As municipalities emerged in the 19th century, the populace often took pride in the local identity – and this was reflected in the craftsmanship and details adorning their public buildings.
CIVIC PRIDE
Tag: Life
RADAR VIEW AND THE EXPERIENCE
Looking at the forecast a while back, trying to figure out whether we’d actually be hit by thunderstorms, I played with the radar view on the online map and saw – for the second or third time in as many days – some heavy activity in Upstate New York. The stuff that was headed our way.
Brought back some intense memories of my first summer after college, when I was living with two others in a neighborhood that fluctuated between Italian during the day and black ghetto at night. Much of it, I should add, has since been leveled, at least from what I see in the satellite photos of the neighborhood.
We lived on the second floor, with a porch on the front that overlooked the street as well as windows in the parlor and dining room that looked out into the foothills – or mountains down the valley, as this flatlander viewed them. Still, it seemed that most late afternoons that June included a dramatic thunderstorm rolling in. The mountains would disappear in swirling gray and then emerge in slices, at best, before becoming whole again. It was nothing like anything I’d viewed in the Midwest.
The radar, of course, doesn’t present that part of the experience. But for me, at the time, it was magical.
Don’t think I’ve ever viewed a thunderstorm quite the same since, either.
A SECLUDED COURTYARD, IF YOU WILL
I’ve already mentioned it, the patio-like space beside the barn where we grill and dine through the summer. The place we call the Smoking Garden.
Originally, I envisioned it as a haven for the kids’ grandmother to sit with her cigarettes, but she never used it. Preferred the porch to the barn, if anywhere.
We inherited the arrangement when we bought the place. A couple of thick maple branches had to be removed, since they were blocking any passage at chest level. But the round fiberglass table was already in place, with pea-gravel on the ground and three adjoining panels I’ve since cleared and planted.
Now we’ve added tiki torches and twinkling Christmas lights overhead, plus the hammock.
Pour me a glass, please. Turn up the music.
~*~
let me praise the secluded outdoor corner
as part of an urban dwelling:
a patio or deck
(my last apartment lacked one)
the courtyard with a fountain
a large porch or gazebo
at the least, a place to sit
or, better yet, cook
any place close enough to the kitchen
with a degree of privacy and a view of something
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
A TYPICAL TRAILHEAD
BACK AND BACK AND BACK
As I said at the time …
You’re home once more, with many fresh laurels, I hope. On my end, the computer’s fixed and I’m dancing with some frequency again. At least between some heavy allergies. (Birch pollen at the moment; pine comes soon.)
I’m still in shock from Sam Hamill’s “To Eron on Her Thirty-Second Birthday” – she’s always a twelve-year-old tomboy in my memory! Impossible, it seems. And that was back when I was still married and my wife studied painting under John Bennett’s wife, Ellensburg, Washington … back in his Vagabond days. Small world. Am still trying to figure out when and where I heard Bill Stafford read. Yakima Valley College, I believe. Will the parts of my life ever come together?
Yes, you certainly are a moon-child, with all of the sign’s gentle humanity. Violet, a variant of purple, the cancer-sign’s color. Star, like the moon, of the moody night. Well-named, it seems! For whatever reason, more of my serious relationships have been with women born under the sign of Cancer than with any other; in fact, there have been no Gemini or Libra, which are supposed to be a natural fit for me. Go figure!
~*~
My, what ancient history this, too, has become!
FOR THE WIDER GOOD
Be wary of folks who seem to believe they’re better than the rest of us. (They’re likely to expect more than their share.)
Yes, respect superior skills and abilities, especially when they’re used for the wider good.
But see through the mask, as well.
(Oh, I hope I’m not wearing mine …)
HIGH STREET STYLE
Situated at the mouth of the Merrimack River, Newburyport, Massachusetts, has a historic harbor and charming brick downtown – one that echoes many others in New England, for that matter. Its residential neighborhoods are likewise filled with a range of fascinating details from many historic styles. But for me, the real glory is High Street, built at the height of the lucrative whale oil business. Interspersed among the dominant federal-style houses are some other fine examples. Here’s a sampling.
FEDERAL ROW
The federal style of architecture flourished from the 1780s into the 1820s, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a finer sampling of it than in Newburyport, Massachusetts – especially along High Street. Here are a few examples.
DIGGING OUT INTO SUMMER
Now that winter’s over, some of us are finding difficulty in trying to shift gears. Yes, the snow’s finally melted, but that’s not how I feel.
I suppose officially I’ve been enduring a mild depression, though for me that means mostly emotional numbness along with some simmering anger. Call it the blahs. No need to go into details here, other than to admit there were a few complicating elements of chronic negativity in the air.
What does matter is the feeling of being stuck. Molasses. Even impoverished, no matter the reality.
Where’s the joy, the sunlight, the ongoing pleasure?
There have been small steps. The daily indoor swimming, for one. Yes, it’s still a daily effort but also an emerging sense of accomplishment and meeting some goals. I’ve also been growing my hair out, which is going much slower than the first time around – don’t know if I’ll keep it this way, either, just wanted to revisit that side of my hippie past. Still, the seemingly terminal winter chilled much of my desire to play with my Christmas-gift camera, even if I did get some shots I’ll likely post next winter. (I just didn’t want to put any more snow and ice up on the Web. It was getting tedious.) And there’s been some overdue reading, including a bout of Philip Roth, pro and con.
The question, on this merry-go-round? Well, a cluster of questions, actually.
What’s really at the center? Where’s my core energy? What do I have to offer to others? To the world? How do I become a better person, more open to others? More compassionate, especially? In other words, how do I more fully engage the spiritual life before me?
Time to turn some soil, transplant sprouts, plant some seeds. Ideally, helping others – or sharing companionship in the process.
In other words, here we go ’round again.
ALL THE FITNESS THAT FITS
Physical fitness has never been high on my list of priorities. Not the ones that actually find action. Yes, there have been stages where hatha yoga was a routine activity. And getting ready for mountain trails could be another.
Right after college, as I mentioned a while back, I did swim indoor laps through one winter – maybe two or three times a week.
So here I am, in retirement, getting back into the swimming – in part a consequence of elder daughter’s Christmas gift of a yearlong pass to the city’s indoor pool, and in part due to the urging of my physician.
It’s interesting watching the stages of adjustment here.
The first month, three laps – a mere three – were my limit of ability. And that was a fight, three times a week. A fight for air. A fight to get to the end of the lane. It was embarrassing.
Slowly, I’ve been edging up to 10 laps a day, five days a week. Sometimes more.
Each length of the pool has its own kind of stroke, a rotation of free-style, back, breast, and each side. It helps keeping count, too.
Since nine laps is a bit more than a quarter-mile, it’s adding up.
With my sinuses and allergies, breathing will always be a problem. At least I’m able to do half of my lengths without the nose clips now. (What a relief!)
One breakthrough came in sensing I was no longer fighting to get from one end to the other but instead engaging the resistance of the water to my advantage. That’s not the same as being at home in the water or even relaxed, but it does change the relationship.
And then there was the recognition of moments of ease – say in the glide pushing off from the end or easing off at the other, or the lift between strokes.
The other afternoon, pausing before returning to my car, I realized I was exhausted, as I always am after the laps. But there was also another sensation. I felt GOOD. As in satisfied.
Allelujah!
