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
Friday, March 9, 2012
Twittering at Honey Horn
I'm not much of a birder. But that's not to say I don't love birds. I just have one of those minds that can't aurally distinguish a vireo from a flycatcher. Sure, I can distinguish the mournful call of a loon and the grating rasp of a bluejay. Yet the finer points of successful birding depend upon a sharp ear and a gifted mind. Oh, oh -- gradually you are finding out the truth about me...
Yesterday afternoon, my wife cajoled me into attending the monthly meeting of the Hilton Head Island Birding Society. If that's not what it is officially called, please forgive me. It was held at the Coastal Discovery Museum, AKA as the Honey Horn. The Honey Horn is a wonderful museum on oyster alley -- just before one leaves Hilton Head Island for the mainland. It's a nice place and offers significant insight into the history of the island. I love the grounds and the architecture of the museum itself. And the exhibits are absorbing. Currently, one can immerse herself in the Gullah culture.
One of the things that I've grown to appreciate about Hilton Head Island is its vibrance. There are lots of retirees here, but that doesn't mean they resign themselves to big-wheel walker strolls on the beach. Hilton Head Island is alive with energetic people who refuse to grow old and exercise enough to embarrass me.
Upon arriving at the Coastal Discovery Museum or the Honey Horn, at it is known locally, for a talk by the Savannah, GA maven of birding, Diana Churchill, [http://www.dianachurchillbirds.com/Diana_Churchill_About.html]. we had to walk a good five hundred yards to the lecture venue because of this Saturday's wine-tasting festival. I immediately decided I was a day early and $80 short of a good time at a sold-out venue.
At any rate, we arrived early enough to catch a seat. Not long afterwards, Ms. Churchill began passing out toy birds with squeezable personal bird calls. My wife and I received a painted bunting, which, of course, I did not know very much about since I'm from northern NY. The woman on my right quickly pointed out my fallibility, and patronizingly filled in my Southern gaps.
Finally, the show began. Scheduled to begin at 3 p.m., after announcements and introductions, we got rolling at 3:35. I was already about to head out for an early cocktail hour (another insidious draw to Hilton Head's cultural norms).
Diana Churchill, once she got started, was a thrill. Down to earth and with an admirable sense of humor, she did her schtick. She was delightful. Ms. Churchill possesses the gift of birding, the acuity to aurally identify impossible warbler distinctions, etc. Eventually, we arrived at the question and answer period. The first question dealt with identifying miniature ibises. I finally settled the question by noting that they were probably pygmy ibises. Hiss, hiss from my right...
Mature bird watchers on Hilton Head Island are like Seinfeld's "Soup Nazi." The room was filled with them. And on my right, there she was, the female reincarnation of Joseph Goebbels. Speaker Diana Churchill covered every question with uninhibited honesty. When one woman asked how to tell the difference between a male and female Great Blue Heron, Diana pondered the question momentarily and then noted that it would probably be the male who was on top. This in liberal South Carolina. I applauded.
I had a fun time; my wife enjoyed it too. Yet I have to admit -- I didn't learn too much new. I have what is called a tin ear.
Regardless, I will not give up. If one perseveres, eventually the synapses connect. I have faith.
Stay calm and carry on...
Paul in Hilton Head, SC
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Yesterday afternoon, my wife cajoled me into attending the monthly meeting of the Hilton Head Island Birding Society. If that's not what it is officially called, please forgive me. It was held at the Coastal Discovery Museum, AKA as the Honey Horn. The Honey Horn is a wonderful museum on oyster alley -- just before one leaves Hilton Head Island for the mainland. It's a nice place and offers significant insight into the history of the island. I love the grounds and the architecture of the museum itself. And the exhibits are absorbing. Currently, one can immerse herself in the Gullah culture.
One of the things that I've grown to appreciate about Hilton Head Island is its vibrance. There are lots of retirees here, but that doesn't mean they resign themselves to big-wheel walker strolls on the beach. Hilton Head Island is alive with energetic people who refuse to grow old and exercise enough to embarrass me.
Upon arriving at the Coastal Discovery Museum or the Honey Horn, at it is known locally, for a talk by the Savannah, GA maven of birding, Diana Churchill, [http://www.dianachurchillbirds.com/Diana_Churchill_About.html]. we had to walk a good five hundred yards to the lecture venue because of this Saturday's wine-tasting festival. I immediately decided I was a day early and $80 short of a good time at a sold-out venue.
At any rate, we arrived early enough to catch a seat. Not long afterwards, Ms. Churchill began passing out toy birds with squeezable personal bird calls. My wife and I received a painted bunting, which, of course, I did not know very much about since I'm from northern NY. The woman on my right quickly pointed out my fallibility, and patronizingly filled in my Southern gaps.
Finally, the show began. Scheduled to begin at 3 p.m., after announcements and introductions, we got rolling at 3:35. I was already about to head out for an early cocktail hour (another insidious draw to Hilton Head's cultural norms).
Diana Churchill, once she got started, was a thrill. Down to earth and with an admirable sense of humor, she did her schtick. She was delightful. Ms. Churchill possesses the gift of birding, the acuity to aurally identify impossible warbler distinctions, etc. Eventually, we arrived at the question and answer period. The first question dealt with identifying miniature ibises. I finally settled the question by noting that they were probably pygmy ibises. Hiss, hiss from my right...
Mature bird watchers on Hilton Head Island are like Seinfeld's "Soup Nazi." The room was filled with them. And on my right, there she was, the female reincarnation of Joseph Goebbels. Speaker Diana Churchill covered every question with uninhibited honesty. When one woman asked how to tell the difference between a male and female Great Blue Heron, Diana pondered the question momentarily and then noted that it would probably be the male who was on top. This in liberal South Carolina. I applauded.
I had a fun time; my wife enjoyed it too. Yet I have to admit -- I didn't learn too much new. I have what is called a tin ear.
Regardless, I will not give up. If one perseveres, eventually the synapses connect. I have faith.
Stay calm and carry on...
Paul in Hilton Head, SC
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Infatuation with Wealth
Through historical inquiry, coupled with steadfast genealogical digging, I recently started searching a new family line in my paternal record. I noted once again, and not too far back in chronological time, that my great grandmother's maiden name was Schermerhorn. In my hometown, Jamestown, NY, this is no big deal. Schermerhorns abound there. I simply figured that one day I'd get around to it.
What I did not realize was that the Schermerhorn line, quickly and easily traceable on-line, goes back many generations in America -- in fact -- all the way to the Dutch Colony of New Amsterdam and before. I did some investigating and discovered that my own Schermerhorn roots were not all that distant from Caroline Webster Schermerhorn Astor. For me there is considerable irony here, and the revelation of this connection brings me to what may spark the next blog or so.
Just so you know where I'm headed, let me begin with Caroline Webster Schermerhorn and her List of Four Hundred: "Caroline Webster (Schermerhorn) Astor was the self crowned queen of New York (and Newport) Society, who set herself the task, to regulate society and keep the new rich of the Gilded Age out. Assisted by social arbiter Ward McAllister, she started in the winter season of 1872-73 to build up her list of socially prominent New Yorkers, therefore designating twenty five patriarchs, who would define society, by inviting to each ball of the season, four ladies and five gentlemen. [Equilibrium would obviously require the opposite.] In addition to the thereby convened 250 people, an undefined number of visiting guests, prominent people from other cities, and debutantes would be invited directly by Mrs Astor." <http://www.raken.com/american_wealth/OTHER/newsletter/chronicle111103.asp>.
What I did not realize was that the Schermerhorn line, quickly and easily traceable on-line, goes back many generations in America -- in fact -- all the way to the Dutch Colony of New Amsterdam and before. I did some investigating and discovered that my own Schermerhorn roots were not all that distant from Caroline Webster Schermerhorn Astor. For me there is considerable irony here, and the revelation of this connection brings me to what may spark the next blog or so.
Just so you know where I'm headed, let me begin with Caroline Webster Schermerhorn and her List of Four Hundred: "Caroline Webster (Schermerhorn) Astor was the self crowned queen of New York (and Newport) Society, who set herself the task, to regulate society and keep the new rich of the Gilded Age out. Assisted by social arbiter Ward McAllister, she started in the winter season of 1872-73 to build up her list of socially prominent New Yorkers, therefore designating twenty five patriarchs, who would define society, by inviting to each ball of the season, four ladies and five gentlemen. [Equilibrium would obviously require the opposite.] In addition to the thereby convened 250 people, an undefined number of visiting guests, prominent people from other cities, and debutantes would be invited directly by Mrs Astor." <http://www.raken.com/american_wealth/OTHER/newsletter/chronicle111103.asp>.
 |
Caroline "Lina" Webster Schermerhorn
|
Other resources show that Caroline Webster Schermerhorn Astor (September 22, 1830 – October 30, 1908) was perhaps the most prominent American socialite of the last quarter of the 19th century. Famous for being referred to later in life as "The Mrs. Astor" or simply "Mrs. Astor", she was the wife of real estate heir William Backhouse Astor Jr. Four years after her death her son John Jacob Astor IV was the richest man on the RMS Titanic and perished in the disaster of that ship. A very short biography of "Lina" Schermerhorn can be found at <http://xroads.virginia.edu/~ma01/davis/newport/biographies/csastor.html>.
I care little about any of this other than having a historical curiosity attached to my connections with Mrs. Astor, and to remind me of how divergent life histories can be within the same family. Aside from her penultimate role in America's Gilded Age, Mrs. Astor represents, from my point of view, very nearly the antithesis of the great egalitarian society envisioned by several of our forefathers. She gave new meaning to elitism and snobbery, and was certainly unrepresentative of the ideals of the so-called American dream -- that dream, of course, being the ability to rise to positions of wealth and power on the basis of one's own intellectual gifts, physical abilities or simply through diligence and hard work.
It is my opinion that the popular PBS Masterpiece Classic Downton Abbey, set in the first quarter of the 20th century, and in another country, sheds considerable light into how much society had already changed during that time, and only 25 years after Mrs. Astor ruled in America. I think we love Downton Abbey because it combines our fascination with the power elite of that day with a rapidly changing strata of social and cultural roles. WWI accelerated it surely, but what we fell in love with were the characters who recognized the change underway and largely embraced it. So in one sense we had the opposites of an established elite and a rising middle class, all of whom, in a pinch of time, moved all of us into a new era. Yet despite the dawn of that new era, most folks continued to maintain a certain sense of awe for established wealth, position and celebrity. And they still continued to draw the same distinction between old and new money.
I remember well my literature teachers in college who always emphasized that in its development important literature focused on or revolved around the lives of royalty by necessity. They were the more interesting subjects, and when they broke absolute moral codes of behavior the common man or groundlings applauded. Then that very same audience could also say: "I told you so!" And it was us mere mortals who provided the comic relief or cathartic release from their excesses or follies.
And now we have flashed forward to the age of pop culture where achievement may be old, new, instant, outrageous, or whatever grabs our attention on-line or on television or in news print at the time. We have Lady GaGa, Madonna, Jeremy Lin, Tiger Woods, Eli Manning, Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Barack Obama, Oprah Winfrey, George Clooney, Meryl Streep, David Letterman, Michael Bloomberg, Donald Trump -- and they are just for starters. Wasn't it Andy Warhol who declared that everyone now has his/her 15 minutes of fame? And then there's Paris Hilton, and Dick Cheney, and Rush Limbaugh. It goes on and on. We have new ways of discerning fame and/or notoriety. That's good, but sometimes it's built upon a foundation of pompous, over-stuffed egos or extraordinary shallow material.
Frankly, although it dates me terribly, I still long for that anti-hero or the Common man -- those Willie Lomans and Santiagos created by the likes of Arthur Miller and Ernest Hemingway.
And can you imagine making a list of The Four Hundred today? Creating such a list (and given my distorted frame of mind) would drive me crazy!) It would seem quite safe, however, and given our directionless compass, to concentrate on the new royalty, which still seems to have much to do with the divine right of kings -- "Deo et mon droit" (God and my right). No, that's probably too difficult. Probably easier to look at the Forbes list: <http://www.forbes.com/forbes-400/>. Not much seems to change... Please continue shopping at Wal*Mart.
Carry on,
Paul in Hilton Head, SC
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Slavery...
When I started this blog, it was my intention to keep it light, and I sincerely attempt to be accommodating. However, every once in a while, my carefully constructed little world just goes awry...
One of the ways that I spend quiet evenings is catching up on reading. I'm currently in the midst of two books: Golf is Not a Game of Perfect by Bob Rotella, and a serious history tome, The Colony of New Netherland: A Dutch Settlement in 17th Century America by Jaap Jacobs. First of all, I take golf a wee bit too seriously. Rotella is helping me to realign my emotions (and this is the second time I've read the short book). Be grateful he says, concentrate on the positive. Visualize, set a routine, and reach new horizons. So far, my handicap has changed from 11.8 to 11.8. Then again, I'm playing on tougher courses. And blah, blah, blah. It is what it is.
On the other hand, spending spring in the Southland affords me the opportunity to get away from my home computer and its usual applications -- one of which is Reunion, a genealogical data base. So reading Jacobs is exciting for me because I have ancestors who literally appear in this book, and I take notes. I'm not all that far into it yet, but tonight, in Chapter Two, a sub-topic, "Enslaved Blacks" brought more than one sigh out of me. I find slavery appalling.
I learned from Jacobs, for instance, that in 1639 there were about 100 blacks who worked in the colony, a number that grew to approximately 250 in 1664 and doubled upon the arrival of 291 more slaves on the Gideon in August of that year. They made up about 8% of the total population, concentrated in New Amsterdam, where the rate rose to about 17%. Slaves in New Netherland typically did not come directly to the colony but through a circuitous route that involved Spain and the Caribbean. The Gideon was a rare exception. Prices for slaves averaged 140 to 375 Guilders in the 1650's. By 1664, the price for a healthy slave approached 600 Guilders -- they did not come cheap! About 12% of New Netherland landowners could afford slaves. But most astonishingly, by 1730, 41% of the households in New York City owned slaves, and by then New York had the toughest slave laws in the colonies. [Jacobs, pp 55-56].
This revelation about a northern colony made me wonder about the southern colonies, so off I went to Google.
Although sometimes couched in generalities, I found a few Web sites that gave me realistic and authentic broader statistics. Perhaps the best of them was <http://eh.net/encyclopedia/article/wahl.slavery.us>. Although it might seem a bit inconvenient, simply click on the site and then hit return. Astonishing!
Another site that I found and liked was this one: <http://listverse.com/2009/01/14/10-fascinating-facts-about-slavery/>. This one brought me to a new perspective. Worth your time...
Naturally, it occurred to me that slavery is not a new human problem, and for centuries it has included children and orphans in the sex trade. Pretty abysmal. To look at some statistics on current (21st century) slavery go to <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contemporary_slavery>.
I'm apologetic to lay this on you. And I'm not sure what can be done about it. I can't even offer you a means to help eliminate the problem.
All of this makes me less and less tolerant of my species. If you know of a way to change cultural mores, please respond -- not to me but to the appropriate, new found organization. I'm just sitting here feeling somewhat stunned.
Yes, I know, it's a downer. Kindly forgive me for occasionally bringing us all back to reality.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul, temporarily in South Carolina
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
One of the ways that I spend quiet evenings is catching up on reading. I'm currently in the midst of two books: Golf is Not a Game of Perfect by Bob Rotella, and a serious history tome, The Colony of New Netherland: A Dutch Settlement in 17th Century America by Jaap Jacobs. First of all, I take golf a wee bit too seriously. Rotella is helping me to realign my emotions (and this is the second time I've read the short book). Be grateful he says, concentrate on the positive. Visualize, set a routine, and reach new horizons. So far, my handicap has changed from 11.8 to 11.8. Then again, I'm playing on tougher courses. And blah, blah, blah. It is what it is.
On the other hand, spending spring in the Southland affords me the opportunity to get away from my home computer and its usual applications -- one of which is Reunion, a genealogical data base. So reading Jacobs is exciting for me because I have ancestors who literally appear in this book, and I take notes. I'm not all that far into it yet, but tonight, in Chapter Two, a sub-topic, "Enslaved Blacks" brought more than one sigh out of me. I find slavery appalling.
I learned from Jacobs, for instance, that in 1639 there were about 100 blacks who worked in the colony, a number that grew to approximately 250 in 1664 and doubled upon the arrival of 291 more slaves on the Gideon in August of that year. They made up about 8% of the total population, concentrated in New Amsterdam, where the rate rose to about 17%. Slaves in New Netherland typically did not come directly to the colony but through a circuitous route that involved Spain and the Caribbean. The Gideon was a rare exception. Prices for slaves averaged 140 to 375 Guilders in the 1650's. By 1664, the price for a healthy slave approached 600 Guilders -- they did not come cheap! About 12% of New Netherland landowners could afford slaves. But most astonishingly, by 1730, 41% of the households in New York City owned slaves, and by then New York had the toughest slave laws in the colonies. [Jacobs, pp 55-56].
This revelation about a northern colony made me wonder about the southern colonies, so off I went to Google.
Although sometimes couched in generalities, I found a few Web sites that gave me realistic and authentic broader statistics. Perhaps the best of them was <http://eh.net/encyclopedia/article/wahl.slavery.us>. Although it might seem a bit inconvenient, simply click on the site and then hit return. Astonishing!
Another site that I found and liked was this one: <http://listverse.com/2009/01/14/10-fascinating-facts-about-slavery/>. This one brought me to a new perspective. Worth your time...
Naturally, it occurred to me that slavery is not a new human problem, and for centuries it has included children and orphans in the sex trade. Pretty abysmal. To look at some statistics on current (21st century) slavery go to <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contemporary_slavery>.
I'm apologetic to lay this on you. And I'm not sure what can be done about it. I can't even offer you a means to help eliminate the problem.
All of this makes me less and less tolerant of my species. If you know of a way to change cultural mores, please respond -- not to me but to the appropriate, new found organization. I'm just sitting here feeling somewhat stunned.
Yes, I know, it's a downer. Kindly forgive me for occasionally bringing us all back to reality.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul, temporarily in South Carolina
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Monday, February 27, 2012
Hugo
Well, I hope you all watched the Academy Awards show last evening. For me it was a toss-up between the Oscars and Masterpiece Classic's new series, The Old Curiosity Shop. The former won.
Before I go any farther, I need to comment on Billy Crystal's appearance. His make-up was over the top. In fact, I thought he looked as though he was embalmed. And Ms. Jolie appeared bony and out of sorts. I like my women a bit more zaftig. And her overdone lips; well, I'm just not going to go there.
I was not terribly surprised by the results. About the only movie I had not seen earlier (in the Best Motion Picture category) was Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close . It only played a week in Potsdam...
Today it was rainy on Hilton Head. Not much to do beyond indoor swimming, reading or going to the movies. We chose to go down to Coligny and enjoyed Hugo, which. likewise, only appeared in the North Country for a brief period.
In short, I LOVED the Scorsese-Depp production. And for me last evening the Academy Awards ceremony was all about "the magic of movies." Most notably, it was a nostalgic trip back into time. As a kid Dipson's Palace and the Winter Garden in Jamestown, NY were all that was necessary to set the tone for me. Both theatres were Art Deco at their finest. And the balcony was the supreme place to sit. The Kodak venue in L.A. was Dipson's Palace ten-fold.
But let me not digress too far. I need to run through the list of nominees.
War Horse -- A movie of epic proportions, but no producer or director wins Best Picture with a non-human entity. Still a fine movie, but not worth #1.
The Artist -- Okay, the dog was great! And Peppy Miller was as peppy as peppy can be. I loved her. And this movie was about movie history, and movie history (The Artist) was the theme that engendered nostalgia last evening better than any other. I saw the film here in Hilton Head, and was glad I did. This is the way it used to be, and it was a fine thing. The acting was superb. Quite deserving of the top award, but it had an even stronger contender.
Midnight in Paris -- Woody Allen at his best, and I loved Owen Wilson's and Marion Cotillard's performances. Yet when all is said and done, Midnight is a bit fluffy in the nostalgia department. Doesn't mean that I didn't adore the film. It just didn't meet nostalgia's level of honesty.
Moneyball -- Brad Pitt and Jonah Hill were superb. Baseball movies, especially concerning front office politics, however, don't win Oscars. It's a shame. This was a topical theme in today's untidy world of sports as entertainment and big money. Politically, it spoke to me in spades. Brad Pitt is all grown up, even if he's a bit too self-assured.
The Descendants -- I wanted George Clooney to win everything. In the end he had to be gracious. His time will come. The Descendants was too much about acting. It was also kind of creepy. Pretty dysfunctional family in the end...
The Tree of Life -- I did not like this film. It was pretentious.
The Help -- Eat shit and die! Great performances and a sympathetic plot. Neither was enough to carry the day.
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close -- I did not watch this film and have no immediate plans to do so. I've had enough of 9/11. And frankly, I am tired of my wife asking me if we need to take tissues to the movies.
Hugo -- Martin Scorsese and Johnny Depp scored 125 out of 100. Hugo won five academy awards and should have won six. In the nostalgia department, IMHO, it was superior to The Artist. It tugged at my heart. I thoroughly enjoyed each and every character -- from Richard Griffiths and Frances de la Tour, to Sacha Baron Cohen, to Chloe Grace Moretz and Asa Butterfield, the performances were absolutely wonderful. Hugo had the MAGIC. I don't understand why the academy didn't award the film's brilliance with a first place. Say what you will, Hugo was the real winner! No, let me take that back. It was silent film and Paris that finally captured my heart. And was it Gare St. Lazare or Gare Nord or an earlier version the Musee d'Orsay...? In the end it didn't really matter. The wrong film won the Oscar for BEST motion picture.
Take a serious look and then decide for yourself...
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul, temporarily on Hilton Head Island
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Before I go any farther, I need to comment on Billy Crystal's appearance. His make-up was over the top. In fact, I thought he looked as though he was embalmed. And Ms. Jolie appeared bony and out of sorts. I like my women a bit more zaftig. And her overdone lips; well, I'm just not going to go there.
I was not terribly surprised by the results. About the only movie I had not seen earlier (in the Best Motion Picture category) was Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close . It only played a week in Potsdam...
Today it was rainy on Hilton Head. Not much to do beyond indoor swimming, reading or going to the movies. We chose to go down to Coligny and enjoyed Hugo, which. likewise, only appeared in the North Country for a brief period.
In short, I LOVED the Scorsese-Depp production. And for me last evening the Academy Awards ceremony was all about "the magic of movies." Most notably, it was a nostalgic trip back into time. As a kid Dipson's Palace and the Winter Garden in Jamestown, NY were all that was necessary to set the tone for me. Both theatres were Art Deco at their finest. And the balcony was the supreme place to sit. The Kodak venue in L.A. was Dipson's Palace ten-fold.
But let me not digress too far. I need to run through the list of nominees.
War Horse -- A movie of epic proportions, but no producer or director wins Best Picture with a non-human entity. Still a fine movie, but not worth #1.
The Artist -- Okay, the dog was great! And Peppy Miller was as peppy as peppy can be. I loved her. And this movie was about movie history, and movie history (The Artist) was the theme that engendered nostalgia last evening better than any other. I saw the film here in Hilton Head, and was glad I did. This is the way it used to be, and it was a fine thing. The acting was superb. Quite deserving of the top award, but it had an even stronger contender.
Midnight in Paris -- Woody Allen at his best, and I loved Owen Wilson's and Marion Cotillard's performances. Yet when all is said and done, Midnight is a bit fluffy in the nostalgia department. Doesn't mean that I didn't adore the film. It just didn't meet nostalgia's level of honesty.
Moneyball -- Brad Pitt and Jonah Hill were superb. Baseball movies, especially concerning front office politics, however, don't win Oscars. It's a shame. This was a topical theme in today's untidy world of sports as entertainment and big money. Politically, it spoke to me in spades. Brad Pitt is all grown up, even if he's a bit too self-assured.
The Descendants -- I wanted George Clooney to win everything. In the end he had to be gracious. His time will come. The Descendants was too much about acting. It was also kind of creepy. Pretty dysfunctional family in the end...
The Tree of Life -- I did not like this film. It was pretentious.
The Help -- Eat shit and die! Great performances and a sympathetic plot. Neither was enough to carry the day.
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close -- I did not watch this film and have no immediate plans to do so. I've had enough of 9/11. And frankly, I am tired of my wife asking me if we need to take tissues to the movies.
Hugo -- Martin Scorsese and Johnny Depp scored 125 out of 100. Hugo won five academy awards and should have won six. In the nostalgia department, IMHO, it was superior to The Artist. It tugged at my heart. I thoroughly enjoyed each and every character -- from Richard Griffiths and Frances de la Tour, to Sacha Baron Cohen, to Chloe Grace Moretz and Asa Butterfield, the performances were absolutely wonderful. Hugo had the MAGIC. I don't understand why the academy didn't award the film's brilliance with a first place. Say what you will, Hugo was the real winner! No, let me take that back. It was silent film and Paris that finally captured my heart. And was it Gare St. Lazare or Gare Nord or an earlier version the Musee d'Orsay...? In the end it didn't really matter. The wrong film won the Oscar for BEST motion picture.
Take a serious look and then decide for yourself...
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul, temporarily on Hilton Head Island
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Fools and Idiots...
When was the last time you heard of a naked man stealing a fire truck? Well, in nearby Beaufort-Port Royal, SC, off-island from Hilton Head, the local fire department was answering a medical call and attending to a needy person. The next thing they knew, an individual sans clothing, jumped into their fire engine and sped off with it. On-lookers noted the high speed of the fire engine. The first bad thing happened at the next intersection when it plowed into seven vehicles. That didn't stop the fellow though. His next feat of stupidity was striking one of two pedestrians walking beside the highway in front of the Dollar General store. That individual was declared dead at the scene.
One rubber-necker declared: "I've never seen a fire truck come out of nowhere like that. The truck did not have its lights on. I knew it wasn't a fireman behind the wheel. It was faster than I've ever seen any fire truck go. And I've seen my fair share of fire trucks." Was this guy's name maybe Bubba?
The collision with the pedestrian caused the fire truck to spin out of control, whence it next crashed into a wooded area between the Dollar General and a bowling alley. The crash extensively damaged the truck and pinned the driver inside. When Port Royal Police arrived, the captive driver began fighting them and had to be subdued. It made me wonder if the jaws of life needed to be employed to extricate him, and if so, just how carefully they had to be utilized. At any rate, Mr "free-as-a-bird" is currently incarcerated and charged with two counts of assault and battery on a police officer, as well as resisting arrest. Nothing was mentioned about any charges of vehicular manslaughter or even about property damage... [information drawn from the 24 February issue of the Island Packet]
Okay, so now you're beginning to seriously wonder about the sanity of the nearby crackers when only two days previous to above's amazing incident it had probably already been confirmed.
In the outbound or west lanes on Highway 278, a four-lane, high speed thoroughfare, and the only egress (other than by boat) from Hilton Head Island, two cars overturned on the Graves Bridge above Skull Creek. Traffic was clogged for hours as medics extricated the victims from the wreckage of their automobiles, both of which actually climbed onto the guard rails and dangled precariously upside-down. One driver had to be taken by helicopter to Savannah, while the other was treated at Hilton Head Hospital and later released.
As it happened, I was traveling with Mike my golfing buddy back onto the island and passed the scene of the accident in one of the eastbound lanes. It was absolutely spectacular and as bad a crash as I've ever seen. I thought perhaps it was a sudden lane change gone crazy and genuinely made me wonder how either driver or passengers could have survived. But that was all I knew at the time...
The next day's paper showed the crash scene, but didn't contain much information. It wasn't until the day after that [24 February issue of the Island Packet] that details emerged. So here's what occurred. A 42 year old local woman was traveling west, mid-morning, in her Mustang at highway speed and in traffic when she was bumped from behind by a 34 year old male driving a Honda. She was able to keep control of her vehicle. However, the Honda then backed off, sped up and suddenly intentionally smashed into her full force. This impact sent both cars careening in different directions, with both vehicles finally landing atop the bridge guardrails, one on either side.
A lover's quarrel gone crazy? The worst case of road rage imaginable? Most likely. As it turned out, the female driver was from nearby Bluffton. The male was from Minnesota and did not even possess a valid driver's license. Right now I suppose he's slowly recovering in that Savannah hospital.
There are a few warnings that immediately come to mind. First, if you are a regular reader of my blog, by all means stay away from Dollar General stores. They are bad business whether you're a welfare mom, Amish or a South Carolinian pedestrian.
Second, always remember that there are genuinely crazy fools out there. It doesn't matter how good a driver you might be. Watch out for the other guy!
And third, if you are traveling in these here parts, keep in mind that NASCAR aficionados take their driving pretty seriously. That said, even they manage to screw up every once in awhile, especially the deranged ones.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul on Hilton Head Island, SC
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
One rubber-necker declared: "I've never seen a fire truck come out of nowhere like that. The truck did not have its lights on. I knew it wasn't a fireman behind the wheel. It was faster than I've ever seen any fire truck go. And I've seen my fair share of fire trucks." Was this guy's name maybe Bubba?
The collision with the pedestrian caused the fire truck to spin out of control, whence it next crashed into a wooded area between the Dollar General and a bowling alley. The crash extensively damaged the truck and pinned the driver inside. When Port Royal Police arrived, the captive driver began fighting them and had to be subdued. It made me wonder if the jaws of life needed to be employed to extricate him, and if so, just how carefully they had to be utilized. At any rate, Mr "free-as-a-bird" is currently incarcerated and charged with two counts of assault and battery on a police officer, as well as resisting arrest. Nothing was mentioned about any charges of vehicular manslaughter or even about property damage... [information drawn from the 24 February issue of the Island Packet]
Okay, so now you're beginning to seriously wonder about the sanity of the nearby crackers when only two days previous to above's amazing incident it had probably already been confirmed.
In the outbound or west lanes on Highway 278, a four-lane, high speed thoroughfare, and the only egress (other than by boat) from Hilton Head Island, two cars overturned on the Graves Bridge above Skull Creek. Traffic was clogged for hours as medics extricated the victims from the wreckage of their automobiles, both of which actually climbed onto the guard rails and dangled precariously upside-down. One driver had to be taken by helicopter to Savannah, while the other was treated at Hilton Head Hospital and later released.
As it happened, I was traveling with Mike my golfing buddy back onto the island and passed the scene of the accident in one of the eastbound lanes. It was absolutely spectacular and as bad a crash as I've ever seen. I thought perhaps it was a sudden lane change gone crazy and genuinely made me wonder how either driver or passengers could have survived. But that was all I knew at the time...
The next day's paper showed the crash scene, but didn't contain much information. It wasn't until the day after that [24 February issue of the Island Packet] that details emerged. So here's what occurred. A 42 year old local woman was traveling west, mid-morning, in her Mustang at highway speed and in traffic when she was bumped from behind by a 34 year old male driving a Honda. She was able to keep control of her vehicle. However, the Honda then backed off, sped up and suddenly intentionally smashed into her full force. This impact sent both cars careening in different directions, with both vehicles finally landing atop the bridge guardrails, one on either side.
A lover's quarrel gone crazy? The worst case of road rage imaginable? Most likely. As it turned out, the female driver was from nearby Bluffton. The male was from Minnesota and did not even possess a valid driver's license. Right now I suppose he's slowly recovering in that Savannah hospital.
There are a few warnings that immediately come to mind. First, if you are a regular reader of my blog, by all means stay away from Dollar General stores. They are bad business whether you're a welfare mom, Amish or a South Carolinian pedestrian.
Second, always remember that there are genuinely crazy fools out there. It doesn't matter how good a driver you might be. Watch out for the other guy!
And third, if you are traveling in these here parts, keep in mind that NASCAR aficionados take their driving pretty seriously. That said, even they manage to screw up every once in awhile, especially the deranged ones.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul on Hilton Head Island, SC
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
More Than Just a Good Walk Spoiled...
Okay, yes, I'll admit it. One of the main draws for me on (and off) Hilton Head Island is playing golf. I have now been on the island for four days, and two of them have included shelling out (in February) bargain outlays of Pedro's pesos. The rust is gradually wearing off -- today, for instance, I managed to take 14 strokes off yesterday's score. After all, I hadn't hit a golf ball since last October.
Ah, just imagine, championship courses at championship prices. Sometimes I even imagine that I'm Phil Mickelson, swashbuckler extraordinaire. But not that often. Phil always goes for it. Sometimes it costs him a major victory, but, at least in his case, it still pays off over the long run. I am no fool, however. Mostly, I'm in the game for a quarter a hole, and so far, my buddy Mike (to whom I give six or seven strokes per nine) is ahead by $2.50. Yesterday was a major defeat -- two dollars down; but today, I lost only 50 cents. And all of that because (no shame on Mike intended), I offered him the use of my 3 metal on the 17th hole, and he laced it to 12 feet from 200 yards. So who do I have to blame? Frankly, it was my own fault, and Mike has also been here since early January. Have to watch that guy every second! Tomorrow morning, bright and early, Mike and I are headed out to the local golf outlets to let him buy his own goddamn 3 metal!
But this blog is not about my personal humiliations. It is more about the joys of being out there in the fresh air, the camaraderie of good companionship, the competition, catching the rays, sometimes even with thunder clouds looming, while still reveling in SC's 68 degree weather as opposed to NY's 30 degree icy depths. And then there's the wonderful wildlife.
Yes folks, the gators are already out of hibernation. I'm told that global warming has nothing to do with it, but lazy alligators sunning themselves in the fairways and on front lawns in mid-February does make one wonder...
Yesterday, on the back nine at Arthur Hills in Palmetto Dunes, Mr. Ten-foot himself was relaxing across the way. His appearance, of course, reminded our playing partner in the opposing twosome to retell a story of how she nearly walked backwards into the gaping jaws of death. It was only the loud hissing noise of warning from three feet away that brought her out of her hypnotic golfing trance; and from there she suddenly (at age 45 or thereabouts) ran the next 50 yards in under six seconds. Alligators are scary creatures. I too have been hissed at, but that was last spring. I mean, after all, a five iron can be an effective weapon if called upon -- not that that happened to me. The sucker simply was too close to my ball.
Today's foursome allowed our group to watch two amorous raccoon squirrels, flaunting their sexuality right there on the 15th hole. We had a confrontation of sorts. Once again, we were paired with complete strangers; strangers who became, as usual, fast friends over the course of the four plus hours that it takes to play 18 holes of golf. This time the randy squirrels were brought to abrupt attention by the loud thumping on the ground from our fellow player's driver on the ladies tee. Everyone came to attention and the squirrels suddenly stopped, frozen in time, at her order to behave. Then she hit her drive and the entire gallery was dismissed. Those squirrels knew what they were up against!
Playing a round of golf at Hilton Head National is a pleasure. It is scenic and delightful; it is a constant challenge, with unexpected obstacles at each turn of every dogleg. It was very nice to hear the delightful calls of the cardinals, the quiet "who, who" of the owl in the adjoining forest, and observing anhingas drying their wings amidst the pampas grass while searching for Mr. Bridgestone RX-330.
Yes, there is more to golf than snapping a drive 235 yards down the left side, then hitting an approach onto the green or possibly sinking a 20 footer. But don't you believe any of that stuff. Golf is all about hitting it stiff, and knocking your opponent on his keister.
Golfers never, ever talk about that aspect of the game though. We are civilized and content to wax eloquently about those magical 8 irons that drop dead to the hole after being caught up in the flag itself. It's what keeps bringing us back, in spite of those insolent reptiles...
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul on Hilton Head Island, SC
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Ah, just imagine, championship courses at championship prices. Sometimes I even imagine that I'm Phil Mickelson, swashbuckler extraordinaire. But not that often. Phil always goes for it. Sometimes it costs him a major victory, but, at least in his case, it still pays off over the long run. I am no fool, however. Mostly, I'm in the game for a quarter a hole, and so far, my buddy Mike (to whom I give six or seven strokes per nine) is ahead by $2.50. Yesterday was a major defeat -- two dollars down; but today, I lost only 50 cents. And all of that because (no shame on Mike intended), I offered him the use of my 3 metal on the 17th hole, and he laced it to 12 feet from 200 yards. So who do I have to blame? Frankly, it was my own fault, and Mike has also been here since early January. Have to watch that guy every second! Tomorrow morning, bright and early, Mike and I are headed out to the local golf outlets to let him buy his own goddamn 3 metal!
But this blog is not about my personal humiliations. It is more about the joys of being out there in the fresh air, the camaraderie of good companionship, the competition, catching the rays, sometimes even with thunder clouds looming, while still reveling in SC's 68 degree weather as opposed to NY's 30 degree icy depths. And then there's the wonderful wildlife.
Yes folks, the gators are already out of hibernation. I'm told that global warming has nothing to do with it, but lazy alligators sunning themselves in the fairways and on front lawns in mid-February does make one wonder...
Yesterday, on the back nine at Arthur Hills in Palmetto Dunes, Mr. Ten-foot himself was relaxing across the way. His appearance, of course, reminded our playing partner in the opposing twosome to retell a story of how she nearly walked backwards into the gaping jaws of death. It was only the loud hissing noise of warning from three feet away that brought her out of her hypnotic golfing trance; and from there she suddenly (at age 45 or thereabouts) ran the next 50 yards in under six seconds. Alligators are scary creatures. I too have been hissed at, but that was last spring. I mean, after all, a five iron can be an effective weapon if called upon -- not that that happened to me. The sucker simply was too close to my ball.
Playing a round of golf at Hilton Head National is a pleasure. It is scenic and delightful; it is a constant challenge, with unexpected obstacles at each turn of every dogleg. It was very nice to hear the delightful calls of the cardinals, the quiet "who, who" of the owl in the adjoining forest, and observing anhingas drying their wings amidst the pampas grass while searching for Mr. Bridgestone RX-330.
Yes, there is more to golf than snapping a drive 235 yards down the left side, then hitting an approach onto the green or possibly sinking a 20 footer. But don't you believe any of that stuff. Golf is all about hitting it stiff, and knocking your opponent on his keister.
Golfers never, ever talk about that aspect of the game though. We are civilized and content to wax eloquently about those magical 8 irons that drop dead to the hole after being caught up in the flag itself. It's what keeps bringing us back, in spite of those insolent reptiles...
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul on Hilton Head Island, SC
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Sunday, February 19, 2012
South of the Border
If you live on the east coast and drive south for vacations or holidays, it is inevitable that you will spend at least part of your time on I-95. I call I-95 the "beat your brains out" highway. Not only does traffic speed along between 75-80 mph on average, the scenery, compared to the Grand Canyon, would be on a 1-10 basis (with 10 as high) rated as a minus 25. Virginia and North Carolina along I-95 are frankly undistinguishable from one vast strip mall, an endless array of chain discount houses, fast food restaurants and countless billboards.
All of this changes, though, when one hits the South Carolina border. After the border, the scenery to Florence begins improving, relatively speaking, to continuous pine forests and rural wetlands. It is a new environment that reminds one of copperheads, rattlesnakes and gators. We finally exit I-95 after hundreds of miles on I-95 at South Carolina SR 462, the Coosaw Scenic Drive, which eventually connects to the primary highway to Hilton Head Island.
But enough of the downside of I-95...
There is one feature along America's main artery to Florida that delights me every time I make the now annual trek to Hilton Head. It is called South of the Border. Pedro's, as it is also known, is the first, and I mean first landmark one encounters in South Carolina. Actually, one can even see Pedro's towering sombrero during the final two miles of North Carolina.
South of the Border at <http://www.thesouthoftheborder.com/> begins to make its presence known long before however. About 100 miles north of the border, generally above Fayetteville, Fort Bragg and Pope AAB, new themed billboards suddenly begin appearing beside the southbound lane. They are not like the Burma Shave signs of grandpa's day, since they do not relay a serial message that depends upon viewing the next sign, and the next and the next.
These signs are enticements drawing you to visit Pedro's South of the Border, and they are big and garish. I will now give you the complete rundown of the best signs we noticed alluring us to visit Pedro's:
103 miles: You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet! South of the Border
85 miles: Free Air, Water & Advice! South of the Border
76 miles: Caliente! Pedro's South of the Border
76 miles: Fort Pedro, Rocket City. South of the Border
71 miles: Good Stuff is Hard to Find! South of the Border
67 miles: A Little Razzle, A Lot of Dazzle! Pedro's
58 miles: No Shoot Ze Bull... South of the Border
31 miles: Greetings from South of the Border
29 miles: Keep Yelling Kids (They'll Stop!) South of the Border
26 miles: 300 Luxury Rooms, South of the Border
26 miles: Something !tnerefeeD (Deeferent!) South of the Border
25 miles: FIREWORKS! So Loud it Hurts! Pedro's South of the Border
23 miles: South of the Border Motor Hotel
19 miles: World's #1 Miniature Golf! South of the Border
16 miles: Reptile Lagoon! South of the Border
16 miles: Pedro's Campground. Helping People Relax Since 1949
15 miles: Camp Pedro
12 miles: Too Much Tequila! South of the Border
11 miles: You Never Sausage a Place (You're Always a wiener at Pedros)
7 miles: Kids Love Pedros!
7 miles: Fort Pedro/Rocket City
5 miles: Fuel for You and Your Truck. Pedro's Diner and Truck Stop
3 miles: Fireworks! So loud it Hurts. Pedro's
2 miles: Pedro's All New Around the World Shop
1 mile: Give Pedro the Business
1 mile: Hats Around the World. Pedro's South of the Border
.5 mile: Pedro's Silver Slipper Indoor Flea Market
.3 mile: It's Always Sundae at Pedro's
Ground zero: Welcome to Pedro's South of the Border
.5 mile beyond: Back up Amigo!
So there you are -- mile by mile being drawn in to the Tackiest Theme Park in America (a biased judgment on my part). Mindy was dabbling with Facebook on her iPad. I was listening to tunes from my iPod connected through the entertainment system. We zoomed right on by. See ya Pedro!
Someone on Facebook asks Mindy where we are. She says, "We just passed Pedro's South of the Border -- now in SC.
Her friend Jan immediately writes: "And you didn't stop?!"
Mindy replies: "Paul refused to..."
Her friend Bonnie replies: "What a curmudgeon!" Obviously, Bonnie has never driven past Pedro's...
And so it goes. Maybe next time Pedro.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul, now on Hilton Head Island, SC until April
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
All of this changes, though, when one hits the South Carolina border. After the border, the scenery to Florence begins improving, relatively speaking, to continuous pine forests and rural wetlands. It is a new environment that reminds one of copperheads, rattlesnakes and gators. We finally exit I-95 after hundreds of miles on I-95 at South Carolina SR 462, the Coosaw Scenic Drive, which eventually connects to the primary highway to Hilton Head Island.
But enough of the downside of I-95...
There is one feature along America's main artery to Florida that delights me every time I make the now annual trek to Hilton Head. It is called South of the Border. Pedro's, as it is also known, is the first, and I mean first landmark one encounters in South Carolina. Actually, one can even see Pedro's towering sombrero during the final two miles of North Carolina.
South of the Border at <http://www.thesouthoftheborder.com/> begins to make its presence known long before however. About 100 miles north of the border, generally above Fayetteville, Fort Bragg and Pope AAB, new themed billboards suddenly begin appearing beside the southbound lane. They are not like the Burma Shave signs of grandpa's day, since they do not relay a serial message that depends upon viewing the next sign, and the next and the next.
These signs are enticements drawing you to visit Pedro's South of the Border, and they are big and garish. I will now give you the complete rundown of the best signs we noticed alluring us to visit Pedro's:
103 miles: You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet! South of the Border
85 miles: Free Air, Water & Advice! South of the Border
76 miles: Caliente! Pedro's South of the Border
76 miles: Fort Pedro, Rocket City. South of the Border
71 miles: Good Stuff is Hard to Find! South of the Border
67 miles: A Little Razzle, A Lot of Dazzle! Pedro's
58 miles: No Shoot Ze Bull... South of the Border
31 miles: Greetings from South of the Border
29 miles: Keep Yelling Kids (They'll Stop!) South of the Border
26 miles: 300 Luxury Rooms, South of the Border
26 miles: Something !tnerefeeD (Deeferent!) South of the Border
25 miles: FIREWORKS! So Loud it Hurts! Pedro's South of the Border
23 miles: South of the Border Motor Hotel
19 miles: World's #1 Miniature Golf! South of the Border
16 miles: Reptile Lagoon! South of the Border
16 miles: Pedro's Campground. Helping People Relax Since 1949
15 miles: Camp Pedro
12 miles: Too Much Tequila! South of the Border
11 miles: You Never Sausage a Place (You're Always a wiener at Pedros)
7 miles: Kids Love Pedros!
7 miles: Fort Pedro/Rocket City
5 miles: Fuel for You and Your Truck. Pedro's Diner and Truck Stop
3 miles: Fireworks! So loud it Hurts. Pedro's
2 miles: Pedro's All New Around the World Shop
1 mile: Give Pedro the Business
1 mile: Hats Around the World. Pedro's South of the Border
.5 mile: Pedro's Silver Slipper Indoor Flea Market
.3 mile: It's Always Sundae at Pedro's
Ground zero: Welcome to Pedro's South of the Border
.5 mile beyond: Back up Amigo!
So there you are -- mile by mile being drawn in to the Tackiest Theme Park in America (a biased judgment on my part). Mindy was dabbling with Facebook on her iPad. I was listening to tunes from my iPod connected through the entertainment system. We zoomed right on by. See ya Pedro!
Someone on Facebook asks Mindy where we are. She says, "We just passed Pedro's South of the Border -- now in SC.
Her friend Jan immediately writes: "And you didn't stop?!"
Mindy replies: "Paul refused to..."
Her friend Bonnie replies: "What a curmudgeon!" Obviously, Bonnie has never driven past Pedro's...
And so it goes. Maybe next time Pedro.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul, now on Hilton Head Island, SC until April
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Oscar's Adirondack Smoke House
If it's good enough for Rachael Ray, it's good enough for me. Actually, before I even knew about Rachael Ray, we would stop on our way south to the Capital District and beyond in Warrensburg, NY at Oscar's. Oscar's has been a purveyor of fine smoked meat and cheese for 65 years. There's not much I don't like about Oscar's. Check out their URL at http://www.oscarssmokedmeats.com/.
And if any of you out there are fans of Rachael Ray, you may already know that Oscar's is one of her favorite sources of meat as well. Ms. Ray has a summer home in Lake Luzerne, not too far away, and she evidently grew up in the Glens Falls, Lake George area. Regardless, I join Rachael in enthusiastically recommending Oscar's, even though I live 150 miles north. Just remember, if you're heading up I-87, to take Exit 23 off the Northway and head straight into town.
Oscar's had a serious fire about a year ago, and everyone was a bit worried that Oscar's might not re-open. Fortunately, for folks throughout the Adirondacks, Oscar's came right back -- at the same location -- and bigger and even better within a few short months. I have never been to Oscar's when it hasn't been crowded. The staff at Oscar's is likewise as friendly, helpful and professional as their food is excellent.
Of course, this is just prelude. Okay, I definitely don't look like Sigourney Weaver, evidently another regular Oscar's customer. But one time a year ago last July on our way to Boston, the burly young man who was assisting my wife and me behind the meat counter suddenly kind of stopped and stared. Then he said:
"Sir, please don't take this wrong in any way, but I can't help but noticing how much you look like Walter Cronkite. I just can't get over the likeness."
I looked at my wife and she began laughing. I thought at the time she was only sorry that he didn't say Robert Redford or Paul Newman. So I in turn indicated back to him that no one had ever before commented on such a similarity, but, if it were true, I would definitely take it as a compliment. We all got a good laugh out of it. Mindy and I continued to joke about it all the way down to Lake George.
On our way home again, several days later, my wife said, "I think we should stop at Oscar's for a smoked ham for our company next week."
No problem. We pulled into Oscar's parking lot and walked into the store. There was my buddy.
Now he says: "Mr. Cronkite, good to see you again sir!" So I tell him a true story about the real Walter Cronkite waving back at my younger daughter as we rode our bicycles past his house on the beach road out on Martha's Vineyard one summer vacation when she was a pre-teen. I don't think Alison even knew who Walter Cronkite was, but there he was sitting there reading a newspaper on his screened in porch. I simply told her to wave to the gentleman and he looked up, smiled broadly, and returned the wave. Nice fellow this Mr. Cronkite. The guy at Oscar's enjoyed the story very much.
Then in August of that summer, we passed through Warrensburg again. Of course, we made our obligatory stop at Oscar's. We walked in and the same young man is once again at the counter...
"Hey Walt, how've you been? Good to see you again. Hope everything's going okay."
So now I have this whole new association with Oscar's. This guy makes my day every time we visit the store.
But here's the spooky part. This past March we were vacationing as usual on Hilton Head Island, SC. Remember the night of the big moon? The night that it passed so close to earth? Well, the beach was pretty crowded with photographers that evening. We were standing around waiting for Mr. Moon to rise up out of the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere in the direction of Africa.
As those things go, it was a congenial time. Folks on Hilton Head are pretty friendly. So I'm standing beside this elderly gentleman, both of us with our cameras in hand, and we eventually engage in conversation. I soon learned that he was a retired staffer for the CBS Evening News. As the conversation continued he began, as lots of retired folks do, noting his friendships and co-workers. I learned that the best ever newscaster was Edward R. Murrow. But then he said, "My favorite anchor and a best friend for over 20 years was Walter Cronkite."
And then he stopped...
"You know? You remind me of Walter..."
Another Rod Serling moment in my lifetime.
There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul in Potsdam
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
And if any of you out there are fans of Rachael Ray, you may already know that Oscar's is one of her favorite sources of meat as well. Ms. Ray has a summer home in Lake Luzerne, not too far away, and she evidently grew up in the Glens Falls, Lake George area. Regardless, I join Rachael in enthusiastically recommending Oscar's, even though I live 150 miles north. Just remember, if you're heading up I-87, to take Exit 23 off the Northway and head straight into town.
Oscar's had a serious fire about a year ago, and everyone was a bit worried that Oscar's might not re-open. Fortunately, for folks throughout the Adirondacks, Oscar's came right back -- at the same location -- and bigger and even better within a few short months. I have never been to Oscar's when it hasn't been crowded. The staff at Oscar's is likewise as friendly, helpful and professional as their food is excellent.
Of course, this is just prelude. Okay, I definitely don't look like Sigourney Weaver, evidently another regular Oscar's customer. But one time a year ago last July on our way to Boston, the burly young man who was assisting my wife and me behind the meat counter suddenly kind of stopped and stared. Then he said:
"Sir, please don't take this wrong in any way, but I can't help but noticing how much you look like Walter Cronkite. I just can't get over the likeness."
I looked at my wife and she began laughing. I thought at the time she was only sorry that he didn't say Robert Redford or Paul Newman. So I in turn indicated back to him that no one had ever before commented on such a similarity, but, if it were true, I would definitely take it as a compliment. We all got a good laugh out of it. Mindy and I continued to joke about it all the way down to Lake George.
On our way home again, several days later, my wife said, "I think we should stop at Oscar's for a smoked ham for our company next week."
No problem. We pulled into Oscar's parking lot and walked into the store. There was my buddy.
Now he says: "Mr. Cronkite, good to see you again sir!" So I tell him a true story about the real Walter Cronkite waving back at my younger daughter as we rode our bicycles past his house on the beach road out on Martha's Vineyard one summer vacation when she was a pre-teen. I don't think Alison even knew who Walter Cronkite was, but there he was sitting there reading a newspaper on his screened in porch. I simply told her to wave to the gentleman and he looked up, smiled broadly, and returned the wave. Nice fellow this Mr. Cronkite. The guy at Oscar's enjoyed the story very much.
Then in August of that summer, we passed through Warrensburg again. Of course, we made our obligatory stop at Oscar's. We walked in and the same young man is once again at the counter...
"Hey Walt, how've you been? Good to see you again. Hope everything's going okay."
So now I have this whole new association with Oscar's. This guy makes my day every time we visit the store.
But here's the spooky part. This past March we were vacationing as usual on Hilton Head Island, SC. Remember the night of the big moon? The night that it passed so close to earth? Well, the beach was pretty crowded with photographers that evening. We were standing around waiting for Mr. Moon to rise up out of the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere in the direction of Africa.
As those things go, it was a congenial time. Folks on Hilton Head are pretty friendly. So I'm standing beside this elderly gentleman, both of us with our cameras in hand, and we eventually engage in conversation. I soon learned that he was a retired staffer for the CBS Evening News. As the conversation continued he began, as lots of retired folks do, noting his friendships and co-workers. I learned that the best ever newscaster was Edward R. Murrow. But then he said, "My favorite anchor and a best friend for over 20 years was Walter Cronkite."
And then he stopped...
"You know? You remind me of Walter..."
Another Rod Serling moment in my lifetime.
There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul in Potsdam
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Friday, February 10, 2012
Manure Happens
At a public hearing last evening about 75 people, including more than a dozen nearby Amish residents, showed up to discuss, hear more about and learn the details of a village proposal that would have established an ordinance preventing horse droppings from being spilled on Gouverneur's streets. And in addition to diapering animals, other provisions added that any unexpected manure spills would have to be cleaned up, all horse-drawn carriages would be required to be equipped with electric front and rear lamps and a large orange triangle, and no horse could be left unattended at any time.
The whole flap began last fall when a resident complained to the village board that the Amish were parking their horses and buggies next to the Dollar General Store where the horses dumped while their owners shopped and sold some of their goods. As it turns out, the Amish were unaware that the lot they were using was private. When questioned during the meeting, the Amish, who didn't speak formally, indicated that they would dutifully clean up any and all spills. A local restaurant owner then added that he would be very happy to let the Amish use his parking lot, and that he would even clean up any messes himself and transport the manure to his garden -- a new version of turning turds into truffles.
I have no idea what a horse diaper would even look like or how it might be attached to the animal, but what I envision in my mind's eye only produces giggles. I mean, were we talking about using gigantic Depends here? And talk about mucking up our landfills...
At any rate, this smelly little kerfuffle is now officially over, at least for the present. But it does create some interesting questions...
For instance, some in attendance at the meeting thought that the Amish were being singled out, and that their way of life and values were being intruded upon (especially the part about the electric lamps). Several things that I have come to admire about the Amish are their industry, resourcefulness, kindness and trustworthiness. And I have almost never read or heard of an Amish individual being less than a good-hearted, law-abiding citizen. They even rail against cow-tipping as unnecessary cruelty.
I guess maintaining our tolerance is an ever-present problem. For me the article was a reminder that we all need to step back and take a refresher course now and again. But first just look over your shoulder, especially if you're in the vicinity of the Gouverneur General Dollar Store. My final take? Manure happens...
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul in Potsdam
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Mom's Schoolhouse Diner
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the North Country, it is quite easy to get off the beaten path and to go back in time. Generally, I slide back in time about every fourth or fifth Wednesday. I do this because I belong to an illustrious weekly luncheon dining group known as the ROMEO's.
ROMEO's is an acronym for "Retired Old Men Eating Out." We are in our entirety a group of former academicians, and our membership includes the following: a geologist, an anatomist and bat expert, a science historian, an anthropologist/folklorist, a mathematician, a forester, an occasional musician and myself, a former associate dean. We have few ground rules, but one of them is that politics is always on the table for discussion and the state of our medical health, although not a forbidden topic, is generally downplayed. Typically, our conversations are academic, informational or cultural. All of us enjoy travel, the cinema, good books, PBS and NPR topics, live concerts and the Metropolitan Opera. Well, as for the latter, not all. We also enjoy solving homeowner problems, and we seldom have to seek out additional information resources beyond our group. Mostly though, we are just old-guard political liberals, who remain abreast of the news and like to offer analysis -- that is when we're not talking about such things as bat white nose syndrome, boat-building on Mt. Desert Island, Ethyl -- a contemporary string quartet from the Julliard School, or Iran and the Bomb.
I noted that we get off the beaten track in our choice of restaurants. That said, we kind of have a loose rotation, depending on the condition of the roads. If it's bad (snowy or icy) we stay in Potsdam. Our latest preference "in-town" is the relatively new Thai Restaurant. There are three others that we also frequent, but there's really nothing very exceptional about any of them. Eben's Hearth has excellent wings and specially named sandwiches, and is popular with Clarkson faculty. Another called Scoops offers angus beef, excellent salads and gelato, and the last is a general, all-purpose restaurant known as the Village Diner with a friendly wait staff comprised of matronly middle-aged women. Whenever a new restaurant opens, we always give it a shot as well.
On our more adventurous outings, we have three out-of-town standbys, each one in a different direction. Heading east for 25 minutes takes us to Winthrop, NY to an "average" but friendly place called Goose Landing overlooking the St. Regis River. They have good pies there. Heading south to Colton, just beyond my neck of the woods, is Debby's Hideaway. Debby's menu seldom changes but offers good specials. And it is reliable and comfortable. Heading west, as we did today, we ended up at Mom's Schoolhouse. Mom's pies are better Goose Landing's and Debby's.
I think Mom's Schoolhouse in West Potsdam, about a 15 minute drive, is our favorite eatery because nearly everything on the menu is home-cooked and fresh that day. Food at Mom's is always traditional. And the desserts there are seldom ignored, especially Mom's rhubarb pies and cobblers -- seasonable of course.
Well today was a Mom's adventure and I arrived a few minutes early. Whenever, I pull up out front, my mind and stomach immediately synchronize and I begin thinking about her old-fashioned frappes (what Mom calls her ice cream-laden milkshakes). The coffee frappe is a tough one to turn down. And Mom markets her menus straight out of the fifties, just like the decor of the restaurant, which really is an old schoolhouse at a rural four corners across the road from a nineteenth century church.
One wall at Mom's is devoted to 50's memorabilia. For some reason or other Roy Rogers and Dale Evans dominate the displays there, although obligatory Elvis posters are prominent as well. There is a 50's quiz board on another wall which changes every couple of days. The music playing in the background is always golden oldies. That wall is covered with 45's. And then there are patriotic overtones evident throughout. I think Mom has a son who served in Iraq. He's home now and in good health. The waitresses are reserved, smile pleasantly and are extremely competent. Their garb, seems almost Mennonite in appearance -- especially the very modest long skirts they all wear. No stiletto heels at Mom's.
As I sat there waiting for my buddies to arrive, I noted the old-fashioned gingham table cloths -- my wife tells me they're actually made from something called oil cloth. The sun was streaming in through matching window curtains dancing over display cases of quick take-home items and old-fashioned, traditional candy bars, neatly arranged beside the cash register. Beyond the counter space is the food preparation area, all out-in-the-open, and easily maintaining conversation between customers and servers in on-going exchanges. Mom's is a happy place. Today I had a delicious basil tomato soup and the "Amtrak" salad, consisting of many crunchy vegetables on a bed of chicken salad and cranberries. Yummy!
I like Mom's best of all our restaraunts, and I definitely enjoy the weekly exchanges with my buddies. I suppose there are many such eating groups, but I like to think we're a just a wee bit unique. At any rate, I'll soon be heading south for six weeks and will miss all of them. You certainly won't find anything like Mom's on Hilton Head Island. There one moves forward in time, not back.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul in Potsdam
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
ROMEO's is an acronym for "Retired Old Men Eating Out." We are in our entirety a group of former academicians, and our membership includes the following: a geologist, an anatomist and bat expert, a science historian, an anthropologist/folklorist, a mathematician, a forester, an occasional musician and myself, a former associate dean. We have few ground rules, but one of them is that politics is always on the table for discussion and the state of our medical health, although not a forbidden topic, is generally downplayed. Typically, our conversations are academic, informational or cultural. All of us enjoy travel, the cinema, good books, PBS and NPR topics, live concerts and the Metropolitan Opera. Well, as for the latter, not all. We also enjoy solving homeowner problems, and we seldom have to seek out additional information resources beyond our group. Mostly though, we are just old-guard political liberals, who remain abreast of the news and like to offer analysis -- that is when we're not talking about such things as bat white nose syndrome, boat-building on Mt. Desert Island, Ethyl -- a contemporary string quartet from the Julliard School, or Iran and the Bomb.
I noted that we get off the beaten track in our choice of restaurants. That said, we kind of have a loose rotation, depending on the condition of the roads. If it's bad (snowy or icy) we stay in Potsdam. Our latest preference "in-town" is the relatively new Thai Restaurant. There are three others that we also frequent, but there's really nothing very exceptional about any of them. Eben's Hearth has excellent wings and specially named sandwiches, and is popular with Clarkson faculty. Another called Scoops offers angus beef, excellent salads and gelato, and the last is a general, all-purpose restaurant known as the Village Diner with a friendly wait staff comprised of matronly middle-aged women. Whenever a new restaurant opens, we always give it a shot as well.
On our more adventurous outings, we have three out-of-town standbys, each one in a different direction. Heading east for 25 minutes takes us to Winthrop, NY to an "average" but friendly place called Goose Landing overlooking the St. Regis River. They have good pies there. Heading south to Colton, just beyond my neck of the woods, is Debby's Hideaway. Debby's menu seldom changes but offers good specials. And it is reliable and comfortable. Heading west, as we did today, we ended up at Mom's Schoolhouse. Mom's pies are better Goose Landing's and Debby's.
I think Mom's Schoolhouse in West Potsdam, about a 15 minute drive, is our favorite eatery because nearly everything on the menu is home-cooked and fresh that day. Food at Mom's is always traditional. And the desserts there are seldom ignored, especially Mom's rhubarb pies and cobblers -- seasonable of course.
Well today was a Mom's adventure and I arrived a few minutes early. Whenever, I pull up out front, my mind and stomach immediately synchronize and I begin thinking about her old-fashioned frappes (what Mom calls her ice cream-laden milkshakes). The coffee frappe is a tough one to turn down. And Mom markets her menus straight out of the fifties, just like the decor of the restaurant, which really is an old schoolhouse at a rural four corners across the road from a nineteenth century church.
One wall at Mom's is devoted to 50's memorabilia. For some reason or other Roy Rogers and Dale Evans dominate the displays there, although obligatory Elvis posters are prominent as well. There is a 50's quiz board on another wall which changes every couple of days. The music playing in the background is always golden oldies. That wall is covered with 45's. And then there are patriotic overtones evident throughout. I think Mom has a son who served in Iraq. He's home now and in good health. The waitresses are reserved, smile pleasantly and are extremely competent. Their garb, seems almost Mennonite in appearance -- especially the very modest long skirts they all wear. No stiletto heels at Mom's.
As I sat there waiting for my buddies to arrive, I noted the old-fashioned gingham table cloths -- my wife tells me they're actually made from something called oil cloth. The sun was streaming in through matching window curtains dancing over display cases of quick take-home items and old-fashioned, traditional candy bars, neatly arranged beside the cash register. Beyond the counter space is the food preparation area, all out-in-the-open, and easily maintaining conversation between customers and servers in on-going exchanges. Mom's is a happy place. Today I had a delicious basil tomato soup and the "Amtrak" salad, consisting of many crunchy vegetables on a bed of chicken salad and cranberries. Yummy!
I like Mom's best of all our restaraunts, and I definitely enjoy the weekly exchanges with my buddies. I suppose there are many such eating groups, but I like to think we're a just a wee bit unique. At any rate, I'll soon be heading south for six weeks and will miss all of them. You certainly won't find anything like Mom's on Hilton Head Island. There one moves forward in time, not back.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul in Potsdam
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
Monday, February 6, 2012
Clint Eastwood selling Chryslers
Okay, I'll admit it. I bought take-out wings and rushed home just in time to catch the kick-off of last evening's Superbowl. The wings were great; my porter was just right; the game was over-hyped as usual; I liked Madonna's last song; and I groaned at the outcome of the game. Today I learned that 11.5 million Americans watched football last evening -- I think a new record. The game hinged on three or four spectacular or spectacularly stupid plays. It makes me wonder if Bill Belichick is an "audacious" coach or just a high-roller -- who wins some and, more often than not, loses in the clinch. Methinks the team that wanted to win the most, won. If I were Mr. Kraft, I'd be taking a long look at Belichick's contract...
I also thought that the commercials were not up to snuff. Mindy and I typically exchange glances. There were only about three or four of them that deserved A's. And one of them was evidently controversial: Chrysler Corporation's thematic gamble about Detroit's comeback was the most notable, and probably as controversial. I can't decide today to give it an A or an F. Take a look and let me know what you think: <http://www.youtube.com/chrysler?sid=1037056&KWNM=clint+eastwood+commercial&KWID=3179862966SB_2012&channel=paidsearch>.
Last year Eminem touted a similar theme. Then Chrysler was still hurting. And since last January, usually on nationally televised sporting events, other and similar ads have been aired. This year Rowdy Yates and Dirty Harry, spoke in one unified voice. Clint Eastwood sure has one gravelly voice...
Frankly, the commercial hit me from both sides. I tend not to like emotionally-laden commercials, especially patriotic ones with nationalistic overtones, perhaps for the same reason that I don't like to hear Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in Twinkie ads. They get me all pumped up about the wrong things, and I lose track of the message. Yet Chrysler's "It's Halftime in America" was a real attention-grabber, mostly because it was not cute or sexy. On the other hand, maybe, just maybe, the big bail-out worked.
And it talked about where America finds itself in 2012. And, most adroitly, it talked (without ever mentioning it, per se), wether the big bail-out saved a particular company. Barack Obama had to be smiling. John Boehner and Mitch McConnell had to be harrumphing.
The point is, it was effective. Does Roger Goodell have cojones or what? Well, maybe that's overstepping reality a bit.
I think the commercial went right to the edge. But what was interesting was its timing. It was aired just before the kick-off for the second half. There may be a message there...
I've come to the conclusion that $600 per seat tickets for the Superbowl are peanuts. Where's the real money? Does it resonate in Super-Pacs, or does it achieve its ends in Superbowl ads? Hard to tell.
At any rate, hope you enjoyed the game, and that you're team won. Mine didn't, but frankly I don't actually care all that much -- with one exception -- my grandson lives about 30 minutes from Gillette Stadium. I hope HE wasn't terribly upset. I know it was close to the end of the world for his wonderful father. Bill, the NFL, when all is said and done, is simply entertainment. And what did all of you out there think about those Superbowl rings? Would you actually wear one of them? I'm not sure I could.
Stay calm and carry on,
Paul in Potsdam
http://www2.potsdam.edu/loucksap/
http://loucksap.smugmug.com
http://madstop68.blogspot.com
I also thought that the commercials were not up to snuff. Mindy and I typically exchange glances. There were only about three or four of them that deserved A's. And one of them was evidently controversial: Chrysler Corporation's thematic gamble about Detroit's comeback was the most notable, and probably as controversial. I can't decide today to give it an A or an F. Take a look and let me know what you think: <http://www.youtube.com/chrysler?sid=1037056&KWNM=clint+eastwood+commercial&KWID=3179862966SB_2012&channel=paidsearch>.
Last year Eminem touted a similar theme. Then Chrysler was still hurting. And since last January, usually on nationally televised sporting events, other and similar ads have been aired. This year Rowdy Yates and Dirty Harry, spoke in one unified voice. Clint Eastwood sure has one gravelly voice...
Frankly, the commercial hit me from both sides. I tend not to like emotionally-laden commercials, especially patriotic ones with nationalistic overtones, perhaps for the same reason that I don't like to hear Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in Twinkie ads. They get me all pumped up about the wrong things, and I lose track of the message. Yet Chrysler's "It's Halftime in America" was a real attention-grabber, mostly because it was not cute or sexy. On the other hand, maybe, just maybe, the big bail-out worked.
And it talked about where America finds itself in 2012. And, most adroitly, it talked (without ever mentioning it, per se), wether the big bail-out saved a particular company. Barack Obama had to be smiling. John Boehner and Mitch McConnell had to be harrumphing.
The point is, it was effective. Does Roger Goodell have cojones or what? Well, maybe that's overstepping reality a bit.
I think the commercial went right to the edge. But what was interesting was its timing. It was aired just before the kick-off for the second half. There may be a message there...
I've come to the conclusion that $600 per seat tickets for the Superbowl are peanuts. Where's the real money? Does it resonate in Super-Pacs, or does it achieve its ends in Superbowl ads? Hard to tell.
At any rate, hope you enjoyed the game, and that you're team won. Mine didn't, but frankly I don't actually care all that much -- with one exception -- my grandson lives about 30 minutes from Gillette Stadium. I hope HE wasn't terribly upset. I know it was close to the end of the world for his wonderful father. Bill, the NFL, when all is said and done, is simply entertainment. And what did all of you out there think about those Superbowl rings? Would you actually wear one of them? I'm not sure I could.
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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