one of these well-pedigreed sons or daughters of a great sire or dam be the next horse to capture a Triple Crown in a couple of years? Or maybe the progeny of a more modest sire/dam combination holds the keys to racing superstardom? They've all got a lot of maturing to do and we'll get to see which ones fulfill their bloodlines and which ones exceed them. As Eva Peron (via Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber) might say...these sales are about the art of the possible.

So now my head is filled with fantasy horses--like Velvet Brown in National Velvet. She dreamt of The Pie and the Grand National, and I've just enjoyed two days that would surely have brought an ear-to-ear grin to the face of the fictional Ms. Brown.