FLX, hiking, NY, politics, Uncategorized, United States, Upstate New York

Zen Stone Stacking & the Art of Auto Maintenance


We’d been walking along the shore of Lake Ontario,and stopped to watch the sailboats and drink some water.

A very nice lady saw us fooling with these rocks, and asked if we were professional artists, and if she could photograph our “stone stacking.”

It almost seemed like she was serious, so I told her, we artists prefer our creations to be called “Cobble Assemblages”.  And that we’re novices, from the Spiral Jetty School, working our way up to pyramids and standing stone circles.

No money is required to view them, but an offering of fresh fruit is appreciated.

 

This strange little hobby, stacking up stones, “rock balancing” seems to have really caught on.

We’ve run across them in stream beds, woods, parks, even on the berms near shopping malls.

Sometimes there are so many, it appears a Neolithic cult is out there in the woods.

 

What is the point of this?  I’ve heard a lot of people take this pretty seriously, saying “it’s kind of a Zen thing,” finding the center of gravity of these eccentric objects, and easing you into a contemplative state.

OK.  Sure, you bet.

That sounds “a bit much,” New Age nonsense, and the funny thing is, I think they’re kind of right.

This balancing act takes focus, maybe even discipline.

 

 

I’m thinking, as we gravely heft the rocks and find the center of gravity, it’s kind of like politics.

Whether a box of rocks, or the electorate, or that portion of the electorate that resembles a box of rocks, it takes an artist to find the center, to balance every component, including the unstable and unbalanced.   This is rock stacking, kids, not mud slinging, not casting stones.

When you do this stacking thing, you don’t select only perfectly flat rocks, where’s the challenge in that?

To be a sportin’ proposition, you have to take ’em as you find ’em.

That’s not to say, that sometimes, you get frustrated, it’s just not working, and you just chunk it back into the water, to get a few rough edges knocked off, or it can swim back to Canada, and wait for the next glacier to bring it south again, a bit more polished.

Politics is also supposed to somehow build things, using all of us lumpy, uncooperative, odd people, being gathered together to build something, say, a city on the hill.

 

 

My sister sings while she gathers stones, and the music reminds me of an old metaphor used in politics  — the “bandwagon,” and I’ve always liked that image – – a big, brassy, hurly-burly, rock ‘n’roll hell-on-wheels.

Like taking a bunch of kids on a car trip – – just an unholy load of mischief, loud and unruly.  Off-tune singing in the back seat, a bit smelly from sunblock and bug repellent, missed turns, negotiating over radio stations, seating assignments, fast food stops, arguments and sharp elbows.

But after an eternity or two, you do get to the beach, and everybody pitches in to build some beautiful sandcastles, or, in our rocky part of the world, a cool stone stack.

Bandwagon or stone stack, it has to find a place for everybody — leaning left, leaning right, centrist, positive, negative, neutral.

Doesn’t that sound kind of fun?  “Come on, blow your own horn if you must, but everybody up on the bandwagon.”

(And in the case of many politicians, we can add “Stay on the wagon!”)

It has to be a big ol’ wagon.

Not a buggy of the extreme and the angry.

The surly with the lunatic fringe on top.

 

A cairn by environmental artist Andy Goldsworthy, in Sapsucker Woods, the preserve around the Cornell Ornithology Lab, in Ithaca, NY

~ ~ ~

We had a huge old car once, that kept turning over, even after it was switched off, mindlessly “dieseling,” kind of like it had a coughing jag, and couldn’t stop.

Like a lot of folks, I find it can be surprisingly hard to shut your thoughts off, like that old car, definitely not firing on all cylinders, but just spluttering along.

Like some of our public figures, the car was too greasy, too much carbon buildup, too much hot gas coming out the back end.

Missing filters, endless idling, running on and on, throwing a smoke screen, leaking oil into the ground water.  Chugging along, backfiring out half-digested dinosaur crap.

Our system right now, it appears some wiseguy snuck in, and switched the spark plug wires around, firing all out of order.

Like taking a Cadillac, all rose-tinted glass and a plush ride, in for a tuneup, to a shady shadetree mechanic.

And that bad grease monkey fast-talks us into trading for a rusted-out Gremlin, with no muffler, twisted axis, sorry, I mean, axle, and bad tie rods, so it keeps swerving to the right, and into the gutter.

~ ~ ~

Stone stacking helps us relax.  You focus and forget about squabbles and arguments.

And when you don’t focus, you drop a rock on your toe, which sure takes your mind off less pressing concerns.

Like politicking, we’re just childishly happy to shut down any higher brain functions, and see Just How High Can We Pile It, before it all falls over.

~ ~ ~ ~

Meanwhile… we were On The Beach.

The lake shore we’re hiking along is a shingle — tons of piled-up pebbles, so we weren’t prying stones out of the ground and contributing to erosion, or disturbing a stream bed, etc.

Sometimes it’s fun to poke at a few things with a stick, and see what crawls out from under a rock, but we’ve had quite enough of that lately.

A  key thing with these stone stacks:  they’re not cairns, memorials, or markers, so take them apart when you’re done.  Some of the ones we’ve seen, are big enough, they seem like a survivalist’s deadfall trap for little kids.

It falls under the “Leave No Trace” law of the woods.

Leave no stone un-returned.

And for heaven’s sake let’s get some bright new spark plugs and a tuneup for that heap.

 

 

 

 

 

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We’ve had plenty of rain in Upstate New York this summer, so the countryside is lush and green.

A steady stream of storms hanging over our heads.  A summer flooded with talk of swollen swamps, mushrooms and clouds.

And now, talk of mushroom clouds.

The sound of running water fills the damp woods, and I’ve been taking photos of pretty rivulets, graced with ferns and arching tree limbs.

But yesterday, while listening to the news about Korea, I saw this shot, of black shale in an unnamed stream, and it suited my mood.

A geology website informs us that this little waterfall runs through a “dissected plateau” – – layers of shale, sandstone, and limestone.

“Dissect” always has an unpleasant connotation to me, of high school biology class.

Personally, I like my frogs live and hopping.

The rocks are dull-colored and lifeless-looking, but if you pry open some of the layers, they’re teaming with fossils.

The ancient creatures embedded in the rock, probably thought things were going ok, and went about their business, but in some layers, the density of their remains, speaks of mass die-offs.

These were lower lifeforms, I guess they never saw it coming.

Sounding a bit downbeat!  So what to do?

I suggest…go take a walk.  Enjoy the green woods and the sound of waterfalls.

One of my favorite presidents, Harry Truman, used to walk two miles every day.

Following his walk, he then had one shot of bourbon.

If you feel an affection or need for clubs, ok, do your walking on a golf course.

Harry did not play golf.  He just took a brisk little hike, and shook hands with people he met.

He used an old-fashioned word to describe his walk:  his morning “constitutional”.

These are clearly winning concepts:  Take a walk.  Take a drink.  Shake hands.  Constitutional.

I don’t think there’s too many people, after more than sixty years, who care deeply about MacArthur’s dismissal.  If you’re not a student of history, MacArthur was our top general, when we were fighting in Korea.  Truman decided he’d gotten too big for his britches, and we couldn’t have a military leader who was arrogant, contemptuous, disrespectful and reckless.   Korea was a bad place to be reckless.

And Harry sent him walking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

hiking, Not humorous, politics, Uncategorized, United States

Sometimes it’s a waterfall, and sometimes, it’s just things going downhill

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Compost, Election, politics, Uncategorized, Upstate New York

Primary Day in New York. The Politics of Compost.

Politics & Compost  

(Edited) (The compost and I have both cooled down and are now ready)

Two events coincided, back in Old New York.

Both ripe with symbolism, rife with significance, and laden with historical import.

It was Primary Day, and also the day my father, a gardener, turned over his winter compost bins.

The comparison is obvious and inescapable.

It’s a stinky business, but we hope some good will come out of it.

“What a filthy job.” “Could be worse.” “How?” “Could be raining politicians.”

One of the benefits of composting, is that if you do it right, the process of fermentation, decomposition, or whatever all those bacteria and microbes are getting up to, will generate enough heat to cook the weed seeds, and kill them, so the weeds don’t sprout in your garden. I don’t pretend to understand it scientifically – but based on some really memorable stenches in the past, if you aerate it, you get a nice humus-y smell, like a damp woods. If you fail to aerate it, you get a horrible sewage smell.

So you need a little oxygen. Turn things over, mix ’em up, get some fresh air in there.

New Yorkers know the poem “…huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

No, I’m not equating immigrants with discarded banana peels and coffee grounds.  But my father, who endlessly points out that we’re descendants of evicted peasants, takes great joy in his compost, and probably wouldn’t object to the comparison, since he  regards the process of producing rich, healthy compost from scraps and leftovers as almost magical and nearly sacred. The turning of the heap is a major ceremony, usually coming on the lunar calendar right before planting peas by the full moon. Compost is probably as close to a religion as he gets.

Whether decomposing potato peels, or political ferment, it takes some effort.

You need to stir things up.  Aerate it once in a while.

“Anaerobic” means “living without air.”  And in my non-scientific understanding, that’s what produces the really bad smells.  And sometimes fungus, when things are kept in the dark and fed manure, like the old saying about politics or mushrooms.

As long as you keep things stirred up, aerated and in the sunshine once in a while, it doesn’t hurt to add a few layers of animal waste, meaning, a few cow pies get tossed in, if a pasture is close by, to create a really fantastic, steaming pile, like a tiny volcano.

I’m not naming names for this particular analogy of cow manure and rabble-rousing.

But we’re not just poo-flinging monkeys.  We come down out of the trees, and grow things.

Compost is wonderful stuff.  But take it from me, you don’t want to climb around down in the bottom of the compost bin.  Maybe they’re beneficial bacteria and all that, but they’re still slimy lower life forms, and they stink.

Hey, it’s finally spring.  Forget the microbial and political lowlifes.  Time to wash our dirty linen, in public, and if we’re going to shovel some…”organic cow fertilizer,” why not spread it out in the sun, and we’ll grow a few flowers.  Maybe a compost heap is kind of magical, after all.  It gives you faith that with garbage, and a process that sometimes smells to high heaven, we can still end up with something really worthwhile.

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Chestertown History, Civil War, History, Journalism, politics

President Garfield in Chestertown. The Great Copperhead Riot of 1863.

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When I went to college in Chestertown, Maryland, it was a pretty sleepy little place on the Eastern Shore. But it turned out to be rich in history, so I read whatever I could find about its past. This story I ran across reading some old-time newspapers.

Back in 2008, an Iraqi journalist threw his shoes at George Bush during a press conference.  I had to give the President points for coming back with a joke, “All I can report is, it is a size 10.”  OK it’s not that funny, but he seemed to handle himself pretty well at that moment.  He went on to say something about living in a free society — while Iraqi security guards kicked the crap out of the journalist.

A few years later, somebody in Philly threw a book at Obama, but apparently he was just a desperate author following a suggestion from a blog called “Low Cost PR You Can Do Yourself.”

Going farther back, when Richard Nixon was Eisenhower’s VP, he was hit by a rock, while trying to talk to a crowd of college students in Lima, Peru.  Nixon also wins some points, for standing his ground and yelling “What’s the matter?  Are you afraid to talk to me?”  His car was also egged, during a South American goodwill tour that didn’t go so well.  Nixon would have also have rocks and tomatoes thrown at his car during his inauguration.

And going even farther back…we arrive in Chestertown, Maryland, with another egging and a future President.

General Garfiled LOC

General Garfield Library of Congress

In 1863, James Garfield was Chief-of-Staff for the Army of the Cumberland, fighting in Tennessee.  Despite the army’s bloody defeat at Chickamauga, he actually enhanced his military reputation by helping to stabilize the Union rear guard, after the general in command had decided the battle was lost, and suddenly remembered he had a dentist’s appointment in Chattanooga.  By the end of that horrific day, the larger Confederate army had actually suffered greater casualties than the retreating Yankees.

That fall, Garfield was promoted to major general, but resigned his commission, as he’d been elected to Congress as a “Radical” Republican.  (In those days, “Radical” meant he was anti-slavery.)   Another Ohio politician-soldier, General Schenck, who had been assigned to keeping Maryland’s secessionists under control, was also elected to Congress.

Garfield and Schenck traveled through Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Maryland, speaking at Republican rallies.  On October 28, 1863, along with Salmon Chase, Garfield attended a mass pro-Union meeting and procession in Baltimore, promoting emancipation in the city that had attacked Union troops only two years before.

But on 11/6/63, the Pittsburgh Daily Commercial printed this one-sentence news item:

“On Saturday night General Garfield was mobbed by a gang of Copperheads at Chestertown, Md.”

A few days later, another Pennsylvania paper reported

“Gen. Garfield, while speaking for the Union, in a strong slave-holding locality, in Maryland, was mobbed by a crowd of copperheads”.

This sounded exciting – – a pro-slavery mob in Chestertown, attacking a future President!

The only problem – – it just wasn’t true.

A few days later, a Cleveland paper printed a retraction:

Your correspondent telegraphed you…that General Garfield was mobbed…by a few Copperheads and slaveholding ruffians…it appears…that [this] was incorrect…”

 

The mob attack had been somewhat scaled back.

To one guy.

And a single egg.

So, mostly, a “cautionary tale” as they used to say.  The incident reveals a bit about taking news reports (then and now, in the Age of The Internet) with a grain of salt.  And a bit about Chestertown, and about Garfield — when he handled it with aplomb.  The reporter could not remember Garfield’s exact language, but reported the gist of it:

 

One scoundrel threw a bad egg at the General, whereupon…he coolly remarked that a few weeks since he was face to face with the companions of the miscreant on the field of battle.  “They carried more dangerous weapons,” said the General, “and as I did not run there, it is not probable that I shall run now;  and as I fought then, if necessary, I shall fight now!” 

 

The Cleveland Daily Leader reported it this way:

When somebody aimed a missile at General Garfield, during his speech in a pro-slavery Maryland neighborhood, the General quietly remarked that not long ago he had been meeting men on ‘Chickamauga creek, who defended the same cause with more dangerous weapons, and if it became his duty, he supposed he might renew the fight.’ 

They cheered the soldier politician to the echo, flogging some fellow soundly on suspicion,  though he earnestly protested that he didn’t throw the egg, and wound up by going off into a regular emancipation jubilee.  Residents, understanding the temper of the crowd, declared the rotten egg had made them dozens of votes in the immediate vicinity.

 Apparently, the crowd blamed the wrong person for the egg-throwing, but the beating he got from the Unionists “had an excellent moral effect upon the Copperheads present.”

egg beater 1885 patent

U.S. Patent Office

I believe attacks on politicians should be limited to debate, and maybe sarcasm, or even mockery — but not eggs, not spit, not rocks, not violence.

Garfield and daughter LOC

President Garfield with one of his children

Garfield deserved better.  He was smart, honest, and progressive.  He grew up poor, and worked his way through college, where he rose from janitor to president in just a few years (no wonder Horatio Alger wrote his campaign biography!) and also became both a minister and attorney.  As a volunteer soldier, who quickly became a respected general, he survived Shiloh and Chickamauga, and then campaigned for the civil rights of African-Americans.  He took office as President on his birthday, started reforms immediately…and 120 days later was shot in the back.

An insane person was able to walk into a store, buy a $10 handgun, and shoot President Garfield.  It took him another 80 days to die.

It’s too bad that people in our country don’t stick with words, and honest, courteous debate, face-to-face.  And if that’s just too old-fashioned, at least, stick to eggs.

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