I went deer hunting this past Tuesday. I don't do that very often. Here are the facts: 1] I like venison, having grown up on it; 2] It was a lovely, warm afternoon in late November and I enjoy being in the woods (whether I see a deer or not); and 3] I enjoy the challenge of competing against one of nature's most cautious, intelligent, wild animals. Let me expound on all three aspects.
Liking venison - I grew up along the Southern Tier in western New York. Deer hunting was about the only way my father and I ever bonded, other than occasionally playing golf together. For him big game hunting was an annual ritual. Back then, deer hunters actually took time off from work to tromp around in the woods for a week or so. And in Chautauqua and Cattaraugus County the forests are large and abundant. He took me to the big woods in Cattaraugus County where we hunted along the upper reaches of the Allegheny River beside Seneca Land. He never failed to get his deer.
It was exciting for me at age 12 or 13 to accompany him and to learn about hunting - even being given my own compass and discovering that it was essential to not getting lost or being able to track a deer and return to one's starting point. I was always short on patience, and never enjoyed those long periods of silence and being still in the cold. But he convinced me that we were deer stalkers and trackers. It was difficult to outsmart deer. One snapped-off branch might ruin an hour's waiting or tip-toeing. My father was serious, I was carefree - always wondering what was over the next mountain.
When I turned 16, I was sent to gun training classes. My Christmas present that year was a Browning Sweet Sixteen 5 shot semi-automatic shotgun. It is a beautiful firearm, hand-engraved and tooled in Belgium, and it can be fitted with interchangeable barrels for skeet, birds or deer. I won't extol its virtues further, but it is light to handle, well-balanced, and accurate to six inches at 100 yards. I'm now about to turn 74 and still own the gun. It is in perfect condition, and I am growing emotional about getting too old to use it any more. To be candid, I'm still not much of a hunter; accordingly, the gun is not well-worn, and it only has three deer to its credit in nearly 60 years. And my dad is long gone.
For the last 45 years I have lived along the northwest edge of the Adirondacks, a totally different hunting environment. This is a region where folks head off to hunting camp come November, and where membership in prestigious hunting clubs becomes part of one's identity. The hunting skills that I picked up from my father are still embedded. How else could one spend Thanksgiving Day in a cold, snowy forest watching flocks of turkeys wander by without aching to put meat on the table. But this story is about venison.
My mother, always dutiful, became an expert at preparing venison in all of its variations, which included sausage, ground meat, chops, steaks, stews, etc. I learned to enjoy them all. And when she made Swedish meatballs out of the ground-up stuff, I was one happy kid. And venison Stroganoff - wow! Also, her parents worked a dairy farm about a half mile away. Part of my real education and emotional growth came at the expense of observing farm animals being slaughtered for food. Whether it was a chicken or a pig or even a cow, I witnessed their demise. Their sacrifice made food for the family table. It wasn't pretty, but it was life and a necessity on the farm.
The thought of shooting a deer, of course, is anathema to many. Their idea is to choose it as a menu item in a fine restaurant. I, on the other hand, have no unwillingness to step up and fire my gun. When the deer is mortally wounded (hopefully instantly killed by a shot through its heart), I shrug and then congratulate myself on my deadly aim. Hah! I have missed more bucks than I can count on both hands and feet combined. I seldom if ever apply for a doe tag, so the task of being a successful deer hunter is problematic at best. What I do despise is field-dressing the animal. THAT can be a mess if not done correctly. I'm okay at it, but I've seen hunters complete the gutting process in about 10 minutes with a few well-placed cuts and minimal bloodiness. Finally, the real challenge for spending time trekking over hill and dale in pursuit of a wily critter comes afterwards when hauling it out. That entails dragging a 150 pound carcass up a mountain, across a river, and through a swamp or thicket. North country hunters call that being manly. I call it damned hard work. But sitting down at the dinner table with the meat back from the butcher and well-prepared, on the other hand, makes it all worthwhile.
Being in the woods - It's not about getting the biggest or the best buck. And of course, juveniles always get a pass from me. At any rate they are difficult to make out as the day wears down. Does are easier to distinguish because they have a narrower head, and the yearlings look like babies. How could one shoot a button buck? So it's not at all about snagging a trophy. The more points, the more meat, however, is a practical consideration. Here I must speak out with great caution about being overly quick to point and shoot your weapon. This is not a camera. Where you aim and what you aim at with a gun can have deadly consequences. Look what happened in Chautauqua County in the community of Sherman over the past weekend. Never, ever shoot your firearm unless you are certain of your target, don't shoot in low visibility, and make sure that a miss will not carry a great distance, causing unexpected consequences.
I go to the woods because it's fun and amazingly interesting. I used to take kayaking trips for a week or so after bug season into the Canadian Bush 300 miles north of Ottawa. Even after just a couple of days in the out of doors, one begins to sense the environment very differently. One becomes acutely aware of sun and clouds, wind, waves and temperature changes. The longer one is out there, more and more is noticed. The sounds of birds and animals are the waxing and waning of life, and the weather can soon be predicted in advance.
Often when I go out back, where there is a 6 mile stretch of continuous wild forest and wetlands, I have encounters. They are mostly friendly. Red squirrels don't like me; they chatter and scold. Owls are very curious; they land silently in nearby trees and watch me curiously. Porcupines basically ignore me. On rare occasions, coyotes slip by; surprised by this sudden intruder in their space. I've yet to see a bear - but they are out there. All in all, I have come to the conclusion that I will never be as much attuned as is the wildlife. Even the chickadees take care of their friends, while crows and bluejays are worse than the squirrels. I am the interloper and only beginning to understand what Native Peoples have known for millennia. All of that said, I am a visitor and feel like I must tread lightly. Thank you whoever you are for the privilege...
I have never used a deer stand because I believe they are dangerous and I think not quite fair; I take a small folding stool, find a spot and settle in. If my little stool is not with me, I walk a few yards, lean against a tree, and wait - sometimes up to an hour in the same place, especially if it has a good view. Usually, I carry my iPhone to use its conpass and to check wind direction - of which I will speak more.
There is a great beauty to walking or standing in the woods during a storm. It is quieter than quiet. I only struggle when my body begins to scold me about the cold. I enjoy watching large flakes or the wind blowing about great sheets of rain. On a gloomy day one can pass without sound through the heart of the forest. On frigid, stony, cold days, I can even walk across the wetlands, sometimes scattering a few wood ducks. There is never really very much solitude in the forest - only continuous activity. And gradually, I am learning more patience. Oh yeah, and then I remember what I'm there to do...
The challenge of deer hunting - Deer are incredibly smart. In addition, they have evolved keen senses that mostly extend far beyond the capabilities of humans. Their auditory and olfactory skills are exceptional, and their coloring changes with the seasons. In addition, they seem to possess a hard-wired sixth sense or what I would call premonition. I think it is derived from immersion in their environment. It is as though both are one and the same. But even though they are so finely attuned, they still seem to have four weaknesses: bucks grow careless during rut (but then again so did Matt Lauer); they are creatures of great habit (sometimes living out their entire lives within a radius of little more than three or four miles); their vision is only about as good as ours; and they are exceptionally curious.
This brings me to the challenge of bringing home a deer. It's all about judging the wind correctly. Deer are particularly attuned to wind direction. One will never find deer giving away their own scent or being in a position not to pick up the scent of other creatures in their vicinity. The hunter must always know exactly which way the wind is blowing, whether stalking or still hunting. Once they have your scent, they are gone. And because they are so difficult to see in the underbrush, one may never see them at all - only hear the thud of their hooves as they flee. I always hunt with the wind pretty much in my face. No deer will ever approach from behind or from the downwind side.
Earlier, I talked about deer vision. It's not great, but in conjunction with their other skills it's still superb. They seem to be able to pick up motion very easily, even the slightest movement. One must be slow and deliberate in all actions. There seems to be some debate about the color orange, the notion being that deer are colorblind in that part of the spectrum. I think that's true, although some hunters get all wacky about wearing camouflage. Maybe it's a macho thing. I wear orange so I can be seen by hunters, not deer.
This past Tuesday I saw three, maybe four deer. Two of them came within 15 yards of me. I know three of them were does, but I could not ascertain any horns on the presumed fourth. I entered the woods where I hunt at the northern end since the wind (relatively strong and gusty) was blowing directly from the south. The duff beneath my feet was exceptionally quiet, mostly because the snow was melting and the ground was subsequently wet. I slowly worked my way south, checking often on my iPhone for wind direction. In the space of an hour I probably moved 100 yards.
And then the first one appeared, upwind to my left, head down and browsing. She was a yearling. Behind her I expect was her mother. Neither of them smelled nor saw me; the other two were simply too obscured by the brush at the edge of the forest. They all came closer and closer, until at 15 yards or so that premonition business set in. Too bad - no antlers, no doe license. All were free to live another day.
What was amazing was how closely we intermingled before I was discovered. I stood dead quiet for half an hour and watched them intently as they fed right next to me. What a beautiful sight to behold. I was frankly happy there were no antlers. Finally, I shifted my weight and my hip buckled ever so slightly. I moved one step to the right. The game was over. They waved goodbye and disappeared in an instant. I knew I was finished for the day and headed home. But what a miracle I had witnessed. I had not beaten them, only played to their weaknesses. Yet in the end they had the advantage.
For me it was about as good as it gets - absent the taking of a wild animal for food. No big deal. I have until this Saturday when the season ends to try again. In fact, it's now nearly 2:00 PM. They will be starting to move about soon. Time to check the wind direction and head out back into the forest.
Carry on,
Paul in Potsdam, NY
Thursday, November 30, 2017
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Waterboarding
Well, it's been forever since I last blogged. The motivation simply has not been there. Having said that, today I realized that motivation, at least for me, is largely related to setting aside EMOTIONAL TIME to blog. It's much like running, or for that matter, washing the car, or (even more esoterically), responding conscientiously to daily emails.
Well, today I discovered new internal motivation. I recently went for my biannual teeth cleaning ordeal. I dislike this activitiy, not because my hygienist is not cute enough, but because I'm a cheapskate. She always says: " Paul, it's time for x-ays." And I always say, (without dental insurance since my retirement), "... that it can wait yet another six months." Well, being such a backslider finally caught up with me. A full array of x-rays revealed not one but two cavities -- and I am not even prone to this malady. In fact, my father lived his entire life without ever having a single one. I thought I was invulnerable, like Superman (at least in the dental department).
So the reality gradually set in. I was scheduled for being drilled to death today. Being the wimp that I am, I let my mind run away with itself until I achieved panic stage. My appointment with fate was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. this afternoon.
I had been pre-warned. I had a 50% chance of losing a twelve year molar -- and the added expense of an extraction if drilling didn't resolve the issue. That was depressing enough, but, as my wife is quick to point out, I tend to perseverate on such matters. So this morning at 6:00 a.m. I was up pacing and fretting. Thank God I had a golf date.
Regardless, 2:00 p.m. rolled around much quicker than expected. When I left the house at 1:45 p.m., I was resigned to confronting my destiny.
My dentist is a casual, yet very professional female from one of my alma maters. I like her. She is humorous, yet thoroughly kind and gentle. Nonetheless, she IS a dentist! This psychological profile always gives me the shivers. She promised a no-pain experience, but only a 50-50 chance of saving the tooth, and who was I to question such a good-natured professional...
At the appointed hour I settled into the dental chair -- for the first time in memory -- into the upside- down inverted position (the cavity was in my upper left jaw). The actual drilling lasted only about five minutes, but it ascended into my gum line -- a matter of some concern for her. Personally, I was thrilled that the only feeling I experienced was coldness as the "vibrancy" (as she described it) unfolded. I told her what I was feeling when she asked, and she said that that was a good thing. It meant that the tooth was alive and kicking, and my chances for tooth survival were immediately enhanced.
The drilling lasted only about five minutes, even though it was very deep and adjacent to the nerve. The dental assistant constantly sucked up my salivary juices, and all was fine.
Then the drilling stopped and filling the deep hole began. Then a rubber tooth block was inserted while the dentist began the arduous procedure of reshaping my former molar.
Did anyone of you watch "Zero Dark Thirty"? That movie really helped me understand what water-boarding is all about.
There I was in the inverted, super-inverted positon, sucking down saliva faster than my filling was being packed. I consciously stifled the "gag" reflex. The dentist, of course, noticed my dilemma and sympathetically cut me a break. Yet, at the same time my new filling was "setting up" it interferred with her procedure. I let my tensing body relax a bit, and it helped slightly. Regardless, I was on the brink of gagging for several minutes while the dentist completed her procedure. This lasted much longer than the five minutes of drilling. I would estimate that this dental version of "water-boarding" continued for about 20 minutes.
My gag reflex made me feel like a prisoner of war; the enemy could have extracted any information it desired during this prolonged agony. The dentist, in her necessary desire to achieve her objective, let it ride. I decided then and there that there is a fine line between suffering and achieving success.
Of course, the very fact that I am now writing about my ordeal, means that I survived. I still think I'm a hero and not a wimp, even though the dentist knows the truth.
Tonight, I sit here writing about an afternoon in the dental chair. The drilling did not hurt. But filling the drilled out cavity was a dimension that I had not previously entertained. Now I have something new to worry about. Remember that I have two cavities. On August 27th, I get to undergo the entire process all over again.
In the meantime, Dick Cheney remains for me the "Dark Side" personified. It seems strange that a visit to the dentist can so quickly jar such sensibilities. That said, if you asked my wife, she'd remind me to stay focused on the present.
Carry on,
Paul in Potsdam
Well, today I discovered new internal motivation. I recently went for my biannual teeth cleaning ordeal. I dislike this activitiy, not because my hygienist is not cute enough, but because I'm a cheapskate. She always says: " Paul, it's time for x-ays." And I always say, (without dental insurance since my retirement), "... that it can wait yet another six months." Well, being such a backslider finally caught up with me. A full array of x-rays revealed not one but two cavities -- and I am not even prone to this malady. In fact, my father lived his entire life without ever having a single one. I thought I was invulnerable, like Superman (at least in the dental department).
So the reality gradually set in. I was scheduled for being drilled to death today. Being the wimp that I am, I let my mind run away with itself until I achieved panic stage. My appointment with fate was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. this afternoon.
I had been pre-warned. I had a 50% chance of losing a twelve year molar -- and the added expense of an extraction if drilling didn't resolve the issue. That was depressing enough, but, as my wife is quick to point out, I tend to perseverate on such matters. So this morning at 6:00 a.m. I was up pacing and fretting. Thank God I had a golf date.
Regardless, 2:00 p.m. rolled around much quicker than expected. When I left the house at 1:45 p.m., I was resigned to confronting my destiny.
My dentist is a casual, yet very professional female from one of my alma maters. I like her. She is humorous, yet thoroughly kind and gentle. Nonetheless, she IS a dentist! This psychological profile always gives me the shivers. She promised a no-pain experience, but only a 50-50 chance of saving the tooth, and who was I to question such a good-natured professional...
At the appointed hour I settled into the dental chair -- for the first time in memory -- into the upside- down inverted position (the cavity was in my upper left jaw). The actual drilling lasted only about five minutes, but it ascended into my gum line -- a matter of some concern for her. Personally, I was thrilled that the only feeling I experienced was coldness as the "vibrancy" (as she described it) unfolded. I told her what I was feeling when she asked, and she said that that was a good thing. It meant that the tooth was alive and kicking, and my chances for tooth survival were immediately enhanced.
The drilling lasted only about five minutes, even though it was very deep and adjacent to the nerve. The dental assistant constantly sucked up my salivary juices, and all was fine.
Then the drilling stopped and filling the deep hole began. Then a rubber tooth block was inserted while the dentist began the arduous procedure of reshaping my former molar.
Did anyone of you watch "Zero Dark Thirty"? That movie really helped me understand what water-boarding is all about.
There I was in the inverted, super-inverted positon, sucking down saliva faster than my filling was being packed. I consciously stifled the "gag" reflex. The dentist, of course, noticed my dilemma and sympathetically cut me a break. Yet, at the same time my new filling was "setting up" it interferred with her procedure. I let my tensing body relax a bit, and it helped slightly. Regardless, I was on the brink of gagging for several minutes while the dentist completed her procedure. This lasted much longer than the five minutes of drilling. I would estimate that this dental version of "water-boarding" continued for about 20 minutes.
My gag reflex made me feel like a prisoner of war; the enemy could have extracted any information it desired during this prolonged agony. The dentist, in her necessary desire to achieve her objective, let it ride. I decided then and there that there is a fine line between suffering and achieving success.
Of course, the very fact that I am now writing about my ordeal, means that I survived. I still think I'm a hero and not a wimp, even though the dentist knows the truth.
Tonight, I sit here writing about an afternoon in the dental chair. The drilling did not hurt. But filling the drilled out cavity was a dimension that I had not previously entertained. Now I have something new to worry about. Remember that I have two cavities. On August 27th, I get to undergo the entire process all over again.
In the meantime, Dick Cheney remains for me the "Dark Side" personified. It seems strange that a visit to the dentist can so quickly jar such sensibilities. That said, if you asked my wife, she'd remind me to stay focused on the present.
Carry on,
Paul in Potsdam
Friday, July 20, 2012
A severe thunderstorm...
Hello all,
It's been a long time since I've posted. I could blame it on golf but I do that during the day and generally blog at night. The frank truth is that I promised blog topics that would not be depressing to my audience -- and I think therein lies the choice of demurring rather than letting you all know what I've been upset about. It seems like this summer there has been a lot of stuff that has been both annoying and irritating to me. Chalk it up to "old codgerism" or maybe the oppressive heat. That said, my golf game has been rewarding and lucrative.
Yet all of a sudden, after weeks of temperatures in the mid to high 80's and low 90's, on Tuesday afternoon, July 17, we finally had a humdinger of a thunderstorm that broke the daily routine. Our inground pool, for instance, suddenly gained two inches of water in less that half an hour. Since my wife was off in Cornwall, Canada with her best bud getting her hair done, I had the afternoon to piddle around with tasks that wouldn't require the expenditure of too much energy while it was 92 in the shade. I also think that it's nice and somewhat unique that my wife travels to Canada for an event that takes me 15 minutes just outside the village, costs $10, and fills up my reservoir of gossip. For her it costs considerably more and requires a passport...
Meanwhile, as the storm clouds gathered, I came into our house (with central air) and turned my rocking chair around facing toward Potsdam so the entertainment event of MY afternoon could be observed firsthand.
It basically got blacker and blacker. Usually, summer thunderstorms head down the river towards Montreal. This one, according to the National Weather Service, and on-line at 2:45 p.m., showed a humdinger with several cells on the way. Basically, everything around Potsdam was red with yellow borders. It was bearing down on our little village at a rate of 84 mph per hour with tornado warnings, large hail and dangerous lightening. And I HATE lightening. I put the car into the garage since the damage of golf ball-sized hail that might inflict on sheet metal and glass would ruin my whole day.
Well, as expected, the storm descended with fury. The curious thing for me was watching a light gray pair of clouds moving across the horizon directly over Potsdam (I live just south of the village). What struck me was their speed. And then suddenly they dipped downward. All of the trees in my immediate surrounding area began shaking violently. The two clouds, now directly over Potsdam, simply merged into a blinding rainstorm. There were constant sheets of heavy rain, but only one or two blasts of lightening and no hail in our neigborhood. I was thankful. It was a rousing storm to watch.
Then suddenly, reality struck me. I had forgotten to put down the reed shades on our screened-in Adirondack porch. I ran and opened the door, only to discover, thankfully, that the antique furniture was still dry there -- in spite of the heavy winds. Storms here usually descend upon us from the west, but Tuesday afternoon it was a ringer from the north/northwest -- unique. When I flipped the electrical switch my big discovery was that my house had no power.
Okay, so I thought it was just another summer thunderstorm. No big deal! Boy did I have THAT wrong! My wife returned home (from the north/northeast) about half an hour later and was flabbergasted. It had taken her a half hour to drop off her friend and drive two and a half miles to our home. Road blocks everywhere; major tree limbs across many of the main streets.
In fifteen minutes Potsdam had been turned into a shambles. My "go to" hardware store had it's roof blown off. It was sitting in the middle of the Raquette River. Sergi's, my favorite restaurant, was without its roof. It had flown onto the local liquor store, trapping the employee on duty. What a horrible punishment. By the time he was "rescued," I assume he was drunk as a skunk. There was not a single fatality in this entire event. Remarkable!
The storm path (which was not deemed a tornado or a microburst), simply traveled in a straight line at destructive speed. Most of Potsdam is alligned in such a way that the trees that came down were on a parallel line with sidewalks and homes. That is, except for my friend Ted Prahl, owner of Ted's Treads, a high end bike store. I figure that a direct hit by a mature maple cost him probably 50 to 100 bicycles profit. As I walked around the village today, I walked past Ted's house. He saw me and came out, reporting that removal of the tree on the top of his houseand in his yard had already cost him $2300. And his Victorian mansard roofed home built in 1880 had taken a direct hit.
So my wife and I wandered around the village with my camera in hand. The devastation is past, but it was severe. It did travel, however, in a straight line nearly all the way to Vermont.
Later, I walked my back forty. Nothing serious. My chainsaw will make quick clean-up of minimal damage. The line of disaster was roughly along the shore of the Raquette River, of which I am on the opposite side.
In retrospect, and in light of global warning, in which I believe, Potsdam took a heavy hit. It was not Joplin, Missouri, however, and, certainly, it was NOT Hurricane Irene last fall. Today, Governor Cuomo declared Potsdam and St. Lawrence County a disaster area to expedite repairs. And the insurance adjustors have hit town. It's amazing how quickly private contractors, insurance folks and electrical grid personel appear on the scene. Their restoration efforts are laudable; their costs incredible.
One never knows how lucky he is to be spared a major disaster. If the oak in the back yard had come down, it would have simply crushed my home, and the cost of destruction would have exceeded $200,000 or more, factoring in insurance. As is was, I went out into my yard and picked up a few downed branches. I also waiked the north forty, and an hour of chainsaw work will easily clean up the downed branches and limbs.
I have decided that it's all serendipity. My heart goes out to the Colorado fire victims and the unbelieveable distruction that occurred in the south this past spring. There but for the grace of God...
And then today, the horrible news from Aurora, Colorado blazed across our screens. I was reminded again of the movie "Schindler's List," Using Auscwitz inmates for target practice. It's all so senseless and random. Meanwhile, Potsdam will carry on.
And Potsdam's little disturbance was minimal by comparison. In the greater scheme of things, random violence by nature and random violence by humans are simply hard to compare...
Carry on,
Paul in Potsdam, NY
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
It's been a long time since I've posted. I could blame it on golf but I do that during the day and generally blog at night. The frank truth is that I promised blog topics that would not be depressing to my audience -- and I think therein lies the choice of demurring rather than letting you all know what I've been upset about. It seems like this summer there has been a lot of stuff that has been both annoying and irritating to me. Chalk it up to "old codgerism" or maybe the oppressive heat. That said, my golf game has been rewarding and lucrative.
Yet all of a sudden, after weeks of temperatures in the mid to high 80's and low 90's, on Tuesday afternoon, July 17, we finally had a humdinger of a thunderstorm that broke the daily routine. Our inground pool, for instance, suddenly gained two inches of water in less that half an hour. Since my wife was off in Cornwall, Canada with her best bud getting her hair done, I had the afternoon to piddle around with tasks that wouldn't require the expenditure of too much energy while it was 92 in the shade. I also think that it's nice and somewhat unique that my wife travels to Canada for an event that takes me 15 minutes just outside the village, costs $10, and fills up my reservoir of gossip. For her it costs considerably more and requires a passport...
Meanwhile, as the storm clouds gathered, I came into our house (with central air) and turned my rocking chair around facing toward Potsdam so the entertainment event of MY afternoon could be observed firsthand.
It basically got blacker and blacker. Usually, summer thunderstorms head down the river towards Montreal. This one, according to the National Weather Service, and on-line at 2:45 p.m., showed a humdinger with several cells on the way. Basically, everything around Potsdam was red with yellow borders. It was bearing down on our little village at a rate of 84 mph per hour with tornado warnings, large hail and dangerous lightening. And I HATE lightening. I put the car into the garage since the damage of golf ball-sized hail that might inflict on sheet metal and glass would ruin my whole day.
Well, as expected, the storm descended with fury. The curious thing for me was watching a light gray pair of clouds moving across the horizon directly over Potsdam (I live just south of the village). What struck me was their speed. And then suddenly they dipped downward. All of the trees in my immediate surrounding area began shaking violently. The two clouds, now directly over Potsdam, simply merged into a blinding rainstorm. There were constant sheets of heavy rain, but only one or two blasts of lightening and no hail in our neigborhood. I was thankful. It was a rousing storm to watch.
Then suddenly, reality struck me. I had forgotten to put down the reed shades on our screened-in Adirondack porch. I ran and opened the door, only to discover, thankfully, that the antique furniture was still dry there -- in spite of the heavy winds. Storms here usually descend upon us from the west, but Tuesday afternoon it was a ringer from the north/northwest -- unique. When I flipped the electrical switch my big discovery was that my house had no power.
Okay, so I thought it was just another summer thunderstorm. No big deal! Boy did I have THAT wrong! My wife returned home (from the north/northeast) about half an hour later and was flabbergasted. It had taken her a half hour to drop off her friend and drive two and a half miles to our home. Road blocks everywhere; major tree limbs across many of the main streets.In fifteen minutes Potsdam had been turned into a shambles. My "go to" hardware store had it's roof blown off. It was sitting in the middle of the Raquette River. Sergi's, my favorite restaurant, was without its roof. It had flown onto the local liquor store, trapping the employee on duty. What a horrible punishment. By the time he was "rescued," I assume he was drunk as a skunk. There was not a single fatality in this entire event. Remarkable!
The storm path (which was not deemed a tornado or a microburst), simply traveled in a straight line at destructive speed. Most of Potsdam is alligned in such a way that the trees that came down were on a parallel line with sidewalks and homes. That is, except for my friend Ted Prahl, owner of Ted's Treads, a high end bike store. I figure that a direct hit by a mature maple cost him probably 50 to 100 bicycles profit. As I walked around the village today, I walked past Ted's house. He saw me and came out, reporting that removal of the tree on the top of his houseand in his yard had already cost him $2300. And his Victorian mansard roofed home built in 1880 had taken a direct hit.
Later, I walked my back forty. Nothing serious. My chainsaw will make quick clean-up of minimal damage. The line of disaster was roughly along the shore of the Raquette River, of which I am on the opposite side.
In retrospect, and in light of global warning, in which I believe, Potsdam took a heavy hit. It was not Joplin, Missouri, however, and, certainly, it was NOT Hurricane Irene last fall. Today, Governor Cuomo declared Potsdam and St. Lawrence County a disaster area to expedite repairs. And the insurance adjustors have hit town. It's amazing how quickly private contractors, insurance folks and electrical grid personel appear on the scene. Their restoration efforts are laudable; their costs incredible.
One never knows how lucky he is to be spared a major disaster. If the oak in the back yard had come down, it would have simply crushed my home, and the cost of destruction would have exceeded $200,000 or more, factoring in insurance. As is was, I went out into my yard and picked up a few downed branches. I also waiked the north forty, and an hour of chainsaw work will easily clean up the downed branches and limbs.
I have decided that it's all serendipity. My heart goes out to the Colorado fire victims and the unbelieveable distruction that occurred in the south this past spring. There but for the grace of God...
And then today, the horrible news from Aurora, Colorado blazed across our screens. I was reminded again of the movie "Schindler's List," Using Auscwitz inmates for target practice. It's all so senseless and random. Meanwhile, Potsdam will carry on.
And Potsdam's little disturbance was minimal by comparison. In the greater scheme of things, random violence by nature and random violence by humans are simply hard to compare...
Carry on,
Paul in Potsdam, NY
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Making sense of current American politics
First let me say that I'm opposed to deciphering American politics via the vehicle of psychological analysis. In short, it is what is is... Yet a few days ago, Mitt Romney declared it was he who had convinced Barack Obama to bail out the auto industry (and to spend several billion dollars of taxpayer money to do so). Yet the evidence shows that Mr. Romney was, in fact, more prone to let Chrysler, General Motors and Ford wilt on the vine, so to speak. If they survived that would be a good thing; if not, such is life. At this point in time I am convinced Mr. Romney tailors his wisdom and pronouncements to an audience that at any given particular moment in time appears to agree with him or already be in synch with him. Yet this is not what I mean when I speak of analysis. Some folks are simply pathologically prone to utter what they think their audience wants to hear...
As a golfer I know what it means to wet one's finger and hold it high in the air. The fickle finger of fate quickly shows which direction the wind is blowing. On the other hand, to be certain, sometimes I stoop and yank a tiny patch of grass and let it flutter away in the wind. I think this is a pro forma policy for our next presumed Republican candidate for POTUS. It doesn't make me all that happy. Yet Mr. Obama, in spite of all his charismatic qualities and gifted rhetoric, seems still (after nearly a term in office), to act like an amateur in a rough game played best by hard-edged professionals. In short, I am conflicted. Regardless, at the same time I already know that Mr. Obama will be my preferred choice this fall.
I say this mostly on the basis of a political cartoon I saw recently. It was the one that finds Mitt in bed with his wife wearing a tuxedo. He says cooing over the pillow: "It just feels so much more comfortable to finally be out of those blue jeans tonight..."
Whatever happened to truth and integrity?
I have this recurring nightmare. It doesn't deal with Mr. Romney or Mr. Obama. It focuses on John Boehner, Paul Ryan and Mitch McConnell. They are in charge of our destiny in this horrible dream. The struggle is between Congress and the Executive Branch, and without any help from the Supreme Court. Try as hard as I can to reverse this scenario, my nearly five year old grandson ends up with marginality in his adult life. Accordingly, he chooses to remain a child...
He and I (and his dad) play a game called "Pennies for Paul." For fun, we literally look for pocket change in parking lots. I seed the area around my automobile. Unfortunately, those quarters will not pay for his college education -- as though a college education might have any clout by the time Paul Anthony reaches 21. Maybe this smart as a whip youngster ought to become a plumber or an electrician instead. I ask myself (as a retired college administrator)... is the Ivy League really worth the expenditure?
And frankly, I am concerned about his critical thinking skills and moral development. That said, I trust his parents both implicitly and explicitly. They genuinely care, and will make the best choices available to them when those critical moments arrive. So far so good! Paul is showered with love and affection, and his parents provide him with every opportunity available. Yet I still wonder if a scholarship to BC and a career with the Bruins might be more valuable than becoming a banker after a liberal arts education.
I am a doting granddad and I worry, perhaps unnecessarily. Mitt Romney may become our next president, but I still shudder at the thought -- not for myself mind you.
Stay calm and carry on...
Paul in Potsdam
As a golfer I know what it means to wet one's finger and hold it high in the air. The fickle finger of fate quickly shows which direction the wind is blowing. On the other hand, to be certain, sometimes I stoop and yank a tiny patch of grass and let it flutter away in the wind. I think this is a pro forma policy for our next presumed Republican candidate for POTUS. It doesn't make me all that happy. Yet Mr. Obama, in spite of all his charismatic qualities and gifted rhetoric, seems still (after nearly a term in office), to act like an amateur in a rough game played best by hard-edged professionals. In short, I am conflicted. Regardless, at the same time I already know that Mr. Obama will be my preferred choice this fall.
I say this mostly on the basis of a political cartoon I saw recently. It was the one that finds Mitt in bed with his wife wearing a tuxedo. He says cooing over the pillow: "It just feels so much more comfortable to finally be out of those blue jeans tonight..."
Whatever happened to truth and integrity?
I have this recurring nightmare. It doesn't deal with Mr. Romney or Mr. Obama. It focuses on John Boehner, Paul Ryan and Mitch McConnell. They are in charge of our destiny in this horrible dream. The struggle is between Congress and the Executive Branch, and without any help from the Supreme Court. Try as hard as I can to reverse this scenario, my nearly five year old grandson ends up with marginality in his adult life. Accordingly, he chooses to remain a child...
He and I (and his dad) play a game called "Pennies for Paul." For fun, we literally look for pocket change in parking lots. I seed the area around my automobile. Unfortunately, those quarters will not pay for his college education -- as though a college education might have any clout by the time Paul Anthony reaches 21. Maybe this smart as a whip youngster ought to become a plumber or an electrician instead. I ask myself (as a retired college administrator)... is the Ivy League really worth the expenditure?
And frankly, I am concerned about his critical thinking skills and moral development. That said, I trust his parents both implicitly and explicitly. They genuinely care, and will make the best choices available to them when those critical moments arrive. So far so good! Paul is showered with love and affection, and his parents provide him with every opportunity available. Yet I still wonder if a scholarship to BC and a career with the Bruins might be more valuable than becoming a banker after a liberal arts education.
I am a doting granddad and I worry, perhaps unnecessarily. Mitt Romney may become our next president, but I still shudder at the thought -- not for myself mind you.
Stay calm and carry on...
Paul in Potsdam
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Complexities of Life at Middleton Place
Toward the end of our stay on Hilton Head Island this spring, my wife decided she'd like to see more of Charleston, SC. We'd been there once before and both of us had thoroughly enjoyed the earlier visit. The only problem with Charleston is that it needs to be savored in small doses. There is no good way to rush around trying to see everything within a short time frame. I would have been more pleased if we could have simply gone up to Charleston and explored for a week. Since that, however, was not a feasible plan this year, we decided to focus on one of Charleston's greatest gems -- the restored rice plantation named Middleton Place.
We essentially spent the better part of a day at Middleton Place. For me, the visit was a sumptuous immersion into the great beauty of one of America's oldest and most spectacular gardens. Yet it was also equally part of a personal, on-going education into Southern culture, most notably increasing my understanding of the complexities of the immense differences between north and south, developing a better sense of plantation culture, and glimpsing briefly the reality of the terrible destruction brought about by the Civil War.
Middleton Place was no small undertaking. For instance, in the antebellum period records show that water buffalo from Constantinople were imported as draft animals. These water buffalo were well-suited to the deep muck in which rice is grown. Likewise, the Middleton family had a deep and abiding interest in formal gardens. In 1786, Andre Michaux, a French botanist, was invited to spend time there. He cultivated the first camellias ever grown in an American garden.
Three of the plants, now above 15 feet in height, survive to this day. A later Middleton also introduced the Asiatic azalea and a crape myrtle (one of the oldest specimens of its kind in America), to the grounds. The pièce de résistance, however, is South Carolina's oldest live oak tree with a trunk more than 10 feet in diameter. In pre-Revolution times, Greenhouses and the terraces above the Ashley River were filled with exotic plants and trees. And today, on the far bank above Rice Mill Pond, more than 30,000 azaleas bloom every spring. Up to this time I have always been impressed with "Amen Corner" at Augusta National, but in comparison (and with all due respect) that's merely a small part of a golf course decorated with some flowering shrubs.
In all, the restored grounds presently consist of 65 carefully tended acres dating back to the 1740's. They are considered to be the oldest landscaped gardens in America, having been built according to the grand design of the Palace of Versailles;
featuring swans, allees, sundials, statues, sculpted terraces, parterres and reflection pools -- all integrated into an elegant design of symmetry and balance. So what we have here is a full-fledged restored rice plantation as well as a large, fully landscaped estate. It took many black slaves to maintain these interrelated endeavors in the early days before Emancipation.
As for the owners, the Middleton family began establishing their plantation in the 1730's. John Middleton's son-in-law Henry Middleton continued construction on the main house, implemented the gardens in earnest, represented South Carolina at the First Continental Congress and became that body's first president. His son, Arthur Middleton, was born at Middleton Place, rose in politics and was a signer of the Declaration of Independence. After the birth of the nation, Arthur Middleton's progeny oversaw the transition of Middleton Place from an attractive country residence to a large, economically-successful rice plantation. Then came the war. In 1860 William Middleton became the first South Carolinian to sign his state's Ordinance of Secession. The attack on Fort Sumter a few miles away and a year later sparked the great conflagration.
Throughout its life to that point, Middleton Place and the Middleton family had owned hundreds of slaves. Most were treated well, and occasionally a few were even set free. During the Revolutionary War period many left with the British who resettled them in Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. They became known as Black Loyalists. Others joined Hessian regiments. Still others escaped to Indian lands. At the outbreak of the Civil War, the re-established plantation experienced many new runaways while some joined Company G of the 34th U.S. Color Guard. The plantation began to decline in the absence of its owners.
On 17 February 1865 the City of Charleston fell to the Union Army. On 23 February while exploring the Ashley River Road, a medical officer, Dr. H.O. Marcy, attached to the 34th, came upon Middleton Place. From his diary it is quoted:
"All here was in confusion -- the slaves had heard the news from their friends and they were making ready to leave... The colored people flocked around me and gave various demonstrations of joy... All wanted to shake hands. One of them, Isaac, a very intelligent man, said he had been placed in charge of a party to go up country but had contrived to get away and had returned home to Middleton." [Marcy]
At the same time at Middleton Place was a detachment of the 56th New York Volunteers (New York's Newburgh area) who dined on several of the water buffalo and then proceeded to burn the property.
The following day Marcy was ordered by his commanding officer to return to the plantation and,
"... do what I can to repair the damage done yesterday. The colored people were robbed indiscriminately. My first object was to get them together and advise them to leave. There was a schooner and several flats still docked at the bend in the river. All determined to leave. I advised them to float down to Charleston. All of the principal buildings are a mass of ruins. Accompanied by Isaac I rode down to Horse Savannah (neighboring plantation). Here I found another 150 slaves. After a talk, they too were ready to leave for town." [Marcy]
Yet some of the slaves cooperated with the 56th in the burning of Middleton Place. Others loyal to the Middletons helped save some of their belongings, including a Benjamin West family portrait and the Wood Nymph statue. Their mission accomplished, the 56th then moved on to Charleston.
The great plantation, now in ruins, sat idle for more than 50 years. According to Wikipedia: "The restoration of Middleton Place largely began in 1916 with the efforts of Middleton descendant John Julius Pringle Smith (1887–1969) and his wife Heningham, both of whom would spend several decades meticulously rebuilding the plantation's gardens. In the early 1970s, approximately 110 acres (45 ha) of the 7,000-acre (2,800 ha) plantation— including the south flanker, the gardens, and several outbuildings— were placed on the National Register of Historic Places. During the same period the Middleton descendants transferred ownership of the historic district to the non-profit Middleton Place Foundation, which presently maintains the site."
Millions have been spent in the restoration, and millions more were spent to keep the north side of the Ashley River bordered by a broad stretch of trees, and to prevent the incursion of modern North Charleston onto the scene. The Foundation has succeeded in both endeavors. It seems to me that the high price of admission -- not even from a preservationist point of view -- is well worth the cost. One is able to drop back in time 150 years for a truly legitimate experience. It would seem that had it not been destroyed and still remained original, Middleton Place would, most likely, have been assigned World Heritage Site status.
So here we are again, examining my infatuation with American wealth and the subjugation of inordinate numbers of human beings for the benefit of a few. The comparison, of course, is a bit like visiting Newport. Its great mansions are now largely in the hands of foundations too. The preservation of Bellevue Avenue is not terribly different from the restoration of Middleton Place, and ironically, simply there for my viewing and the price of admission. And both my aesthetic and historical bents can be satisfied once again. That said, the human toll remains to be rationalized...
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul in Potsdam
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
We essentially spent the better part of a day at Middleton Place. For me, the visit was a sumptuous immersion into the great beauty of one of America's oldest and most spectacular gardens. Yet it was also equally part of a personal, on-going education into Southern culture, most notably increasing my understanding of the complexities of the immense differences between north and south, developing a better sense of plantation culture, and glimpsing briefly the reality of the terrible destruction brought about by the Civil War.
Middleton Place was no small undertaking. For instance, in the antebellum period records show that water buffalo from Constantinople were imported as draft animals. These water buffalo were well-suited to the deep muck in which rice is grown. Likewise, the Middleton family had a deep and abiding interest in formal gardens. In 1786, Andre Michaux, a French botanist, was invited to spend time there. He cultivated the first camellias ever grown in an American garden.
Three of the plants, now above 15 feet in height, survive to this day. A later Middleton also introduced the Asiatic azalea and a crape myrtle (one of the oldest specimens of its kind in America), to the grounds. The pièce de résistance, however, is South Carolina's oldest live oak tree with a trunk more than 10 feet in diameter. In pre-Revolution times, Greenhouses and the terraces above the Ashley River were filled with exotic plants and trees. And today, on the far bank above Rice Mill Pond, more than 30,000 azaleas bloom every spring. Up to this time I have always been impressed with "Amen Corner" at Augusta National, but in comparison (and with all due respect) that's merely a small part of a golf course decorated with some flowering shrubs.
In all, the restored grounds presently consist of 65 carefully tended acres dating back to the 1740's. They are considered to be the oldest landscaped gardens in America, having been built according to the grand design of the Palace of Versailles;
featuring swans, allees, sundials, statues, sculpted terraces, parterres and reflection pools -- all integrated into an elegant design of symmetry and balance. So what we have here is a full-fledged restored rice plantation as well as a large, fully landscaped estate. It took many black slaves to maintain these interrelated endeavors in the early days before Emancipation.
As for the owners, the Middleton family began establishing their plantation in the 1730's. John Middleton's son-in-law Henry Middleton continued construction on the main house, implemented the gardens in earnest, represented South Carolina at the First Continental Congress and became that body's first president. His son, Arthur Middleton, was born at Middleton Place, rose in politics and was a signer of the Declaration of Independence. After the birth of the nation, Arthur Middleton's progeny oversaw the transition of Middleton Place from an attractive country residence to a large, economically-successful rice plantation. Then came the war. In 1860 William Middleton became the first South Carolinian to sign his state's Ordinance of Secession. The attack on Fort Sumter a few miles away and a year later sparked the great conflagration.
Throughout its life to that point, Middleton Place and the Middleton family had owned hundreds of slaves. Most were treated well, and occasionally a few were even set free. During the Revolutionary War period many left with the British who resettled them in Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. They became known as Black Loyalists. Others joined Hessian regiments. Still others escaped to Indian lands. At the outbreak of the Civil War, the re-established plantation experienced many new runaways while some joined Company G of the 34th U.S. Color Guard. The plantation began to decline in the absence of its owners.
On 17 February 1865 the City of Charleston fell to the Union Army. On 23 February while exploring the Ashley River Road, a medical officer, Dr. H.O. Marcy, attached to the 34th, came upon Middleton Place. From his diary it is quoted:
"All here was in confusion -- the slaves had heard the news from their friends and they were making ready to leave... The colored people flocked around me and gave various demonstrations of joy... All wanted to shake hands. One of them, Isaac, a very intelligent man, said he had been placed in charge of a party to go up country but had contrived to get away and had returned home to Middleton." [Marcy]
At the same time at Middleton Place was a detachment of the 56th New York Volunteers (New York's Newburgh area) who dined on several of the water buffalo and then proceeded to burn the property.
The following day Marcy was ordered by his commanding officer to return to the plantation and,
"... do what I can to repair the damage done yesterday. The colored people were robbed indiscriminately. My first object was to get them together and advise them to leave. There was a schooner and several flats still docked at the bend in the river. All determined to leave. I advised them to float down to Charleston. All of the principal buildings are a mass of ruins. Accompanied by Isaac I rode down to Horse Savannah (neighboring plantation). Here I found another 150 slaves. After a talk, they too were ready to leave for town." [Marcy]
Yet some of the slaves cooperated with the 56th in the burning of Middleton Place. Others loyal to the Middletons helped save some of their belongings, including a Benjamin West family portrait and the Wood Nymph statue. Their mission accomplished, the 56th then moved on to Charleston.
The great plantation, now in ruins, sat idle for more than 50 years. According to Wikipedia: "The restoration of Middleton Place largely began in 1916 with the efforts of Middleton descendant John Julius Pringle Smith (1887–1969) and his wife Heningham, both of whom would spend several decades meticulously rebuilding the plantation's gardens. In the early 1970s, approximately 110 acres (45 ha) of the 7,000-acre (2,800 ha) plantation— including the south flanker, the gardens, and several outbuildings— were placed on the National Register of Historic Places. During the same period the Middleton descendants transferred ownership of the historic district to the non-profit Middleton Place Foundation, which presently maintains the site."
Millions have been spent in the restoration, and millions more were spent to keep the north side of the Ashley River bordered by a broad stretch of trees, and to prevent the incursion of modern North Charleston onto the scene. The Foundation has succeeded in both endeavors. It seems to me that the high price of admission -- not even from a preservationist point of view -- is well worth the cost. One is able to drop back in time 150 years for a truly legitimate experience. It would seem that had it not been destroyed and still remained original, Middleton Place would, most likely, have been assigned World Heritage Site status.
So here we are again, examining my infatuation with American wealth and the subjugation of inordinate numbers of human beings for the benefit of a few. The comparison, of course, is a bit like visiting Newport. Its great mansions are now largely in the hands of foundations too. The preservation of Bellevue Avenue is not terribly different from the restoration of Middleton Place, and ironically, simply there for my viewing and the price of admission. And both my aesthetic and historical bents can be satisfied once again. That said, the human toll remains to be rationalized...
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul in Potsdam
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
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