When I last wrote—far too long ago—we had decided to put our house on Lake Martin up for sale. Like many people our age, we had recognized the need to simplify our lives: fewer possessions, less space, less maintenance and more time.
As with so many other people, there was a gap in recognizing the need and doing something about it. And there was a gap between deciding to do something about it and actually getting something done.
People came and looked at the house. Some of them liked it. But none of them fell in love with it. Our desire to downsize didn't have a hard deadline, and when the listing expired, we took the house off the market. We went through the motions of ridding ourselves of some of our excess possessions, but the fact is, as long as you have a place to put things, you tend to hang onto them.
This year, as winter faded into spring, we offered the house for sale again. And this time, someone fell in love with it.
Suddenly, downsizing was no longer a vague goal but a looming reality.
So, barring the unexpected, in a matter of weeks, this Letter From the Lake should more appropriately be called a Letter From the Village.
Our lives have been a series of adventures, and this latest chapter has had some unexpected twists of its own. After all, we had lived in on Lake Martin longer than we had lived anyplace since we got married, and we had no urgent call to get away. Each morning we watched the sun light up the ridge and then the houses along the shore across the slough, and in the evening we lingered at the table as the twilight slipped into darkness, and every single day we knew how fortunate we were to be there. We had never been to Dadeville before we bought our little piece of paradise, and finding a community where we put down solid roots was lagniappe.
Even as we were putting the house on the market, we weren't thinking about moving away from the community where we had put down so many roots. With deliberation we had not shopped for a new home before ours was sold; there was no point in falling in love with a place that might not be available when we looked in earnest. Finally, when we did look in earnest, it was quickly obvious that our ideal place—single level, small house requiring little maintenance—was not available on the water, at least not without paying a healthy geographical premium.
Opelika/Auburn had not crept into our consciousness as a possible place to live, even though Adelaide had received her master's and doctorate from Auburn University and our younger son earned his bachelor's degree there.
The realization that it just might be home was serendipitous. A friend on the lake whose husband died several years ago was also confronting the downsizing issue. Like us, she had too much space, too much maintenance and too far to go for some of the amenities she wanted. She had eliminated a number of possibilities and was focusing on Opelika/Auburn. And in that area, one of the possibilities was National Village, on the grounds of Grand National, the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail facility developed by the Retirement Systems of Alabama.
Knowing that RSA was behind the project was an additional draw; RSA boss David Bronner's name isn't associated with shoddy stuff.
We made several visits to National Village with our friend and several more on our own.
National Village, we thought, might be a good choice for us. We visited multiple times, talked with people who lived there and looked at the houses. All of the vibrations were positive. Finally, we picked a lot, selected plan and put our money down. Before we left the lake, we made numerous trips to the Thrift Store at Children's Harbor, often carrying things we'd forgotten that we had. And when the good people from the Thrift Store brought their truck to our house, we filled it up, too.
Still, we moved too much to the apartment that is our temporary home, and some of the non-profit thrift stores nearby have benefitted from our excess. Even so, I expect that we will find that we have moved things we don't need into the new digs. Sometimes I recall fondly the discipline imposed by our brief period of living on a boat; with finite space, if you got something new, you needed to get rid of something old. We will try to build that discipline again.
Building a house is an invitation to stress—the last time we built a house I swore I'd never do it again—but our builder tells us our new home will be ready by the middle of August. Assuming there are no last minute hitches, that will give us time to move things and get them put away in stages and still be moved before our apartment lease runs out and football season kicks off.
For the moment, we're just hoping that no hitches develop.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Sunday, April 1, 2012
An Especially Poignant Spring
Spring arrives at our half hill in a rush. One day everything seems bare, even dead. The next buds are swelling into blooms, leaves emerge, and the whole picture changes. The wild azaleas put on their brief show of delicate beauty (meanwhile, the cultivated but neglected domesticated azalea in the back flower bed outdoes itself with blossoms. The native hydrangeas, which all winter look like a collection of dead sticks, put out the most tender green leaves, luminous when backlighted. Soon they will take on their familiar oak leaf shape. The dogwoods are especially showy this year. Old Susanna Road leading out from town and Quail Hollow Drive, our street, have become an avenue of white. Even our cautious white oak trees are joining in the proclamation of spring.
And the other day, sitting on our front deck, we heard -- heard, not saw -- our favorite proclamation of the season: the laughter of children floating across the slough. It has been spring break time for the schools, and even though it was March, the water was high enough, and warm enough, for the children to make the most of it.
The water at the end of our dock is high enough that friends had no trouble picking us up one evening for a picnic on one of the islands.
Spring does bring pollen and catkins, too, but that's a small price for having trees.
This is an especially poignant spring, because it probably will be our last on this blessed spot.
We have lived in this house, first as weekenders and then as full-timers, longer than we have lived in any house. We wanted a place where our children and their children could come and bring their friends, a place with plenty of room for them and yet private space for us. We wanted the house to fit onto our half hill, among the trees, and to look as if belonged there. We got all of that and more.
But times and people change. The children cannot come as often as they once did, and the grandchildren are at the age when they need calendars to keep up with all of their activities. It is wonderful when they can come, but for most of the year we have way too much space to heat and cool and clean, and we have figured out that if the kids get an opportunity to come for a week or two, it would be more economical to put them up in a condo.
Still, it is not only the trees that have put down roots here. We bought and built because of the water, but we have found in Dadeville a sense of community that makes us look forward to coming home when we are away. Nor could we ask for better neighbors. We would love to find a way to live within a stone's throw of where we are now; certainly we don't want to move more than a mile or too.
It was late in the summer when we made the decision to put the house on the market, knowing that it was unlikely to sell during the winter. We went through the ritual of thinning out and throwing away, but only in a desultory fashion. With a new season bursting upon us, the task of deciding what to keep and what to sell, give or throw away takes on a new urgency. Still, until the clock is ticking I will delay making decisions on some possessions. Our real estate agent, Linda Shaffer, has posted lots of photos on her web site (http://www.flexmls.com/share/1iZp/377-Quail-Hollow-Dadeville-AL-36853). If you know someone who is looking to live in paradise, you might tell them about it.
When we first began coming to this house, we arrived eagerly on Friday nights and left reluctantly on Monday mornings. After we moved here full-time, we reminded ourselves that people plan all year to spend a week or two with what we have every day. Soon or later, we will be faced with packing up and moving out, but until that happens we will regard each day as a special gift.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
And the other day, sitting on our front deck, we heard -- heard, not saw -- our favorite proclamation of the season: the laughter of children floating across the slough. It has been spring break time for the schools, and even though it was March, the water was high enough, and warm enough, for the children to make the most of it.
The water at the end of our dock is high enough that friends had no trouble picking us up one evening for a picnic on one of the islands.
Spring does bring pollen and catkins, too, but that's a small price for having trees.
This is an especially poignant spring, because it probably will be our last on this blessed spot.
We have lived in this house, first as weekenders and then as full-timers, longer than we have lived in any house. We wanted a place where our children and their children could come and bring their friends, a place with plenty of room for them and yet private space for us. We wanted the house to fit onto our half hill, among the trees, and to look as if belonged there. We got all of that and more.
But times and people change. The children cannot come as often as they once did, and the grandchildren are at the age when they need calendars to keep up with all of their activities. It is wonderful when they can come, but for most of the year we have way too much space to heat and cool and clean, and we have figured out that if the kids get an opportunity to come for a week or two, it would be more economical to put them up in a condo.
Still, it is not only the trees that have put down roots here. We bought and built because of the water, but we have found in Dadeville a sense of community that makes us look forward to coming home when we are away. Nor could we ask for better neighbors. We would love to find a way to live within a stone's throw of where we are now; certainly we don't want to move more than a mile or too.
It was late in the summer when we made the decision to put the house on the market, knowing that it was unlikely to sell during the winter. We went through the ritual of thinning out and throwing away, but only in a desultory fashion. With a new season bursting upon us, the task of deciding what to keep and what to sell, give or throw away takes on a new urgency. Still, until the clock is ticking I will delay making decisions on some possessions. Our real estate agent, Linda Shaffer, has posted lots of photos on her web site (http://www.flexmls.com/share/1iZp/377-Quail-Hollow-Dadeville-AL-36853). If you know someone who is looking to live in paradise, you might tell them about it.
When we first began coming to this house, we arrived eagerly on Friday nights and left reluctantly on Monday mornings. After we moved here full-time, we reminded ourselves that people plan all year to spend a week or two with what we have every day. Soon or later, we will be faced with packing up and moving out, but until that happens we will regard each day as a special gift.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Saturday, November 12, 2011
The Way the Current Set Me
Cousin,
You said you'd be interested in a narrative of my latest medical adventure when I had time to write it. Well, it's 4:30 in the morning, an hour earlier than my usual rising time, and I'm wide awake, and writing is a better use of time than surfing the internet or even working the crossword puzzle I didn't get to yesterday.
Often things happen out of the blue; certainly this latest brush with mortality seemed to.
But it's like piloting a boat across a tidal inlet: Sometimes the best way to see where you're actually going is to look back at your wake. In this latest case, I was confident in my compass -- the three bypasses I had thought would last as long as I did -- and I damn near ended up on the rocks.
Things got choppy on a Saturday two weeks ago. The started with me feeling vaguely crummy; nothing specifically wrong, just not a bundle of energy. Later in the day, I was helping Adelaide plant some pansies down by the seawall. When I walked back up to the house, not a great distance, I was really out of breath. I also felt a tightness in my chest. Not pain, not even that squeezing feeling that people often describe. Just a tightness that I still can't say whether was real or psychosomatic. I took my blood pressure. It was higher than it should be, but not dangerously so.
Then I tried to do what we so often do: deny what is. It's arguing that you've followed that safe course on the compass while hearing the surf pounding in your ears.
I'd played 18 holes of golf in Auburn the day before and then driven with Adelaide over to Clanton to pick up a car we were thinking about buying. Earlier in the week I had been in the gym at least a couple of times, including good sessions on the stationary bike, and had taken at least one good, long walk.
But, dammit, something just wasn't right, and we decided to go to the emergency room on the theory that a false alarm was better than a real one unheeded.
Potential heart attacks get prompt attention in the ER. They gave me some stuff that would help if I were having a heart attack, including aspirin, and did an EKG, took an X-ray and drew some blood. The ER physician said the EKG and X-ray looked normal, and there was nothing in the blood chemistry to indicate a heart attack, but he had talked with my cardiologist, who said they should keep me overnight and that he would look in on me on Sunday.
It turned out to be a good call.
Although my EKG looked normal, it looked different than the last one I'd had when I had my annual checkup with him in February, a checkup that included an echo cardiogram and a stress test, which did not reveal any imminent dangers. My cholesterol and triglycerides had been good, too.
There was enough question to warrant a heart on Monday, so I spent a second night in the hospital.
I really didn't think he was going to find anything (denial again), but he emerged from the procedure to tell Adelaide that he had found scar tissue creating blockages at all three sites where veins had been grafted onto the arteries. They scheduled sessions to put in stents on Friday and the following Monday. The reason for doing it in two sessions was that the dye they use in the procedure can damage the kidneys if there's too much of it in the blood.
Adelaide didn't even have to work hard to keep me from doing much physical activity while we waited for Friday, and I plenty of time to ruminate about how I got to this point.
After the bypasses (three years and a month earlier) I had worked at keeping fit and at eating wisely. While I hadn't limited my diet to leaves and twigs, a hamburger was a rare treat; we didn't eat red meat of any kind very often. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had bacon. We always used skim milk and put flax seed meal on our oatmeal or cereal in the mornings.
But I had to admit, I had not gotten as much exercise during the hot, dry summer (which around here seemed to start in May and is just now ending) as I ordinarily do. And I had noticed that I would be breathing a little hard when I began some activity, although that went away after I got going. And I was a little slower going up hills than I used to, but I didn't have to stop to catch my breath. And I am 70 years old; that ought to account for some slowing down.
So there were signs, but doggone subtle ones.
On that Friday the doctor put four stents in one artery, and on Monday he put in two more stents, one in each of two arteries.
As I'm recovering, I've thought about my brother and sister. My sis, a year older than I, has always eaten pretty much what she wanted, and what she wanted was often fried or salty or sweet. My brother, four and a half years younger, is a very disciplined eater. Both of them have coronary systems to envy. I think they inherited genes from my mother's side of the family. My inheritance, apparently comes from the Brown side of the family, not particularly noted for longevity.
Even if fate has drawn the line on the chart, though, I will keep trying to account for the current.
You recently sent me a copy of one of your favorite poems. There is a poignant line: How dull it is to pause, to make an end, / To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
I can promise that I will not rust unburnish'd.
Cousin Bill
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
You said you'd be interested in a narrative of my latest medical adventure when I had time to write it. Well, it's 4:30 in the morning, an hour earlier than my usual rising time, and I'm wide awake, and writing is a better use of time than surfing the internet or even working the crossword puzzle I didn't get to yesterday.
Often things happen out of the blue; certainly this latest brush with mortality seemed to.
But it's like piloting a boat across a tidal inlet: Sometimes the best way to see where you're actually going is to look back at your wake. In this latest case, I was confident in my compass -- the three bypasses I had thought would last as long as I did -- and I damn near ended up on the rocks.
Things got choppy on a Saturday two weeks ago. The started with me feeling vaguely crummy; nothing specifically wrong, just not a bundle of energy. Later in the day, I was helping Adelaide plant some pansies down by the seawall. When I walked back up to the house, not a great distance, I was really out of breath. I also felt a tightness in my chest. Not pain, not even that squeezing feeling that people often describe. Just a tightness that I still can't say whether was real or psychosomatic. I took my blood pressure. It was higher than it should be, but not dangerously so.
Then I tried to do what we so often do: deny what is. It's arguing that you've followed that safe course on the compass while hearing the surf pounding in your ears.
I'd played 18 holes of golf in Auburn the day before and then driven with Adelaide over to Clanton to pick up a car we were thinking about buying. Earlier in the week I had been in the gym at least a couple of times, including good sessions on the stationary bike, and had taken at least one good, long walk.
But, dammit, something just wasn't right, and we decided to go to the emergency room on the theory that a false alarm was better than a real one unheeded.
Potential heart attacks get prompt attention in the ER. They gave me some stuff that would help if I were having a heart attack, including aspirin, and did an EKG, took an X-ray and drew some blood. The ER physician said the EKG and X-ray looked normal, and there was nothing in the blood chemistry to indicate a heart attack, but he had talked with my cardiologist, who said they should keep me overnight and that he would look in on me on Sunday.
It turned out to be a good call.
Although my EKG looked normal, it looked different than the last one I'd had when I had my annual checkup with him in February, a checkup that included an echo cardiogram and a stress test, which did not reveal any imminent dangers. My cholesterol and triglycerides had been good, too.
There was enough question to warrant a heart on Monday, so I spent a second night in the hospital.
I really didn't think he was going to find anything (denial again), but he emerged from the procedure to tell Adelaide that he had found scar tissue creating blockages at all three sites where veins had been grafted onto the arteries. They scheduled sessions to put in stents on Friday and the following Monday. The reason for doing it in two sessions was that the dye they use in the procedure can damage the kidneys if there's too much of it in the blood.
Adelaide didn't even have to work hard to keep me from doing much physical activity while we waited for Friday, and I plenty of time to ruminate about how I got to this point.
After the bypasses (three years and a month earlier) I had worked at keeping fit and at eating wisely. While I hadn't limited my diet to leaves and twigs, a hamburger was a rare treat; we didn't eat red meat of any kind very often. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had bacon. We always used skim milk and put flax seed meal on our oatmeal or cereal in the mornings.
But I had to admit, I had not gotten as much exercise during the hot, dry summer (which around here seemed to start in May and is just now ending) as I ordinarily do. And I had noticed that I would be breathing a little hard when I began some activity, although that went away after I got going. And I was a little slower going up hills than I used to, but I didn't have to stop to catch my breath. And I am 70 years old; that ought to account for some slowing down.
So there were signs, but doggone subtle ones.
On that Friday the doctor put four stents in one artery, and on Monday he put in two more stents, one in each of two arteries.
As I'm recovering, I've thought about my brother and sister. My sis, a year older than I, has always eaten pretty much what she wanted, and what she wanted was often fried or salty or sweet. My brother, four and a half years younger, is a very disciplined eater. Both of them have coronary systems to envy. I think they inherited genes from my mother's side of the family. My inheritance, apparently comes from the Brown side of the family, not particularly noted for longevity.
Even if fate has drawn the line on the chart, though, I will keep trying to account for the current.
You recently sent me a copy of one of your favorite poems. There is a poignant line: How dull it is to pause, to make an end, / To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
I can promise that I will not rust unburnish'd.
Cousin Bill
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Some Instructions Are Just Too Stupid
I don't think I am growing more prickly (some might argue that would be impossible) but I increasingly chafe at being told what to do by people who have no business doing so. There are enough people who are in a position to tell you what to do, and who often insist on your doing stupid things, but I am not talking about them. Them I avoid as much as possible and grudgingly comply when there is no alternative.
No, it is the more mundane things that set me off.
Like the envelope from someone who is trying to sell me something that states prominently "Do Not Discard." Naturally, those envelopes go directly into the waste basket; I'm thinking of leaving an all-weather waste can by the mailbox.
The marketers don't like to be ignored, though, and they get more insistent. I am holding an envelope that, in addition to my name and address, includes these phrases: "Official Documents Enclosed." "Official Notification." "Requires Immediate Response." "SECOND NOTICE." "Time Sensitive Communication." Well, duh. Guess where that envelope is going?
Maybe tossing their missives isn't the answer. I am considering saving a stack of the envelopes -- unopened -- until I have a large stack and then mailing all of them back to the sender. With luck, I'll open one of the envelopes and find a postage-paid reply envelope and use it to send the accumulation back.
Almost as annoying is the recorded message that urges you to hold for an important message. I used to hang up immediately, but now I just lay the phone down and go about my business. I like to think I'm using enough of their time to save someone else from getting a call.
At least in the above situations, I have the choice of whether to open the envelope or hold for the call.
One night recently, I had a choice of whether to respond to a stupid instruction, but exercising my choice saved me no time. I was trapped.
It was an event that included a talent segment. The mistress and master of ceremonies took turns introducing each contestant and then going offstage.
The contestant performed. The audience applauded. And the master/mistress of ceremonies returned to the stage with the instruction to give the performer another round of applause, even as the original applause was fading. Not once, not twice, but every single time.
Excuse me, but isn't applause like a tip: something that is earned.
I sat on my hands thinking that if it weren't for all the phony enthusiasm, the contestants could have more time to show off their talent. And the applause would have been truly earned.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Time for a new adventure
To everything there is a season, and
a time to every purpose under heaven:
It is a little after 6 on a gray Saturday morning. Downstairs one granddaughter and her friend are sleeping. Later today, another granddaughter and three of her friends will arrive. It is not a promising weekend for outdoor things, but I am sure the young ladies will find plenty of things to amuse themselves with. They are at an age when their grandparents do not have to spend all of their time being recreation directors.
I have been sitting in the little reading room just off our second-floor bedroom looking out at the lake. A slight breeze has the water in motion – most often it is as still as a millpond this time of the morning – and I haven't heard any manmade sounds. Soon, even with the possibility, even probability, that rain could come at any moment, personal watercraft will be roiling the water. After all, how many weekends are there in a summer?
I have watched the day develop from this vantage point almost every morning since we moved to the lake full-time nine years ago and on as many mornings as possible in those years when we were only part-timers.
I have never tired of the view nor unmindful of our good fortune in being able to experience every day that which so many people get only to sample.
My morning view is about to change.
We have lived in this house longer than we have lived in any house since we got married, and it is the first house that we have had designed and built just for us. Like us, the house has its eccentricities, but I hope that soon some other family will enjoy this house as much as we have.
As much as we have loved the place – and, as importantly, our neighbors and our neighborhood – we have recognized for several years that the time for change would come.Simply put, the house is simply too big for the two of us It has too many steps;. Adelaide counted the steps from the dock to the widow's walk; there were 105 of them. When the children and grandchildren are here, the house is just right, sometimes even cramped, but those times are increasingly rare, and that space is heated and cooled and cleaned year round.
So in a few days a sign will go up offering our half hill for sale. We hope that someone will think it is as right as we did when we first saw this spot and visualized putting a house on it.
I am, at least for the moment, curiously unmoved by the prospect of making some other house our home. I think that we most liberated we have felt was when we returned to the states after spending the better part of a year on a self-styled sabbatical in England and Holland. We had sold most of our belongings before setting out, and having only a few possessions made us feel, well, less possessed. That was many years ago, though, and as long as you have a place to put things, things pile up.
We have decided that we need considerably less space – and far fewer things – and that this might be the time to make that change.
We would love to stay on the water and in this neighborhood if that is possible. We don't know how that will work out, because like most folks, we cant really look for another home until we have sold this one. (I'd hate to fall in love with a place only to see it sell before we sold our own home.)
  Whatever happens, it will be an adventure.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
a time to every purpose under heaven:
It is a little after 6 on a gray Saturday morning. Downstairs one granddaughter and her friend are sleeping. Later today, another granddaughter and three of her friends will arrive. It is not a promising weekend for outdoor things, but I am sure the young ladies will find plenty of things to amuse themselves with. They are at an age when their grandparents do not have to spend all of their time being recreation directors.
I have been sitting in the little reading room just off our second-floor bedroom looking out at the lake. A slight breeze has the water in motion – most often it is as still as a millpond this time of the morning – and I haven't heard any manmade sounds. Soon, even with the possibility, even probability, that rain could come at any moment, personal watercraft will be roiling the water. After all, how many weekends are there in a summer?
I have watched the day develop from this vantage point almost every morning since we moved to the lake full-time nine years ago and on as many mornings as possible in those years when we were only part-timers.
I have never tired of the view nor unmindful of our good fortune in being able to experience every day that which so many people get only to sample.
My morning view is about to change.
We have lived in this house longer than we have lived in any house since we got married, and it is the first house that we have had designed and built just for us. Like us, the house has its eccentricities, but I hope that soon some other family will enjoy this house as much as we have.
As much as we have loved the place – and, as importantly, our neighbors and our neighborhood – we have recognized for several years that the time for change would come.Simply put, the house is simply too big for the two of us It has too many steps;. Adelaide counted the steps from the dock to the widow's walk; there were 105 of them. When the children and grandchildren are here, the house is just right, sometimes even cramped, but those times are increasingly rare, and that space is heated and cooled and cleaned year round.
So in a few days a sign will go up offering our half hill for sale. We hope that someone will think it is as right as we did when we first saw this spot and visualized putting a house on it.
I am, at least for the moment, curiously unmoved by the prospect of making some other house our home. I think that we most liberated we have felt was when we returned to the states after spending the better part of a year on a self-styled sabbatical in England and Holland. We had sold most of our belongings before setting out, and having only a few possessions made us feel, well, less possessed. That was many years ago, though, and as long as you have a place to put things, things pile up.
We have decided that we need considerably less space – and far fewer things – and that this might be the time to make that change.
We would love to stay on the water and in this neighborhood if that is possible. We don't know how that will work out, because like most folks, we cant really look for another home until we have sold this one. (I'd hate to fall in love with a place only to see it sell before we sold our own home.)
  Whatever happens, it will be an adventure.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Trying to change a genetic instruction
There is imprinted in my DNA a basic instruction. It says: Never throw away something you might be able to use later.
I am trying to rewrite that instruction, which I have followed all too well, or at least to redefine it. I am locked in a mental battle that parallels disputes over interpreting our constitution: strict construction or loose construction.
I have been a strict constructionist of my genetic instructions. If there is any conceivable possibility that I might be able to use something later, I've kept it. (And it has occasionally paid off: just the other day I used a piece of metal tubing left over from a boat shade, a bail from a five-gallon bucket and a hose clamp to repair a colorful little wind-driven whirlygig down by the patio.)
I am trying to accept the notion that I should keep only those things that there is a reasonably good chance that I will need. I'm not sure the bail from the bucket or the piece from the boat would qualify.
I have been given some impetus in my quest because we are thinking about downsizing our home.
I have already tackled my library and my closet, though much remains to be done in those departments.
But those have been minor forays compared to the task now at hand. Confronting stuff in general.
So, there I stood in the middle of a storage building, confronted with the reality of my resolution.
Various tools from past projects: a tile cutter and a grout float I bought when I remodeled the kitchen of an old house we owned in Montgomery.
A pipe flaring tool.
A gear puller.
I couldn't recall why I had acquired some of those items.
But realistically, would I ever use them again?
And the smaller things: screws and nails and bolts, all of differing sizes. Would I ever have or take the time to sort them out. An electric motor from a food processor, hinges from a glass door, things that I couldn't identify but which I obviously thought I might use for something.
Cans of paint that, even if it isn't a lump inside the can, probably wouldn't cover anything I started painting and which probably could not be matched.
I divided the stuff into two piles -- keep and discard.
Some of the stuff migrated from one pile to another more than once. After disposing of what I could bear to, I took the rest home and put it in the cave, the name we give to a part of the crawl space. There's standing headroom and lights, but now it is dense with the stuff from the storage building, and I still have a lot of decisions to make. If do sell the house soon, I either will speed up the decision process or carry a bunch of stuff on one more trip.
Sorting through the accumulation, I think of my grandmother. She saved everything: the string that closed a 25-pound bag of flour, the empty 10-pound sugar sack, the gallon syrup jug.
The difference is, she knew the end use of the stuff she was saving. I have yet to get there.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
I am trying to rewrite that instruction, which I have followed all too well, or at least to redefine it. I am locked in a mental battle that parallels disputes over interpreting our constitution: strict construction or loose construction.
I have been a strict constructionist of my genetic instructions. If there is any conceivable possibility that I might be able to use something later, I've kept it. (And it has occasionally paid off: just the other day I used a piece of metal tubing left over from a boat shade, a bail from a five-gallon bucket and a hose clamp to repair a colorful little wind-driven whirlygig down by the patio.)
I am trying to accept the notion that I should keep only those things that there is a reasonably good chance that I will need. I'm not sure the bail from the bucket or the piece from the boat would qualify.
I have been given some impetus in my quest because we are thinking about downsizing our home.
I have already tackled my library and my closet, though much remains to be done in those departments.
But those have been minor forays compared to the task now at hand. Confronting stuff in general.
So, there I stood in the middle of a storage building, confronted with the reality of my resolution.
Various tools from past projects: a tile cutter and a grout float I bought when I remodeled the kitchen of an old house we owned in Montgomery.
A pipe flaring tool.
A gear puller.
I couldn't recall why I had acquired some of those items.
But realistically, would I ever use them again?
And the smaller things: screws and nails and bolts, all of differing sizes. Would I ever have or take the time to sort them out. An electric motor from a food processor, hinges from a glass door, things that I couldn't identify but which I obviously thought I might use for something.
Cans of paint that, even if it isn't a lump inside the can, probably wouldn't cover anything I started painting and which probably could not be matched.
I divided the stuff into two piles -- keep and discard.
Some of the stuff migrated from one pile to another more than once. After disposing of what I could bear to, I took the rest home and put it in the cave, the name we give to a part of the crawl space. There's standing headroom and lights, but now it is dense with the stuff from the storage building, and I still have a lot of decisions to make. If do sell the house soon, I either will speed up the decision process or carry a bunch of stuff on one more trip.
Sorting through the accumulation, I think of my grandmother. She saved everything: the string that closed a 25-pound bag of flour, the empty 10-pound sugar sack, the gallon syrup jug.
The difference is, she knew the end use of the stuff she was saving. I have yet to get there.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Spring Has Made Me Manic
Spring has made me manic.
Spring always makes us a little bit manic, but this year my case is extreme. Ordinarily an early riser, I find myself awaking even earlier and waiting impatiently for the sun to rise so I can be out and doing. (It is before sunup now or I probably would be doing instead of writing.)
I think there are a couple of reasons for my mania. The winter of 2010-11 seemed to have more consecutive days of unrelieved dreariness than most.There were not as may of those brief breaks when it was really pleasant to throw the kayak in the water and paddle or to take a long walk without bundling up as if for an expedition.
It wasn't just the past (I hope it has passed) winter that has fueled the mania. Medical adventures in the past couple of years, the heart thing and the cancer thing and then the unfortunate incident with the table saw left me more absorbed with self than with nature.
Helping with the restoration of the Smith Mountain Fire Tower and carving out hiking trails on the mountain have absorbed a good deal of outdoor time, but that's a whole other column. Around home, I managed to replace the decrepit steps leading from our dock down to the lake bed before the water got too high. I've raked dead leaves that have accumulated way too long and picked up fallen limbs; I finally got the shredder-mulcher running, so a lot of those will be reduced in size and returned to the earth. I got the lights on the patio working again and replaced the screen wire on the door to the porch. I wonder how long it will be before another child pokes his hand through the screen. Based on past experience, it will be before the summer is out.
I have been making some terraces with stones gathered from my neighbors country land = he says rocks are his principle crop = and planning more elaborate schemes to keep the dirt from washing down our half hill and into the lake.
Even as I work away, my project list grows longer. Dirty work clothes are a perplexity for my wife.She insists on washing them; I try to hold onto them for another day = or two.
"They're filthy," she says.
"I just put them on (meaning two or three days ago)," I insist.
She wins.
I have learned that I enjoy physical labor far more than I did when I was younger. The rhythm of labor frees the mind to wander all over the universe. The other day I found myself thinking of A.E. Housman's poem about the beauty of cherry blossoms, especially the line, "now of my threescore years and ten, twenty will not come again. And take from seventy years a score, it only leaves me fifty more. and since to look at things in bloom, fifty springs are little room, about the woodland I will go to see the cherry hung with snow."
Callow youth. I have reached my threescore and ten, and I expect to welcome a good many more springs.
There's one last reason for this spring mania: Before we know it, it will be so hot that the outdoors is most comfortably enjoyed by looking at it through a double-glazed window from an air conditioned room.
Meanwhile, the sun is about to come up; time for another cup of coffee and then out the door.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Spring always makes us a little bit manic, but this year my case is extreme. Ordinarily an early riser, I find myself awaking even earlier and waiting impatiently for the sun to rise so I can be out and doing. (It is before sunup now or I probably would be doing instead of writing.)
I think there are a couple of reasons for my mania. The winter of 2010-11 seemed to have more consecutive days of unrelieved dreariness than most.There were not as may of those brief breaks when it was really pleasant to throw the kayak in the water and paddle or to take a long walk without bundling up as if for an expedition.
It wasn't just the past (I hope it has passed) winter that has fueled the mania. Medical adventures in the past couple of years, the heart thing and the cancer thing and then the unfortunate incident with the table saw left me more absorbed with self than with nature.
Helping with the restoration of the Smith Mountain Fire Tower and carving out hiking trails on the mountain have absorbed a good deal of outdoor time, but that's a whole other column. Around home, I managed to replace the decrepit steps leading from our dock down to the lake bed before the water got too high. I've raked dead leaves that have accumulated way too long and picked up fallen limbs; I finally got the shredder-mulcher running, so a lot of those will be reduced in size and returned to the earth. I got the lights on the patio working again and replaced the screen wire on the door to the porch. I wonder how long it will be before another child pokes his hand through the screen. Based on past experience, it will be before the summer is out.
I have been making some terraces with stones gathered from my neighbors country land = he says rocks are his principle crop = and planning more elaborate schemes to keep the dirt from washing down our half hill and into the lake.
Even as I work away, my project list grows longer. Dirty work clothes are a perplexity for my wife.She insists on washing them; I try to hold onto them for another day = or two.
"They're filthy," she says.
"I just put them on (meaning two or three days ago)," I insist.
She wins.
I have learned that I enjoy physical labor far more than I did when I was younger. The rhythm of labor frees the mind to wander all over the universe. The other day I found myself thinking of A.E. Housman's poem about the beauty of cherry blossoms, especially the line, "now of my threescore years and ten, twenty will not come again. And take from seventy years a score, it only leaves me fifty more. and since to look at things in bloom, fifty springs are little room, about the woodland I will go to see the cherry hung with snow."
Callow youth. I have reached my threescore and ten, and I expect to welcome a good many more springs.
There's one last reason for this spring mania: Before we know it, it will be so hot that the outdoors is most comfortably enjoyed by looking at it through a double-glazed window from an air conditioned room.
Meanwhile, the sun is about to come up; time for another cup of coffee and then out the door.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Just Call Me ... Bob?
My parents saddled me with the given name of William, which naturally evolved into Bill. I was named after my father, whose named was David Herbert, but who for some reason had acquired the nickname Bill.
There's nothing intrinsically wrong the name Bill. It's just that the name Bill Brown is so common that even the smallest burg has two or three. And not all of them are people whom you wish to be confused with. Every time we've ever purchased a house, I have had to sign affidavits that I am not the Blll Brown who has had a mortgage foreclosed, filed bankruptcy, or has some other blot on his record.
When your last name is Brown, you definitely need a given name – or nickname – that has more than one syllable.
From childhood to high school graduation, people called me Billy; some people in my hometown still call me Billy. But when I got to college, every automatically called me Bill – it sounded more grownup, I think – and it has been Bill ever since.
Except that it hasn't been, and I can't exactly blame my parents, though I think have a first and last name start with the same letter is at least a contributing factor.
It didn't begin until after I graduated from college, but since then, an amazing number of people get fixed into their minds that my name is Bob.
It is not just strangers to whom I am introduced as Bill and who two minutes later are calling me Bob. As a young reporter, I covered City Hall in St. Petersburg, Fla. On my news gathering rounds, I stopped in the city manager's office every day. About half of the time the receptionist greeted me as Bob. I would correct her, and I would be Bill for a day or two, but then I would revert to Bob. Her explanation for the name confusion was, "You just look like a Bob."
I suppose Shakespeare (or Juliet) was right, but still I used to bridle at being called Bob. No longer, though. People whom I see regularly, including one whose own nickname is Bill, alternate between calling me Bill and Bob. I just smile and respond to whatever name they call me; I guess if I ever run for office, I will have to put my name on the ballot as Blll Bob Brown.
(My wife, whose given name is Adelaide, has a totally different problem. No one calls her Shirley or Barbara or Sue. But they can't seem to say Adelaide. It comes out Adeline, Adalie, and even Natalie. Like me, she's learned to put up with it.)
Still, I wonder what a Bob looks like.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
There's nothing intrinsically wrong the name Bill. It's just that the name Bill Brown is so common that even the smallest burg has two or three. And not all of them are people whom you wish to be confused with. Every time we've ever purchased a house, I have had to sign affidavits that I am not the Blll Brown who has had a mortgage foreclosed, filed bankruptcy, or has some other blot on his record.
When your last name is Brown, you definitely need a given name – or nickname – that has more than one syllable.
From childhood to high school graduation, people called me Billy; some people in my hometown still call me Billy. But when I got to college, every automatically called me Bill – it sounded more grownup, I think – and it has been Bill ever since.
Except that it hasn't been, and I can't exactly blame my parents, though I think have a first and last name start with the same letter is at least a contributing factor.
It didn't begin until after I graduated from college, but since then, an amazing number of people get fixed into their minds that my name is Bob.
It is not just strangers to whom I am introduced as Bill and who two minutes later are calling me Bob. As a young reporter, I covered City Hall in St. Petersburg, Fla. On my news gathering rounds, I stopped in the city manager's office every day. About half of the time the receptionist greeted me as Bob. I would correct her, and I would be Bill for a day or two, but then I would revert to Bob. Her explanation for the name confusion was, "You just look like a Bob."
I suppose Shakespeare (or Juliet) was right, but still I used to bridle at being called Bob. No longer, though. People whom I see regularly, including one whose own nickname is Bill, alternate between calling me Bill and Bob. I just smile and respond to whatever name they call me; I guess if I ever run for office, I will have to put my name on the ballot as Blll Bob Brown.
(My wife, whose given name is Adelaide, has a totally different problem. No one calls her Shirley or Barbara or Sue. But they can't seem to say Adelaide. It comes out Adeline, Adalie, and even Natalie. Like me, she's learned to put up with it.)
Still, I wonder what a Bob looks like.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Sunday, September 12, 2010
If I wanted a dog, ...
I do not have a dog, nor do I wish to have a dog.
It is not that I don't like dogs. As a youth, I had several dogs; I had cats, too.
Since we have been married, we have had a succession of cats. Both of us worked long, and often odd, hours. A dog would have demanded far more attention than we could give. Cats, on the other hand, regarded us as staff and occasional entertainment, often pretending they hadn't noticed we'd been gone. Their demands for affection, while single-minded (it's impossible to ignore a cat who doesn't wish to be ignored), are brief.
We are retired now, but when the last cat disappeared, we decided that we did not want to have another pet. At least not now. It is nice to simply close the door and leave home without boarding an animal.
As I am writing these words Raka is lying on floor of my study, regarding me with his sad brown eyes. Raka is definitely a dog. And he is living in my house (all of my dogs were outside pets) But he is not my dog. He belongs to our older son and his family.
How he came to be here is one of those long stories that is best told briefly. Our son, an Air Force officer, spent the past two years in South Korea. He moved on to a new assignment in England this summer. The family couldn't take Raka directly from South Korea to England without the dog spending six months in quarantine. If, however, Raka spent six months in the United States, he could go to England without being quarantined. So Raka came to the states to stay with our daughter-in-law's family. When our son's family came to stay at our house en route to England, Raka came with them. Somehow he never got back our daughter-in-law's folks, and when time came for the humans to go to England, Raka stayed here. He will be eligible to go to England sometime this fall, and I suppose whoever goes to visit England first will take him.
The family got the dog when they were stationed in Turkey, and they originally named him Raki after the Turkish national drink. No one seemed to be able to pronounce the name properly, so they changed the spelling to Raka.
Raka is a Vizsla, a Hungarian breed which Wikipedia describes as "elite sporting dogs and loyal companions." It goes on to say that "through the centuries the Vizsla has held a unique position for a sporting dog – that of household companion and family dog."
I don't know about the hunting part, but I can attest to Raka's qualities as a household companion. He is very much a people dog, and he likes to be where we are. When I go downstairs to have coffee early every morning, he follows to see whether I am doing anything interesting. When he decides that I'm not he goes back up and curls up in his bed in our bedroom. I go up and down the stairs about a million times a day, and each time Raka follows, although he is somewhat conflicted when one of us is upstairs and the other down. When I -- and he -- make one of my brief trips up and down, he looks at me with some disgust, as if to say, can't you just sit still for a minute?
Like most dogs, Raka likes to sit on the car seat and poke his head into the breeze, reveling in new smells and sights. When I pop out of the car for a minute, he is sitting behind the steering wheel when I come back.
All of this may sound as if I am leaning toward getting a dog.
I am not.
I do not have a dog, nor do I wish to have a dog.
But if I did want a dog, I would want him to be like Raka.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
It is not that I don't like dogs. As a youth, I had several dogs; I had cats, too.
Since we have been married, we have had a succession of cats. Both of us worked long, and often odd, hours. A dog would have demanded far more attention than we could give. Cats, on the other hand, regarded us as staff and occasional entertainment, often pretending they hadn't noticed we'd been gone. Their demands for affection, while single-minded (it's impossible to ignore a cat who doesn't wish to be ignored), are brief.
We are retired now, but when the last cat disappeared, we decided that we did not want to have another pet. At least not now. It is nice to simply close the door and leave home without boarding an animal.
As I am writing these words Raka is lying on floor of my study, regarding me with his sad brown eyes. Raka is definitely a dog. And he is living in my house (all of my dogs were outside pets) But he is not my dog. He belongs to our older son and his family.
How he came to be here is one of those long stories that is best told briefly. Our son, an Air Force officer, spent the past two years in South Korea. He moved on to a new assignment in England this summer. The family couldn't take Raka directly from South Korea to England without the dog spending six months in quarantine. If, however, Raka spent six months in the United States, he could go to England without being quarantined. So Raka came to the states to stay with our daughter-in-law's family. When our son's family came to stay at our house en route to England, Raka came with them. Somehow he never got back our daughter-in-law's folks, and when time came for the humans to go to England, Raka stayed here. He will be eligible to go to England sometime this fall, and I suppose whoever goes to visit England first will take him.
The family got the dog when they were stationed in Turkey, and they originally named him Raki after the Turkish national drink. No one seemed to be able to pronounce the name properly, so they changed the spelling to Raka.
Raka is a Vizsla, a Hungarian breed which Wikipedia describes as "elite sporting dogs and loyal companions." It goes on to say that "through the centuries the Vizsla has held a unique position for a sporting dog – that of household companion and family dog."
I don't know about the hunting part, but I can attest to Raka's qualities as a household companion. He is very much a people dog, and he likes to be where we are. When I go downstairs to have coffee early every morning, he follows to see whether I am doing anything interesting. When he decides that I'm not he goes back up and curls up in his bed in our bedroom. I go up and down the stairs about a million times a day, and each time Raka follows, although he is somewhat conflicted when one of us is upstairs and the other down. When I -- and he -- make one of my brief trips up and down, he looks at me with some disgust, as if to say, can't you just sit still for a minute?
Like most dogs, Raka likes to sit on the car seat and poke his head into the breeze, reveling in new smells and sights. When I pop out of the car for a minute, he is sitting behind the steering wheel when I come back.
All of this may sound as if I am leaning toward getting a dog.
I am not.
I do not have a dog, nor do I wish to have a dog.
But if I did want a dog, I would want him to be like Raka.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Note to a Friend in Minnesota
Today marked a significant milestone on the road from my near self-amputation.
I managed to tie a small fly onto a tiny tippet. Never mind that it took 15 minutes to do it. Never mind that the fish were not the least bit interested in what I was offering them. I, by George, tied a tiny improved clinch knot.
My left thumb still has not fully healed. The plastic surgeon will decide early next month whether he needs to graft some skin onto a small spot that has stubbornly refused to heal thus far. But my only bandage is a large Band-Aid, and although my fingers are stiff from having been in a splint and the part of my thumb that still moves is equally restricted, after four long months I am beginning to think I may be able to resume being a left hander. I managed to put my left hand in my pocket the other day, something I had not done since May 21, and I am able to hold a pen in my left hand and move it to produce something that looks pretty much like my handwriting. I did manage to write my name with the right hand. It had a cramped look, like the signature of someone who has learned to write his name but who really can't read and write. When I had to write some checks on an account that I am the only signatory to, I stopped by the bank to make sure the checks wouldn't be rejected as forgeries. My friend at the bank put a note on my account that if anyone had a question about my checks they should consult with him. Another reason for loving a small town.
The temporary incapacity does have some advantages, as my older son, who always sees the glass half full, would be quick to recognize. I can eat right-handed, a skill that can come in handy at a crowded table We lefties always look for a corner seat to avoid the battle of the elbows; now I can sit at the middle of the table if need be.
I have gone the whole summer without getting my left hand wet. I fished (spinning rod) several times with Griffin, the older grandson, who here for nearly two months, but I couldn't paddle, so we settled for fishing from the dock. I'm counting on it being healed by November, when I'm supposed to go paddling in the Okefenokee with some friends. If it doesn't, I guess I'll just tied a bag around my hand.
And, at long last, I can type with both hands. I haven't written much of anything for the past four months because I was reduced to typing with my right hand. Now I'm typing with nine fingers.
There is, of course, a lot that I still can't do – I'm eager to get started on some rehab to help take care of some of that – but, by golly, I got that fly tied to the tippet this morning, and that was enough to make me feel like I'm going in the right direction.
Hope your summer is going well.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
I managed to tie a small fly onto a tiny tippet. Never mind that it took 15 minutes to do it. Never mind that the fish were not the least bit interested in what I was offering them. I, by George, tied a tiny improved clinch knot.
My left thumb still has not fully healed. The plastic surgeon will decide early next month whether he needs to graft some skin onto a small spot that has stubbornly refused to heal thus far. But my only bandage is a large Band-Aid, and although my fingers are stiff from having been in a splint and the part of my thumb that still moves is equally restricted, after four long months I am beginning to think I may be able to resume being a left hander. I managed to put my left hand in my pocket the other day, something I had not done since May 21, and I am able to hold a pen in my left hand and move it to produce something that looks pretty much like my handwriting. I did manage to write my name with the right hand. It had a cramped look, like the signature of someone who has learned to write his name but who really can't read and write. When I had to write some checks on an account that I am the only signatory to, I stopped by the bank to make sure the checks wouldn't be rejected as forgeries. My friend at the bank put a note on my account that if anyone had a question about my checks they should consult with him. Another reason for loving a small town.
The temporary incapacity does have some advantages, as my older son, who always sees the glass half full, would be quick to recognize. I can eat right-handed, a skill that can come in handy at a crowded table We lefties always look for a corner seat to avoid the battle of the elbows; now I can sit at the middle of the table if need be.
I have gone the whole summer without getting my left hand wet. I fished (spinning rod) several times with Griffin, the older grandson, who here for nearly two months, but I couldn't paddle, so we settled for fishing from the dock. I'm counting on it being healed by November, when I'm supposed to go paddling in the Okefenokee with some friends. If it doesn't, I guess I'll just tied a bag around my hand.
And, at long last, I can type with both hands. I haven't written much of anything for the past four months because I was reduced to typing with my right hand. Now I'm typing with nine fingers.
There is, of course, a lot that I still can't do – I'm eager to get started on some rehab to help take care of some of that – but, by golly, I got that fly tied to the tippet this morning, and that was enough to make me feel like I'm going in the right direction.
Hope your summer is going well.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
August Started Early, Looks to Stay Late
August seemed to arrive about the end of May, and it shows no sign of departing anytime soon.
The herbs and flowers that Adelaide so hopefully planted in what was supposed to be spring have long since given up and turned brown. Even regular watering didn't give them the will to see the summer through. Even some of the native plants, particularly azaleas and hydrangeas, are looking particularly stressed. We lost some during the last drought, and I expect that we will lose some more.
We have lost several small trees, and I worry about the red oak right beside the front deck and the white oak by the patio. Both of them show dead limbs, occasionally dropping one. Their demise would deprive us of much needed shade -- and having them removed would cost a princely sum, because both would have to be taken down in pieces and carried away by hand.
I was making good progress of my list of outdoor home improvement projects until I nearly amputated my left thumb with a table saw. That put paid to the outdoor projects. Realistically, I would have postponed many of them anyway because of the heat.
Since I am a left hander, the injured thumb also meant postponing a good many indoor projects, too. For a while, even trying to type was slow and painful, but within the past few weeks I have been able to apply at least nine fingers to the keyboard.
I have managed to keep the bird feeder filled. It hangs from an oak limb just outside the dining room window, and watching nature through double-glazed windows has provided more entertainment than television. The grandchildren have found the nuthatches a particular treat, marveling as they watch them walk up the tree trunk and then walk back down, always facing the direction of their travel, sometimes hanging upside down on the limb by the feeder. We had an abundance of goal finches early in the spring, but now a solitary brightly colored bird makes occasional trips to the feeder.
The red bellied woodpecker has returned to the feeder after an unexplained absence. When he cruises in to the feeder, the smaller birds scatter like destroyers making way for a battleship. Even the squirrel casing the feeder from a nearby maple branch doesn't want to cross him.
The fireflies which were so profuse during the spring have disappeared, but the August night brings its own interested creatures. We were sitting on the front deck one recent evening when Adelaide noticed the bird feeder moving. I had already noticed that on many mornings a feeder that was full at sundown was considerably less so by sunup. We flipped on the spotlights at the corner of the house and we could see the shadow of a creature clinging to the feeder A flashlight provided more illumination, and my suspicions were confirmed: we once again had a flying squirrel as a nighttime diner. It was unphased by all of the attention.
I walked down the steps to the base of the tree that the feeder hangs from.The feeder is about 20 feet overhead from that vantage point. From the base of the tree, there is a line that leads up to a pulley, which provides a way to lower the feeder for filling.
I gave the line a quick tug, and the squirrel glided down, passed just over my shoulder and disappeared into the darkness.
I'd be happy if August followed him.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
The herbs and flowers that Adelaide so hopefully planted in what was supposed to be spring have long since given up and turned brown. Even regular watering didn't give them the will to see the summer through. Even some of the native plants, particularly azaleas and hydrangeas, are looking particularly stressed. We lost some during the last drought, and I expect that we will lose some more.
We have lost several small trees, and I worry about the red oak right beside the front deck and the white oak by the patio. Both of them show dead limbs, occasionally dropping one. Their demise would deprive us of much needed shade -- and having them removed would cost a princely sum, because both would have to be taken down in pieces and carried away by hand.
I was making good progress of my list of outdoor home improvement projects until I nearly amputated my left thumb with a table saw. That put paid to the outdoor projects. Realistically, I would have postponed many of them anyway because of the heat.
Since I am a left hander, the injured thumb also meant postponing a good many indoor projects, too. For a while, even trying to type was slow and painful, but within the past few weeks I have been able to apply at least nine fingers to the keyboard.
I have managed to keep the bird feeder filled. It hangs from an oak limb just outside the dining room window, and watching nature through double-glazed windows has provided more entertainment than television. The grandchildren have found the nuthatches a particular treat, marveling as they watch them walk up the tree trunk and then walk back down, always facing the direction of their travel, sometimes hanging upside down on the limb by the feeder. We had an abundance of goal finches early in the spring, but now a solitary brightly colored bird makes occasional trips to the feeder.
The red bellied woodpecker has returned to the feeder after an unexplained absence. When he cruises in to the feeder, the smaller birds scatter like destroyers making way for a battleship. Even the squirrel casing the feeder from a nearby maple branch doesn't want to cross him.
The fireflies which were so profuse during the spring have disappeared, but the August night brings its own interested creatures. We were sitting on the front deck one recent evening when Adelaide noticed the bird feeder moving. I had already noticed that on many mornings a feeder that was full at sundown was considerably less so by sunup. We flipped on the spotlights at the corner of the house and we could see the shadow of a creature clinging to the feeder A flashlight provided more illumination, and my suspicions were confirmed: we once again had a flying squirrel as a nighttime diner. It was unphased by all of the attention.
I walked down the steps to the base of the tree that the feeder hangs from.The feeder is about 20 feet overhead from that vantage point. From the base of the tree, there is a line that leads up to a pulley, which provides a way to lower the feeder for filling.
I gave the line a quick tug, and the squirrel glided down, passed just over my shoulder and disappeared into the darkness.
I'd be happy if August followed him.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Monday, June 28, 2010
Boorishness Reigns on the Water
By Sunday evening, most of the weekend boaters had packed up and gone home, and I went down to the dock to see how it and our boat had fared.
Not well.
Traffic had been heavy all weekend, with boats racing by at full speed just yards off our dock, and our pontoon boat had bucked and pitched like a horse saddled for the first time. I'd checked on the lines and the fenders several times during the weekend and shook my fist at a boat pulling a water skier past our dock, sending out a wake that rivaled waves at the beach. For all the good it did.
By the time I made my inspection Sunday evening, the accumulated idiocy had taken its toll. A stout, well secured dock cleat had been yanked so violently that it had come loose, but not before the dock board it was anchored to and the banding it was nailed to had pulled loose.
Here I am left to repair the damage caused by inconsiderate idiots.
It made me long for an earlier time when there were fewer boatmen and a certain pride in seamanship. That seamanship included adherence to a code of conduct that included fundamental courtesy toward other craft and to those ashore. We learned and relearned that as the operator of a vessel you are responsible for damage caused by your wake.
There were fewer boats then, and they were less powerful. In some ways, they required more skill to operate, and there was some sense of fraternity among boatmen. (There were exceptions, of course, just fewer of them.)
Now any idiot who can pass a fairly simple test can twist the key of a high powered boat and go roaring off unshackled by the bonds of common courtesy.
Under the law, boaters are still responsible. Alabama law's definition of reckless operation of a vessel includes "willful or wanton disregard for the safety of persons or property... ."
Careless operation includes "endangerment of life, limb or property."
Those rules are included in the leaflet "Alabama Boating Laws and Regulations that you can find at most marinas and at many sporting goods dealers.
Enforcement of the law is spotty though. The Marine Police are stretched pretty thin, and Lake Martin is a big body of water.
Boorishness on the water is just a small part of the me first attitude that prevails in so much of our culture.
Meanwhile, I'm considering investing in a small canon and perhaps a few mines.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Not well.
Traffic had been heavy all weekend, with boats racing by at full speed just yards off our dock, and our pontoon boat had bucked and pitched like a horse saddled for the first time. I'd checked on the lines and the fenders several times during the weekend and shook my fist at a boat pulling a water skier past our dock, sending out a wake that rivaled waves at the beach. For all the good it did.
By the time I made my inspection Sunday evening, the accumulated idiocy had taken its toll. A stout, well secured dock cleat had been yanked so violently that it had come loose, but not before the dock board it was anchored to and the banding it was nailed to had pulled loose.
Here I am left to repair the damage caused by inconsiderate idiots.
It made me long for an earlier time when there were fewer boatmen and a certain pride in seamanship. That seamanship included adherence to a code of conduct that included fundamental courtesy toward other craft and to those ashore. We learned and relearned that as the operator of a vessel you are responsible for damage caused by your wake.
There were fewer boats then, and they were less powerful. In some ways, they required more skill to operate, and there was some sense of fraternity among boatmen. (There were exceptions, of course, just fewer of them.)
Now any idiot who can pass a fairly simple test can twist the key of a high powered boat and go roaring off unshackled by the bonds of common courtesy.
Under the law, boaters are still responsible. Alabama law's definition of reckless operation of a vessel includes "willful or wanton disregard for the safety of persons or property... ."
Careless operation includes "endangerment of life, limb or property."
Those rules are included in the leaflet "Alabama Boating Laws and Regulations that you can find at most marinas and at many sporting goods dealers.
Enforcement of the law is spotty though. The Marine Police are stretched pretty thin, and Lake Martin is a big body of water.
Boorishness on the water is just a small part of the me first attitude that prevails in so much of our culture.
Meanwhile, I'm considering investing in a small canon and perhaps a few mines.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Of Course I'll Go Back to the Shop
My brother, my sister and I concluded not long ago that our real hobbies are work. When our two boys were lazy adolescents, they used to kid, "Well, you know, before breakfast Dad has installed a sprinkler system and found a cure for cancer."
So it is with some difficulty that I am spending a great deal of time sitting around with my left hand elevated to try to reduce the swelling in my mangled-but-repaired left thumb.. (I should note here that we are fortunate to have an institution like UAB Hospital so near, and I was even more fortunate that Dr. Ian Marrero was available. I am told he is the person you want to fix your hand, and I will endorse that statement.)
I was fretting the other day about all of the things I need/want to do, but I reminded myself, "Well, dimwit, if you hadn't stuck your thumb in the table saw you wouldn't be having to work on the patience thing."
The reactions I get from acquaintances has been interesting. Sympathy, of course. Some people recall their own close calls – anyone who has spent any time working with power tools has had a close call – or talk about someone they know who did. Some people ask whether I plan to stay away from power tools. I tell them I think I'll just call Blue Cross and tell them I'm planning to make some more Adirondack chairs and they will say, "hey, we'll bring you some. What color do you want?"
It's funny. A friend of mine had a moment of inattention not long ago and crashed his car. I'll bet no one will ask him whether he plans to stop driving.
Of course I will go back to the shop -- just as quickly as I am able. A saw is no more dangerous than an automobile. Both will let you get away with being careless, until that they don't. I will just look at what's left of my thumb and use it as a reminder to pay more attention to the things that can hurt you.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
So it is with some difficulty that I am spending a great deal of time sitting around with my left hand elevated to try to reduce the swelling in my mangled-but-repaired left thumb.. (I should note here that we are fortunate to have an institution like UAB Hospital so near, and I was even more fortunate that Dr. Ian Marrero was available. I am told he is the person you want to fix your hand, and I will endorse that statement.)
I was fretting the other day about all of the things I need/want to do, but I reminded myself, "Well, dimwit, if you hadn't stuck your thumb in the table saw you wouldn't be having to work on the patience thing."
The reactions I get from acquaintances has been interesting. Sympathy, of course. Some people recall their own close calls – anyone who has spent any time working with power tools has had a close call – or talk about someone they know who did. Some people ask whether I plan to stay away from power tools. I tell them I think I'll just call Blue Cross and tell them I'm planning to make some more Adirondack chairs and they will say, "hey, we'll bring you some. What color do you want?"
It's funny. A friend of mine had a moment of inattention not long ago and crashed his car. I'll bet no one will ask him whether he plans to stop driving.
Of course I will go back to the shop -- just as quickly as I am able. A saw is no more dangerous than an automobile. Both will let you get away with being careless, until that they don't. I will just look at what's left of my thumb and use it as a reminder to pay more attention to the things that can hurt you.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A New Charge: Murder of a Culture
I am in mourning for the people of my home state of Louisiana. Although I grew up in the northern part of the state, populated mostly by folks who moved west from Georgia and Louisiana, I have some roots in the south.
And I have developed a love for the generous, warm spirited people who make up the broad swathe of South Louisiana that is called Cajun Country. I like the strong sense of family. I like to sit in a café and watch people enjoying themselves and each other. Grandfather and grandmother, mother and father, and the kids, treating their meal as a celebration and not a refueling stop, getting up to dance to music that makes it hard to keep your feet still.
I like the fact that people are not too busy to stop and visit. The clock is not their master.
I like the slow movement of the bayou and the sunlight filtered through Spanish moss. And I like the marshes, where a single tree stands out like a beacon. And I don’t even have to talk about the food.
The Cajun culture has had an endangered existence. Years ago there were efforts to stamp out the French spoken in so many homes, much as there was an attempt to do away with the native languages of American Indians.  Fortunately, reason finally prevailed.
Then came the oil industry.
It brought jobs and some prosperity to what had been to largely subsistence economy. At the same time, it began slowly killing the place that is home to that unique culture. Oil exploitation required the cutting of canals, and swamps that had seen only trappers and fishermen became hosts for barges and drilling platforms.
The canals changed water flows and accelerated the loss of coastline.
Now the BP disaster.
It is like going from slowly poisoning a victim to garroting him.
I am not sure that most people understand the magnitude of the disaster that is unfolding.
It is one that will affect all of us for years to come.
But in South Louisiana, a unique way of life is dying.
If there is any justice – and I have very little confidence that there is – criminal charges will come out of this disaster.
I would like to add one: Murder of a culture.
Contact the writer at
billatthelake@gmail.com
And I have developed a love for the generous, warm spirited people who make up the broad swathe of South Louisiana that is called Cajun Country. I like the strong sense of family. I like to sit in a café and watch people enjoying themselves and each other. Grandfather and grandmother, mother and father, and the kids, treating their meal as a celebration and not a refueling stop, getting up to dance to music that makes it hard to keep your feet still.
I like the fact that people are not too busy to stop and visit. The clock is not their master.
I like the slow movement of the bayou and the sunlight filtered through Spanish moss. And I like the marshes, where a single tree stands out like a beacon. And I don’t even have to talk about the food.
The Cajun culture has had an endangered existence. Years ago there were efforts to stamp out the French spoken in so many homes, much as there was an attempt to do away with the native languages of American Indians.  Fortunately, reason finally prevailed.
Then came the oil industry.
It brought jobs and some prosperity to what had been to largely subsistence economy. At the same time, it began slowly killing the place that is home to that unique culture. Oil exploitation required the cutting of canals, and swamps that had seen only trappers and fishermen became hosts for barges and drilling platforms.
The canals changed water flows and accelerated the loss of coastline.
Now the BP disaster.
It is like going from slowly poisoning a victim to garroting him.
I am not sure that most people understand the magnitude of the disaster that is unfolding.
It is one that will affect all of us for years to come.
But in South Louisiana, a unique way of life is dying.
If there is any justice – and I have very little confidence that there is – criminal charges will come out of this disaster.
I would like to add one: Murder of a culture.
Contact the writer at
billatthelake@gmail.com
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I've Gotten Away With It Before
The following was written Sunday, but I could not post it for lack of an internet connection: I am writing this with one hand while sitting in a room in UAB Hospital in Birmingham.The other hand, swathed in bandages, is being held vertically higher than my heart to keep fluids from building up in the thumb doctors sewed back on Friday night.
It was a near thing. The surgery resident who was attending me had consulted with his boss and was already numbing the area around my dangling left thumb, preparing to amputate right there in the emergency room, His pager summoned him. His boss apparently had taken another look at the X-rays and decided it might be possible to save the thumb. I don't know whether he knew that I am left handed.
The upshot was that a surgical team spent four or five hours putting back together nerves and blood vessels, and I am tethered to an IV pole that is infusing me with antibiotics and blood thinner to try to prevent the vessels and capillaries from getting plugged up. The surgeon stopped by earlier this afternoon and said things are looking pretty good, though nothing is certain. He explained that he could not save the nail bed and that he pulled a flap of skin up to cover the missing nail. If it works, the thumb will be a little shorter with the first joint fused.If the flap fails, the thumb will be shorter still. As so often is the case, there was no indication that disaster was looming, On Friday morning, I was working alone in my neighbors shop on some Adirondack chairs for our front deck. I have worked with tools and wood almost all of my life. I know the safety rules, and like many others, I have skirted the safety rules from time to time without suffering consequences.
Until Friday. A moving saw blade, a hand too near it, and a mangled thumb. No one was around, so I wrapped my T-shirt around my hand and walked home. My wife was not at home and I couldn't reach her on her cell phone, so I found some gauze and tape and wrapped my hand and drove to the Russell Medical Center emergency room. They quickly determined that I needed to go to UAB and made arrangements. I had plenty of time during the ambulance to reflect on my own folly, and I am no less chagrined by hearing the doctors stories about power tool accidents much more catastrophic than mine. I've had time to consider, too, that it is not just guys with tools who grow dangerously complacent after years of getting by. Recent reports about inattention in airline cockpits have stirred concern. And I suspect that the many of the people aboard that oil-drilling rig in the Gulf of Mexico were doing things they've done for years. The consequences of my complacency were great enough. Complacency on a larger scale can be truly catastrophic.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
It was a near thing. The surgery resident who was attending me had consulted with his boss and was already numbing the area around my dangling left thumb, preparing to amputate right there in the emergency room, His pager summoned him. His boss apparently had taken another look at the X-rays and decided it might be possible to save the thumb. I don't know whether he knew that I am left handed.
The upshot was that a surgical team spent four or five hours putting back together nerves and blood vessels, and I am tethered to an IV pole that is infusing me with antibiotics and blood thinner to try to prevent the vessels and capillaries from getting plugged up. The surgeon stopped by earlier this afternoon and said things are looking pretty good, though nothing is certain. He explained that he could not save the nail bed and that he pulled a flap of skin up to cover the missing nail. If it works, the thumb will be a little shorter with the first joint fused.If the flap fails, the thumb will be shorter still. As so often is the case, there was no indication that disaster was looming, On Friday morning, I was working alone in my neighbors shop on some Adirondack chairs for our front deck. I have worked with tools and wood almost all of my life. I know the safety rules, and like many others, I have skirted the safety rules from time to time without suffering consequences.
Until Friday. A moving saw blade, a hand too near it, and a mangled thumb. No one was around, so I wrapped my T-shirt around my hand and walked home. My wife was not at home and I couldn't reach her on her cell phone, so I found some gauze and tape and wrapped my hand and drove to the Russell Medical Center emergency room. They quickly determined that I needed to go to UAB and made arrangements. I had plenty of time during the ambulance to reflect on my own folly, and I am no less chagrined by hearing the doctors stories about power tool accidents much more catastrophic than mine. I've had time to consider, too, that it is not just guys with tools who grow dangerously complacent after years of getting by. Recent reports about inattention in airline cockpits have stirred concern. And I suspect that the many of the people aboard that oil-drilling rig in the Gulf of Mexico were doing things they've done for years. The consequences of my complacency were great enough. Complacency on a larger scale can be truly catastrophic.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Mind Your Butts
We paid a brief visit to Charlottesville, Va., recently. One thing we noted in our meandering around the countryside was how well kept everything seemed. I’m not talking about houses or buildings so much as the countryside itself.
We theorized that spring later arrival in that latitude meant that there had been less time for weeds to grow. Perhaps, we thought, the vegetation is different and grows less rampantly.
It wasn’t until after we were back home and taking a long walk that another difference came to mind: litter. (Caution: this is a purely anecdotal observation. We did not walk as much as we do at home, and perhaps the places where we did walk were particularly neat.
Nonetheless, when we set out for a walk the other day, we saw the evidence of spring in our little corner of the world. When the water rises and the weather warms up, the litter along Old Susanna Road grows more quickly than the weeds.
I’d like to blame the boaters who use the boat ramp near the end of the road, and I’m sure they are responsible for a good bit of it. But they are not alone in using the roadside as a garbage can. Since the road deadends into the lake, and since there is litter along side roads leading off Old Susanna, it seems safe to assume that residents and service people contribute.
The plastic bottles and aluminum cans are bad enough, but most infuriating are the cigarette butts.
I’m a former smoker, but I am not one to lecture folks about their own smoking. I do, however, find it infuriating that smokers use the roadsides as their ashtray.
On our stroll, we came across a mound of cigarette butts. Someone had obviously stopped his or her car and emptied the ashtray. From the size of the mound, the ashtray must have been so full that it was in danger of creating a fire. Just around the corner, there was a line of cigarette butts, as if someone had just rolled down the window and emptied the ashtray while the car was moving.
It’s not just that the cigarette butts are ugly; they’re downright dangerous.
Consider this: Since 1998, approximately 470 billion cigarettes have been consumed in the United States. Ninety-seven percent of those cigarettes had filters.
I don’t know how many wind up along the roadside, but each cigarette butt is a miniature hazardous waste dump. The tobacco clinging to the butt is dangerous enough; tobacco is, after all, a member of the nightshade family. And the filter, which can take up to 15 years to disintegrate is a toxic chemical warehouse: arsenic, acetone, ammonia, benzene, cadmium, formaldehyde, lead and toluene.
When rain falls on those cigarettes, the chemicals are leached out and eventually find their way into the water.
A single cigarette butt seems so small, but think of billions and billions of them being flicked out of a car window or ground out on the sidewalk or parking lot.
The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration estimates that cigarette debris is responsible for killing at least one million sea birds and 100,000 mammals annually.
An article on the Discover web site reports: Even with a small amount of unburnt tobacco clinging to it, a single cigarette butt soaked for a day is enough to turn a liter of water a sickly yellow brown and kill 50 percent of fish swimming in it. Without tobacco, it takes about four smoked filters to do the same job.
There are many liters of water in a stream or a lake or an ocean. But there are billions of cigarette butts lying around, too.
I really don’t care if people choose to smoke, but if they can’t refrain from discarding their butts so carelessly, I’m beginning to think there ought to be a deposit on cigarettes to pay for cleaning up after them.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
We theorized that spring later arrival in that latitude meant that there had been less time for weeds to grow. Perhaps, we thought, the vegetation is different and grows less rampantly.
It wasn’t until after we were back home and taking a long walk that another difference came to mind: litter. (Caution: this is a purely anecdotal observation. We did not walk as much as we do at home, and perhaps the places where we did walk were particularly neat.
Nonetheless, when we set out for a walk the other day, we saw the evidence of spring in our little corner of the world. When the water rises and the weather warms up, the litter along Old Susanna Road grows more quickly than the weeds.
I’d like to blame the boaters who use the boat ramp near the end of the road, and I’m sure they are responsible for a good bit of it. But they are not alone in using the roadside as a garbage can. Since the road deadends into the lake, and since there is litter along side roads leading off Old Susanna, it seems safe to assume that residents and service people contribute.
The plastic bottles and aluminum cans are bad enough, but most infuriating are the cigarette butts.
I’m a former smoker, but I am not one to lecture folks about their own smoking. I do, however, find it infuriating that smokers use the roadsides as their ashtray.
On our stroll, we came across a mound of cigarette butts. Someone had obviously stopped his or her car and emptied the ashtray. From the size of the mound, the ashtray must have been so full that it was in danger of creating a fire. Just around the corner, there was a line of cigarette butts, as if someone had just rolled down the window and emptied the ashtray while the car was moving.
It’s not just that the cigarette butts are ugly; they’re downright dangerous.
Consider this: Since 1998, approximately 470 billion cigarettes have been consumed in the United States. Ninety-seven percent of those cigarettes had filters.
I don’t know how many wind up along the roadside, but each cigarette butt is a miniature hazardous waste dump. The tobacco clinging to the butt is dangerous enough; tobacco is, after all, a member of the nightshade family. And the filter, which can take up to 15 years to disintegrate is a toxic chemical warehouse: arsenic, acetone, ammonia, benzene, cadmium, formaldehyde, lead and toluene.
When rain falls on those cigarettes, the chemicals are leached out and eventually find their way into the water.
A single cigarette butt seems so small, but think of billions and billions of them being flicked out of a car window or ground out on the sidewalk or parking lot.
The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration estimates that cigarette debris is responsible for killing at least one million sea birds and 100,000 mammals annually.
An article on the Discover web site reports: Even with a small amount of unburnt tobacco clinging to it, a single cigarette butt soaked for a day is enough to turn a liter of water a sickly yellow brown and kill 50 percent of fish swimming in it. Without tobacco, it takes about four smoked filters to do the same job.
There are many liters of water in a stream or a lake or an ocean. But there are billions of cigarette butts lying around, too.
I really don’t care if people choose to smoke, but if they can’t refrain from discarding their butts so carelessly, I’m beginning to think there ought to be a deposit on cigarettes to pay for cleaning up after them.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Spring is Really Here, Sniff, Sniff
Letter to a friend in Minnesota:
Fortner:
Funny you should write today that you love the Master’s because of the azaleas. I’ve been mentally composing a note letting you know that after several false starts, Spring arrived here in earnest over the Easter weekend.
One day it was winter, and the trees were forlorn, almost lifeless; the next day, the dogwoods were in blossom, and the native azaleas couldn’t be outdone. Even the oak-leaf hydrangeas put out tender green leaves. (Our cultivated azaleas have buds that will open up any day now).
Along the roadsides, red bud trees are showing off, and on my walk the other day, I noticed that the violets have come out.
Perhaps the surest sign of spring was the snake I saw slithering across the highway just south of Walnut Hill the other day. And the carpenter bees. There has been a super-abundance of them. A friend gave me some desiccant powder that is supposed to kill the larvae, if I can find all the holes the bees have made and pump the powder into them. Meanwhile, I’ve been swinging away at the bees with an old tennis racket. I don’t know whether I’m getting better or the bees are getting dumber. Either way, I’m doing in a bumper crop.
I don’t know whether it has anything to do with Spring, but a mature bald eagle sat in the white oak tree just outside our bedroom window for five or six minutes one day last week. We have several nesting pairs on the lake, but that’s the closest that I have every been to one. And since our bedroom is on the second floor, we were at eye level, so to speak. It was a most impressive sight. Meanwhile, the gold finches, which had been packing away the bird seed at a prodigious rate, seem to have disappeared.
The blooming things include the pine trees, with their pollen that covers every surface with gold dust. It is amazing how the pollen can find its way into the most remote parts of the car. I have to hose off the windshield every day so I can see to drive, There is no point in giving the cars a thorough washing until the pollen stops falling.
There has been pollen floating in the lake, and rain today washed more of it in, and the wind formed it into windrows.
The oaks are putting out pollen, too. You don’t really see it, but it’s the kind that works its way into your sinuses and lungs. I’ve been snuffly for the past couple of days, and it's small comfort that the TV news reported tonight that it is an unusually heavy pollen season. Soon, the trees will begin dropping catkins, and it will be time to haul the blower out again.
I have been madly trying to get the place looking presentable. I’ve replaced some rotted cedar, and cleaned some of the decks and the flagstone on the landing and steps that lead down to the dock. The decks have just gotten a power washing the past few years, but every now and then they need a thorough cleaning. That means, in some places, tackling the ground in dirt with a bucked of TSP solution and a brush. Fortunately, we’re having the place painted this year, so the painting contractor will clean the mildew from the siding and soffits.
While I was scrubbing, the temperature was in the 80s, more like July than April. Today’s rain, though, was the harbinger of a cool front, and when I went down to the lake side to watch the sunset, it was considerably cooler than a day earlier.
I watched the first round of the Master's, too, and thought about our trip with you and Jerilyn to Callaway Gardens. You'll be envious to know that Adelaide's church group is talking about making a trip to Callaway soon. You just need to come for another spring.
Regards,
Brown
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Fortner:
Funny you should write today that you love the Master’s because of the azaleas. I’ve been mentally composing a note letting you know that after several false starts, Spring arrived here in earnest over the Easter weekend.
One day it was winter, and the trees were forlorn, almost lifeless; the next day, the dogwoods were in blossom, and the native azaleas couldn’t be outdone. Even the oak-leaf hydrangeas put out tender green leaves. (Our cultivated azaleas have buds that will open up any day now).
Along the roadsides, red bud trees are showing off, and on my walk the other day, I noticed that the violets have come out.
Perhaps the surest sign of spring was the snake I saw slithering across the highway just south of Walnut Hill the other day. And the carpenter bees. There has been a super-abundance of them. A friend gave me some desiccant powder that is supposed to kill the larvae, if I can find all the holes the bees have made and pump the powder into them. Meanwhile, I’ve been swinging away at the bees with an old tennis racket. I don’t know whether I’m getting better or the bees are getting dumber. Either way, I’m doing in a bumper crop.
I don’t know whether it has anything to do with Spring, but a mature bald eagle sat in the white oak tree just outside our bedroom window for five or six minutes one day last week. We have several nesting pairs on the lake, but that’s the closest that I have every been to one. And since our bedroom is on the second floor, we were at eye level, so to speak. It was a most impressive sight. Meanwhile, the gold finches, which had been packing away the bird seed at a prodigious rate, seem to have disappeared.
The blooming things include the pine trees, with their pollen that covers every surface with gold dust. It is amazing how the pollen can find its way into the most remote parts of the car. I have to hose off the windshield every day so I can see to drive, There is no point in giving the cars a thorough washing until the pollen stops falling.
There has been pollen floating in the lake, and rain today washed more of it in, and the wind formed it into windrows.
The oaks are putting out pollen, too. You don’t really see it, but it’s the kind that works its way into your sinuses and lungs. I’ve been snuffly for the past couple of days, and it's small comfort that the TV news reported tonight that it is an unusually heavy pollen season. Soon, the trees will begin dropping catkins, and it will be time to haul the blower out again.
I have been madly trying to get the place looking presentable. I’ve replaced some rotted cedar, and cleaned some of the decks and the flagstone on the landing and steps that lead down to the dock. The decks have just gotten a power washing the past few years, but every now and then they need a thorough cleaning. That means, in some places, tackling the ground in dirt with a bucked of TSP solution and a brush. Fortunately, we’re having the place painted this year, so the painting contractor will clean the mildew from the siding and soffits.
While I was scrubbing, the temperature was in the 80s, more like July than April. Today’s rain, though, was the harbinger of a cool front, and when I went down to the lake side to watch the sunset, it was considerably cooler than a day earlier.
I watched the first round of the Master's, too, and thought about our trip with you and Jerilyn to Callaway Gardens. You'll be envious to know that Adelaide's church group is talking about making a trip to Callaway soon. You just need to come for another spring.
Regards,
Brown
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Friday, March 26, 2010
Danger to liberty is within us
Every few years some citizens discover that whatever administration is then in power is shredding the U.S. Constitution and endangering freedom.
It happens when the Republicans are in charge; it happens when the Democrats are in charge.
What is troubling about the current constitutional angst is the glib ease with which so many on the right – including elected officials – brand those with whom they disagree as anti-American or worse. People who were elected under the laws and constitution are termed tyrants, and the language of violence permeates and airwaves and the Internet. The rhetoric echoes that heard in the period prior to secession.
May I suggest that the greater danger to the constitution comes not from a piece of legislation but from one group of Americans deciding that the only “true Americans” are those who share their views.
If we cannot accept that people can love this country as much as we do and still have different ideas about the best course for the nation, then freedom for all of us is in grave danger.
As Judge Learned Hand put it in a 1944 speech at “I am an American Day” ceremonies in New York:
“Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women; when it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can even do much to help it. While it lies there it needs no constitution, no law, no court to save it. And what is this liberty which must lie in the hearts of men and women? It is not the ruthless, the unbridled will; it is not freedom to do as one likes. That is the denial of liberty, and leads straight to its overthrow. A society in which men recognize no check upon their freedom soon becomes a society where freedom is the possession of only a savage few; as we have learned to our sorrow.
"What then is the spirit of liberty? I cannot define it; I can only tell you my own faith. The spirit of liberty is the spirit which is not too sure that it is right; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which seeks to understand the mind of other men and women; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which weighs their interests alongside its own without bias; the spirit of liberty remembers that not even a sparrow falls to earth unheeded; the spirit of liberty is the spirit of Him who, near two thousand years ago, taught mankind that lesson it has never learned but never quite forgotten; that there may be a kingdom where the least shall be heard and considered side by side with the greatest.”
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
It happens when the Republicans are in charge; it happens when the Democrats are in charge.
What is troubling about the current constitutional angst is the glib ease with which so many on the right – including elected officials – brand those with whom they disagree as anti-American or worse. People who were elected under the laws and constitution are termed tyrants, and the language of violence permeates and airwaves and the Internet. The rhetoric echoes that heard in the period prior to secession.
May I suggest that the greater danger to the constitution comes not from a piece of legislation but from one group of Americans deciding that the only “true Americans” are those who share their views.
If we cannot accept that people can love this country as much as we do and still have different ideas about the best course for the nation, then freedom for all of us is in grave danger.
As Judge Learned Hand put it in a 1944 speech at “I am an American Day” ceremonies in New York:
“Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women; when it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can even do much to help it. While it lies there it needs no constitution, no law, no court to save it. And what is this liberty which must lie in the hearts of men and women? It is not the ruthless, the unbridled will; it is not freedom to do as one likes. That is the denial of liberty, and leads straight to its overthrow. A society in which men recognize no check upon their freedom soon becomes a society where freedom is the possession of only a savage few; as we have learned to our sorrow.
"What then is the spirit of liberty? I cannot define it; I can only tell you my own faith. The spirit of liberty is the spirit which is not too sure that it is right; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which seeks to understand the mind of other men and women; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which weighs their interests alongside its own without bias; the spirit of liberty remembers that not even a sparrow falls to earth unheeded; the spirit of liberty is the spirit of Him who, near two thousand years ago, taught mankind that lesson it has never learned but never quite forgotten; that there may be a kingdom where the least shall be heard and considered side by side with the greatest.”
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Ugly signs of spring
The signs of spring are everywhere. Daffodils are blooming on our half-hill, and the maple tree out front is threatening to leaf out any day now. The pot of chives that I though was dead is putting out new green, as is the pot of mums that has been cruelly neglected time after time. Hope does spring eternal. On the way to town on Saturday, I saw a tulip tree in full bloom.
We had a foretaste of spring a few weeks ago when the sun broke out and the thermometer rose enough to lure enough people out to mark the first day of chiropractor season. That’s when people put their winter-weakened muscles to the test, trying to do in a single day all of the outdoor chores that it has been too wet and cold to do all winter.
Winter came back, though, to give them a respite.
In the past couple of days, though, confirmation has come that spring is marching inexorably our way.
That confirmation came when on two consecutive days, I could walk in the great outdoors instead of trying to block out the television noise while getting nowhere on the treadmill or stationary bike at the gym.
It wasn’t the johnny jump-ups along the shoulder that provided the final evidence. It was the litter.
Our short street leads to a longer road that dead ends in the lake, so we don’t have any through traffic. During the winter, it’s mostly locals on the road. But there is a boat landing at near the end of the road. In winter, only the most dedicated fishermen launch their boats there, but as the temperature and water rise, use of the ramp increases.
And so does the litter.
I’m satisfied there is at least some connection. (There has been some construction in the area, and I’ve followed enough tradesmen’s trucks to know how many of them get rid of their trash. The toss their lunch bags and drink cups in the truck bed, and when they reach a certain speed, it blows out. And admittedly there are some slobs who live or visit in the neighborhood.)
But tradesmen don’t scatter the number of beer cans that I see along our road side.
I can picture someone having some beer left after they get the boat back on the trailer. They chug it down as they head up the road and toss the evidence out of the window before they’re spotted with an open container. That accounts for cans that lie in ones and twos on the roadsides.
Or they don’t want to take their empties home, so they give them a toss. And there they lie until some dedicated citizen or a prisoner working off time picks them up. If they lie long enough, the country mowers will come along and reduce them to shiny chips.
I don’t know whether a deposit on aluminum cans and plastic bottles would cause a change in behavior, but it’s pretty clear that appeals to civic pride aren’t effective.
We Alabamians bridle when the outside world regards us as backward, but we sometimes earn that reputation.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
We had a foretaste of spring a few weeks ago when the sun broke out and the thermometer rose enough to lure enough people out to mark the first day of chiropractor season. That’s when people put their winter-weakened muscles to the test, trying to do in a single day all of the outdoor chores that it has been too wet and cold to do all winter.
Winter came back, though, to give them a respite.
In the past couple of days, though, confirmation has come that spring is marching inexorably our way.
That confirmation came when on two consecutive days, I could walk in the great outdoors instead of trying to block out the television noise while getting nowhere on the treadmill or stationary bike at the gym.
It wasn’t the johnny jump-ups along the shoulder that provided the final evidence. It was the litter.
Our short street leads to a longer road that dead ends in the lake, so we don’t have any through traffic. During the winter, it’s mostly locals on the road. But there is a boat landing at near the end of the road. In winter, only the most dedicated fishermen launch their boats there, but as the temperature and water rise, use of the ramp increases.
And so does the litter.
I’m satisfied there is at least some connection. (There has been some construction in the area, and I’ve followed enough tradesmen’s trucks to know how many of them get rid of their trash. The toss their lunch bags and drink cups in the truck bed, and when they reach a certain speed, it blows out. And admittedly there are some slobs who live or visit in the neighborhood.)
But tradesmen don’t scatter the number of beer cans that I see along our road side.
I can picture someone having some beer left after they get the boat back on the trailer. They chug it down as they head up the road and toss the evidence out of the window before they’re spotted with an open container. That accounts for cans that lie in ones and twos on the roadsides.
Or they don’t want to take their empties home, so they give them a toss. And there they lie until some dedicated citizen or a prisoner working off time picks them up. If they lie long enough, the country mowers will come along and reduce them to shiny chips.
I don’t know whether a deposit on aluminum cans and plastic bottles would cause a change in behavior, but it’s pretty clear that appeals to civic pride aren’t effective.
We Alabamians bridle when the outside world regards us as backward, but we sometimes earn that reputation.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A few seeds sprout great entertainment
We get weeks of entertainment for what we’d spend on a couple of movie tickets and popcorn.
We buy a bag of bird seed, fill the feeder, and sit back and watch the action.
Our bird feeder hangs from a limb of a white oak tree just outside our dining room window; since we are on a steep hillside, that means the feeder is 25 feet or so above the ground. It is attached to a line which runs through a pulley so I can lower the feeder to refill it.
I’ve had to fill the feeder a couple of times a day lately as we have witnessed what could be described as avian food riots. I’m almost afraid not to refill it when so many of them seem to stare in the window impatiently waiting.
Goldfinches predominate at this time of year. They are not yet the canary yellow that will identify them later on Instead the are a sort of yellowish green.
They teem in the trees, contesting for perching places on the feeder. Squadrons of them drop to the ground like rocks, gleaning seeds that have been spilled.
A red-bellied woodpecker steams into the feeder like a battleship among destroyers, scattering the smaller birds, which return as soon as the larger bird departs. His smaller cousin, the hairy woodpecker, doesn’t cause that kind of alarm.
Other birds come to the feeder, too: chickadees and house finches and titmice and nuthatches, those funny little birds that walk down a tree trunk facing down, and the occasional sparrow. Brilliant male cardinals and less flamboyant females sit on the branches looking longingly at the feeder and make an occasional pass at it, but they are too large to feed easily.
Squirrels play chase around the trees, leaping from one pencil-sized limb to another. They sometimes venture out on the limb above the feeder and even hang by their back legs and try to access the bountiful supply of sunflower seeds, but they find that the shutters close -- or that I will lean out of the window and yell at them -- so they mostly scurry around the ground under the feeder, claiming spilt seeds. They are joined by the doves, also too large for the feeder.
A trio of mallards occasional waddles along the ground under the feeder, even the odd crow shows up briefly.
From early morning until later afternoon the area around the feeder is as frenetic
as at an anthill that has just been kicked.
When the gold finches depart, traffic at the bird feeder will drop.
But we’ll soon be putting out the hummingbird feeders and it will be warm enough to sit on the front deck and watch their aerial antics.
Meanwhile, we sit comfortably behind our double glazed, lingering over lunch and marveling at the show outside.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
We buy a bag of bird seed, fill the feeder, and sit back and watch the action.
Our bird feeder hangs from a limb of a white oak tree just outside our dining room window; since we are on a steep hillside, that means the feeder is 25 feet or so above the ground. It is attached to a line which runs through a pulley so I can lower the feeder to refill it.
I’ve had to fill the feeder a couple of times a day lately as we have witnessed what could be described as avian food riots. I’m almost afraid not to refill it when so many of them seem to stare in the window impatiently waiting.
Goldfinches predominate at this time of year. They are not yet the canary yellow that will identify them later on Instead the are a sort of yellowish green.
They teem in the trees, contesting for perching places on the feeder. Squadrons of them drop to the ground like rocks, gleaning seeds that have been spilled.
A red-bellied woodpecker steams into the feeder like a battleship among destroyers, scattering the smaller birds, which return as soon as the larger bird departs. His smaller cousin, the hairy woodpecker, doesn’t cause that kind of alarm.
Other birds come to the feeder, too: chickadees and house finches and titmice and nuthatches, those funny little birds that walk down a tree trunk facing down, and the occasional sparrow. Brilliant male cardinals and less flamboyant females sit on the branches looking longingly at the feeder and make an occasional pass at it, but they are too large to feed easily.
Squirrels play chase around the trees, leaping from one pencil-sized limb to another. They sometimes venture out on the limb above the feeder and even hang by their back legs and try to access the bountiful supply of sunflower seeds, but they find that the shutters close -- or that I will lean out of the window and yell at them -- so they mostly scurry around the ground under the feeder, claiming spilt seeds. They are joined by the doves, also too large for the feeder.
A trio of mallards occasional waddles along the ground under the feeder, even the odd crow shows up briefly.
From early morning until later afternoon the area around the feeder is as frenetic
as at an anthill that has just been kicked.
When the gold finches depart, traffic at the bird feeder will drop.
But we’ll soon be putting out the hummingbird feeders and it will be warm enough to sit on the front deck and watch their aerial antics.
Meanwhile, we sit comfortably behind our double glazed, lingering over lunch and marveling at the show outside.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)