Oh the weather outside is frightful...

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

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.

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...

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

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

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

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.

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

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...

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...