The Fair Light Review

Gathering White Stuff And Confidence Too

2012-01-08T00:52:00.000-08:00

The snow continues to mound here at the Alaska-Canadian border having gathered to the rather impressive depth of 200 + inches and up until today, it's all powder. The willow, scrub maple and alder are heavily buried. Deep holes and treacherous trenches beneath fallen trees are completely filled in. With the temperature beginning to climb towards 30° the snow pack will turn to pristine white cement everywhere, the kind that vanishes somewhere around the first of June. Until then, the going's going to be great.

I've been thinking today about my mother and a very dear friend who died two days ago. The two were similar personalities; strong, resourceful, quasi-adventurous, extremely smart. Both were fine conversationalists who read everything.

Thursa Revenaugh, Mom, learned to create happiness with what she had. If that fell shy she'd make the necessary changes, either in circumstance or attitude, so that life felt right. It didn't take a lot. She fed herself with the simplest things; tap dance shoes at 65, all the doors and windows open wide with Hoagy Carmichael tuned up. She encouraged the Morning Glories to climb above the neighbor's cement wall, the new wall, built higher than the sunset. Every sunrise she'd read, sip her coffee and count the number of humming birds that visited her side of the concrete. Though her keen intelligence clouded with death pending, she chose to celebrate, Valentine's chocolate smeared on her lips and chin. She was a tough, resourceful cookie.

The years shared with Jane were our early parenting years, the seasons we watched our kids becoming people. She and her toddler Seth were an active part of everything we did as a family; birthday adventures, skinny-dipping expeditions, going to the public pool for swimming lessons, ice cream parties at Porcupine Pete's, a whole gold pan full of different flavors and ten spoons. We shared a deep love for reading aloud to our kids and Jane enthusiastically critiqued all of Micah's first manuscripts.
Jane left Alaska long ago and I don't know enough of what came down through the years but she died earlier this week from pneumonia via heavy smoking and chronic depression; soul sickness, the contemporary variety, the kind that seeps into one's deepest holes, filling the lungs, blood and bones then turns to cement. I hope there was some secret delight to see her out, some glad memory, sweet like chocolate.

I'm taking them both snowshoeing with me tomorrow, fond memories combined with the happy tramping of four dogs, (our two and Merrick and Joe's pups, grand-kids with tails). We're looking for individual snow flakes, winter's four leaf clover. That and a confidence boost over the wall. When we get back, there's a roof or two to shovel. Winter builds confidence just staying out from under.

New Year's ...the night

2012-01-01T01:11:00.000-08:00

How could she possibly find the energy she once knew wheneach and every night began and ended the same way? Oh sure, there might be slightvariations on the theme but basically the beat went on, week after week.

Tonight was different. She climbed out of bed when she couldno longer stand the dullness, put more wood into the stove, made a cup of tea andmoved her chair in front of the sliding glass door to watch the moonlight onthe mountains and write a bit. Perhaps later she’d go back to bed and catch amemorable dream.

For years she promised herself this kind of respect; to walkaway purposefully and with design from a sleepless night. Instead, she sufferedthe tedium of endless hours; neither asleep nor mentally, or physicallyengaged enough to be awake.

She tried prayer. She found the rapport with spiritsinspiring but rather one sided thereby bound toward emotional and intellectualcollapse. Each dearly departed would drift in, one by one, leave a bit ofresidual doo then mist off again, nothing substantial. Of course, what couldshe expect? She stood committed that engaging with ephemeral dust was generally betterthan overly pinging off the inside of her own head.

And now, it was nearly New Years!

New Year's

By Bei Dao

Translated By David Hinton and Yanbing Chen

a child carrying flowers walks toward the new year

a conductor tattooing darkness

listens to the shortest pause

hurry a lion into the cage of music

hurry stone to masquerade as a recluse

moving in parallel nights

who's the visitor? when the days all

tip from nests and fly down roads

the book of failure grows boundless and deep

each and every moment's a shortcut

I follow it through the meaning of the East

returning home, closing death's door

"New Year" by Bei Dao, translated by David Hintonwith Yanbing Chen, from LANDSCAPE OVER ZERO, copyright © 1995, 1996 by ZhaoZhenkai, Translation copyright © 1995, 1996 by David Hinton with Yanbing Chen. New Directions Publishing Corp.

And...

Burning the Old Year

By Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,

lists of vegetables, partial poems.

Orange swirling flame of days,

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,

only the things I didn’t do

crackle after the blazing dies.

Naomi Shihab Nye, “Burning the Old Year” from Words Underthe Words: Selected Poems (Portland, Oregon: Far Corner Books, 1995). Copyright© 1995 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Reprinted without the permission of the author, though I'd prefer otherwise. Naomi, this is beautiful work...how might I be in touch to compensate you?
...

She thought back to last New Year. That was the final time sheattempted to entrance him with her "Feminine Mystic Wiles”, her “Hoo-doo Dance of Love Joy.” His drowse proved far more intoxicating than aged thighs working classic Fosse rhythm and jive in tight heels, step sliding to a random selection of Internet Radio. Said in a whisper more like a prayer, “Someone,anyone, we need, Really need live radio, a DJ's musical discretion tonight”

Once again, dust.

The Show Goes On!

2011-12-12T15:43:00.000-08:00

The Klukwan School Holiday show IS on for tonight, Monday at 5:30.
With transportation issues haunting class participation and our production, it's been pressed right to the final hour whether we were going to be able to perform. We're there! Kids are ready, treats are baked, excitement (and terror) prevails!

Join us!

Writing/ Loving and Edith Pearlman

2011-12-09T00:08:00.001-08:00

I've fallen in love. It's been quite a long time, but this is a serious delight. While reading Orion Sept/Oct '11, I was introduced to Edith Pearlman. I spent my entire evening tracing her online and grew more excited with each passage. Can't wait to interlibrary loan Binocular Vision, a recent collection of her short stories and then to make orders through The Babbling Book for New Year 2012 gifts.

In addition to Edith, I'm invigorated by Micah Bochart's recent reworking of his novel,
Companions of the Garden. The diligence required to write is nothing short of devotion. I appreciate their passion, one tasty paragraph after another.

Klukwan School Winter Play 2011

2011-11-30T22:59:00.001-08:00

I've been up late, several nights in a row, writing and organizing plans for a holiday-time production with the kids of Klukwan School. We're knitting a sweet tableau of two Tlingit legends, adding some contemporary scenes of Alaskan village youth on a weekend winter hike, and stirring in the bright nuggets from a younger children's classic, Warton's Christmas Eve Adventure by Russell E. Erickson. This little chapter book kept several generations of 'out the highway' kids at Mosquito Lake School entertained around Christmas and delighted the cluster of 39 Mile kids right through two, or so, years ago.
How the stories intersect and become a single telling will require magical realism, puppets and the brilliance of kids. These ingredients we've got. The suspension of disbelief, this time of year, comes somewhat naturally for all of us in the hinterlands.
The largest stumbling block has been getting everyone to school. Some of the students live in town, 21 miles away. With one of the more spectacular Snovembers on history, 11 feet in four weeks, and a bus that's been broken down on either side of Thanksgiving, the kids are hard pressed to have enough in-house classmates to pull off a production. But, we're sure having fun trying. The kids are writing the overlying story and fabricating puppets to tell the interior tales.
So, though I have a terrible reputation for not following up on the stories I share here, I'll make every effort to capture highlights of our progress. I can truthfully say, it's rich getting back to writing
Here's to holiday fal-da-ral!

Don't Fall In!

2011-11-29T08:19:00.001-08:00

We'll call it the late November hole...

Over-easy? Not so.

2011-11-03T21:36:00.000-07:00

The screams were unidentifiable but had an effect that could raise old souls

from endless sleep. I rose quickly, pulled on my pants in the near light, and

stumbled out into driving rain and a gale force wind. Tree chicken,

turned banshee, lay crumpled, a flurry of feathers and noise

pinned beneath Red Tail, using his agile body, trying his best to behead her,

put a stop to her piercing war whoops. Up he swooped, distracted, disgruntled and hungry.

My one-eyed warrior-ess heals near the stove.

Hawk will try another day.

A Bootstrap~Kinda Joy

2011-10-06T10:19:00.000-07:00

An acrid sweet melancholy drips from the forest this morning, mixing with smoke from my woodstove. Raven is not far off, talking about his relatives and dropping casual references to mine, as though he has the right to gossip and share the personal news of others. I wonder if he blogs? Micah Bochart offers us a teaser film from this summer's puppet show, linked to here. It features Hannah Bochart as vocalist, Melina Shields on squeeze, Tim Hawkin on drums and Nicholas on guitar. Sarah Cohen kreeps out with The Box. I can't wait to see what Micah does with the rest of the footage from the Dream Circus. We'll be seeing him in NYC ten days from now (down the rabbit hole!)I've had the joy of helping with children's 'art explores' at Dalton City's Golden Mouse Art House the last two weeks. Today we are working on creating felt sculpture ~~~ suds, raw wool and untrammeled imagination in excess. I'll bring back images.

Amazed ~ Prior to Ash

2011-09-27T22:40:00.000-07:00

“Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one's luck.”—Iris Murdoch

JOOLS ELPHICK - CONTEMPORARY HEAD-DRESSES

2011-09-13T21:23:00.000-07:00

For fine art wearable and a fun source of inspiration peek at:
JOOLS ELPHICK - CONTEMPORARY HEAD-DRESSES 2001

Autumn Is Comin On!

2011-09-13T20:49:00.000-07:00

And, damp! The kind of damp that produces an algae green surface on everything from trees to decks. The tree sitting porcupines take on a kind of moss colored undertone. Cottonwood and poplar leaves turned a garish yellow this week and all thin places in the cloud cover suggest blue sky, just beyond view.

~~~I'm busy making lady slippers~~~

This pair is called Larkspur and were made for my sister Melody Lamb. They are recycled corduroy, ancient fashion fur from Etsy, and our wool, dyed and felted. The leather is from an old brushed-suede coat. I hope they keep her cozy and laughing.

If you have an interest in mocs or muks let me know. You can leave your contact info in a comment or reach me at rilkemaid@gmail.com

Raven Dancers

2011-08-22T22:00:00.000-07:00

Ray Shepard cutting the rug at the SE AK. State Fair 2011. Image by Micah Bochart

Happy Summer Day

2011-08-19T10:39:00.000-07:00

Heading up the Chilkat!

It's Cloudy Clear From Where I Stand

2011-08-15T15:06:00.000-07:00

This summer clipped by, fueled by visits from family who traveled great distances to be with us at 39 mile.
First, our Micah-man came home for ten days, making time away from his abundantly busy life in New York City. We had opportunity to feast, visit and adventure together. He and I took a boat trip up the Upper Chilkat River with our friend John Katzeek, passing through interwoven river corridors lined by glacier clad mountains toward the spectacularly beautiful river gorge where John's Tlingit ancestors journeyed to access the Yukon's interior. Micah and his sisters Merrick, Hannah and Captain Joe also journeyed to Tiasanka Harbor. Fair days were condensed and rich. Micah jumped in to film our Geppetto's Junkyard performances. This year's extravaganza, A Circus of Dreams, included a life-sized elephant, an aerial performer, and classic dreamscapes both bizarre and ridiculous.
My sister Melody and her fine crew from the Berkshires visited for two weeks as well. Each seemed to find what worked best on an individual basis, some wanting a more rugged experience and others learning about our community lifestyle and homegrown arts scene. Somehow, as though by special request for our visitors, the bug season didn't happen beyond the middle of June. I'll be sure to post pictures soon from Jeff, Peter and Dakotah's flight-seeing trip into the Kluane Icefields and their camping tour of the Golden Circle, Pleasant Camp to Skagway.

Hannah (pictured above) has been with us all summer happily working with Reach clients. In her down time she's writing songs, participated in the puppet show and helped to host our visitors. Next week, Saturday the 27th, the Big Brothers Big Sisters end of the year event will be held at 39 mile. We'll share our backwoods goat trails, late summer plant identification and offer a world class rock tossing event followed with a bar-b-que. That afternoon we'll burn up the road miles to the Palmer State Fair in hopes of catching our buddy Garrison Keillor and A Prairie Home Companion. Garrison is planning to retire next year and I couldn't possibly miss the show while he's here in Alaska. May we make it in time. Wish us luck!

And, with the damp weather settling in around us, I'm looking forward to lots more writing time . Thanks for reading and please, be in touch.

Adrian
rilkemaid@gmail.com

Elves in the Understory

2011-07-13T00:56:00.000-07:00

Until Then...

2011-07-11T09:05:00.000-07:00

Writing requires thought time, which I'm privileged to have a stunning abundance of. In fact, I'm profoundly wealthy when it comes to having time available to shape as I choose. It's a lifestyle choice I made long ago supported by living very simply. Monetarily, there's not a lot of extra grease. The freedom to observe the world around me, reflect upon it and offer back what I learn, is large.
This last season I've found most of the writing I'm doing is 'processing', the soul work that keeps one aware that there's still a lot to learn. Perhaps someday I'll be capable of shaping it into a form that will be useful or entertaining to others. For now, the words and thoughts are piling nicely into spiral-bounds with a number two pencil.
All Things 39 sends out a lot of love and hope for well being to all.
Adrian

A Stone's Throw

2011-07-03T11:18:00.000-07:00

Two houses, shared by old friends, connected by a wooden walk that vibrates.

The Buzz of Summer

2011-06-28T15:03:00.000-07:00

It's one of those damp, still mornings when the grey layer hangs on the mountains near the 200' level. The moist blanket amplifies the hum of the first batch of mosquitoes as they flurry on the screen door, whining a song of hungry frustration. A foot away, I dance a little self congratulatory gig for having the gardens and trails tended to, Before the Hatch.

My daughters and I earned our brush and bug creds for the season while climbing the mountain above Thirty-five mile hill two days ago.

We wove our way through tangles of Alder, prehistoric False Hellebore (chest high and luxurious) andspires of towering Devil's Club. The alpine meadows are in full blossom laced in thedecaying snow pack. All, but the very highest reaches, though shockingly beautiful, were swarming with hungry hordes on wings.

Last week, we added a wonderful new family member to the next generation from Thirty-nine Mile. Tu-pher is a three year old Husky sled-dog who comes to us from the Stanford family -via- Haines Animal Rescue Kennel. She'll inherit Mason's crown as lead trail boss, when he's ready to pass it on. I've kept the two little Oberhasli does born this spring. Together, they're mastering necessary backwoods skills; logs, stream crossing, steep inclines, staying out overnight, and are not far from graduating to small packs. We should be an awesome quartet.

Fair, bountiful summer. Ha! Dare I say it? I miss the freedom of moving across the winter landscape.

Trio in May

2011-05-24T19:35:00.000-07:00

In May

The evening hums on wings designed to hover and travel in reverse
Breathe in the chill and sap rising
Wonder

The Song of a Green-belly Appetite

Two stand on the river flat and call; insistent, purposeful and loud enough that spring avalanches are only background rumble. Eight bodies with four bellies each and I'm the goatherd, happy only two are sheep.

Hooky Herd

The electric wire is strung, a request that you remain there while my attention and love are fastened over here.
Wait..., I love you more. So-long, rhubarb crown. We're away.
~ Dear, tonight, the milk carries the fragrance of willowherb.~

Happy in the Garden

2011-05-21T15:08:00.000-07:00

The sweet intimacy of the last month has been superb. Our four Obie-goat kids have learned to cross streams, browse on tiny willow leaves and climb the steep forested hillsides with the adult herd and Mason and I. We have several bowers for resting where the little ones crawl into my lap, (though more than one can no longer fit.) We each get to nibble on the uncurling fiddlehead fern, twisted stalk, and purple shoots of fireweed. Happily, the mosquitoes aren't up and running--yet.

Before I invite the critters to join me, I groom each trail through the deep woods. While sorting broken branches and lightly raking the path I found the wild beauty of Violets, fragile and fleeting, peeking from beneath a shadowy bolder. The cold cloud cover today will keep them hidden and shy but perhaps tomorrow I can capture an image.

Tomorrow we begin milking again. I figure the day after The End of Days is a great time to start such a delight. Jackquie's fresh cheese next week!

Right now I'm inside loving the Spring Planting Show on A Prairie Home Companion, via WNYC FM. We're too far out the highway for our beloved KHNS FM. While the cast is taking time to put their northern gardens in and the repairs to a 1978 Winnebago satellite transmitter are completed, (Summer Love Tour 2011? Let's go!), Garrison Keillor is sharing a high spirited Spring compilation. So, though I'm cleaning the chicken coop this evening, right now I practicing my dance moves in heels.

What can I say? It's spring.

2011-05-03T09:31:00.000-07:00

There's no help for me. Springtime makes me soft. I yearn for intense warmth in steady abundance and this year, I'm in luck.

The older barn residents and I are taking part in the education of four new- comers, born a week ago. Mama Jackquie, a six year old Oberhasli grandmother, gave birth to two little does and two baby bucks. This week, there's innocence, beauty and a whole lot of laughs springing around on sixteen gangly legs.

Our garden variety sheep offered up a tremendous amount of beautiful fleece, as well. I'm busy carding, dying, and felting small things.

Like I said, there's no help.

A Sere Abundance

2011-04-27T11:24:00.000-07:00

January was feathered in furry courtship. Now, two days after a late Easter, the forest is bursting with life. We’re springing in snowshoes across a network of buried ice-clad alder at the base of the cliffs. It’s warm enough to get down to our sweaters, Levis and boots.

Micah chooses a gentle climbing route. Green and burgundy shoots poke up along with signs that most of these early plants are being munched on. We pass a tousled bolder and an exposed root system: icy, moist and musky, telling of a larger appetite.

Sunlight glints off a limbed nest in the crown of a hemlock, two hundred feet up the hillside where three eggs were hatched. Hatched, or are the broken shells from eggs that have been abandoned, a reluctant offering, a snack for an array of flying or tree climbing predators, those who work tirelessly to feed many tiny mouths? On bold legs, fuzzy babies will totter a small advance beyond the warmth of the covey to paw, and claw, learn to snap sharp teeth and snatch sustenance with stealth. We spot feathers, tufts of fur and bone.

This is Micah’s last spring at home. The first born of three is ready to explore a larger life than the magnificence that surrounds him. I recall our earliest time together. Late at night his vitality was so great his tiny body would vibrate with anticipation. A rugged lifestyle was essential for him to grow up well. Now he’s ready. And-- I’m still getting in shape.

Our steady progress up the hill brings us to an outcropping of rock, covered with crunching orange lichen. Dropping our packs and stripping away the sweaters, we pause for a snack.

“I like your backyard, Bochart.”

“Yea, this has been one hell of a place to grow up, Mom. The freedom and ongoing inspiration has made me ready to learn about other places. I’m thinking East Coast as a base for a few years while working, going to school and traveling. I have to see parts of Africa and South America, and I’ve become really interested in South East Asia.”

Below, the glacial valleys are drenched in sunlight. The entire universe is thawing today releasing the sweet smell of a freshened earth.

“My love, wherever you go you’ll bring life and a bright new perspective. Now, THAT’S a mom talking!”

Across the ravine, we spot a brown bear and her new cub at work finding twisted stalk and fireweed shoots. At the base of a fallen spruce the young mother digs shoulder deep to harvest an ant colony while the little one examines her toes.

She’s aware of our presence. We’re compatible.

(Personal history written as an exercise for the class, Klukwan Writing.)

The Dance

2011-04-25T16:29:00.001-07:00

Spring is Weighing In

2011-04-17T21:40:00.000-07:00

The wind and cold are biting through everything but wool. Still, promises of warmer days are present in each of the garden starts from little green broccoli snipplets to cabbage, cauliflower, delphinium and phlox. Increased light and that compressed sense of 'gittin it ALL going', multiplies around 4 a.m., minutes after the moon sets below the mountain tops. The waxing energy is intoxicating.

The sheep are ready for spring. Winter was so dry that those with fur are still dealing with itchy skin. The ewes are attempting to rub their abundant coats off before the weather warms. Anything with an edge offers relief; the loft ladder, keyhole stanchions or low hinges on the stall. Following a fresh start for the woolly ones, the arrival of this spring's baby goats will occur. I'm going to be a barn maid this week. If it was a bit warmer, moonbeams through the hayloft window would be enticing.

Instead, it's time to build a fire in the woodstove. I'll watch tonight's sky cozy-ed up in front of the sliding glass door. Join me?

(The cottonwood and willow tops are wearing a greenish-yellow flush. The Fair Light Review couldn't resist donning a similar look. Now, if I could just catch that fragrance, both to wear and share here. I'll keep trying.)

As the Snow Melts

2011-04-13T22:25:00.000-07:00

Mountain goat wool, drying in a cool spring breeze, ready for spinning.

Hightop moccasins made from native tanned deer and Klehini Valley felt, wool from the sheep at 39 Mi.

Exploring the otherside

2011-04-09T09:32:00.000-07:00

Mason shows Okum and Young Bear (YB) the ropes.

Of Peas and Pods

2011-04-05T00:49:00.000-07:00

“Claude Revenaugh was first a cowboy then one of Teddy’s Rough Riders and a merchant marine. He married late and then I came along. We tried working the land with teams of horses but the caked dirt was used up, limp sac-clothe. He dreamed of starting over in Alaska.”

Horizontal rain pummeled, flexing the loose window casings. My thoughts scrambled through lists for tomorrow’s classes when the dozy, old husk caught a second wind:

“The last ten years of his life he repaired automobile batteries. Kept a moderately lucrative business alive during the Great Depression. He was a big man, nearly as big as you. Great White Hunter type. Saw me as timid, a Mama’s boy, I suppose. ‘Hold the reins. Turn them, now, hold’em!’ Christ, I had nothing to prove.”

I can’t leave him stuck in the recliner, alone, but I’ve got to get to bed. Ivy will stay up visiting. He’s traveled to Alaska to say good-bye, accompanied by his eighty-three year old mother. The flight attendants who assisted the pair worried that one or the other might die before leaving the plane. Neil and I carried him, fireman-style, up eighty-seven slippery stairs from the street to the front door. Grandma was ready to go fishing. It’s been a long week.

“Were you in the service? No, I suppose you’re smarter than that. The war offered a lot of guys the chance to get the hell out, myself included, though once I was in, I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Uncle Sam paid for a college education, and a chance to see the Pacific from a mine sweeper. I was a sonar man.”

He’ll hold you in a web of story for several hours, cover the most abstract subjects; politics, religion, modernist social strata, literature, backed by vivid accounts of the people involved. Then, ask suddenly if you’ve been formally introduced. It takes getting used to. Like body surfing.

Ivy leaned in from the dining room, kissed her poppa on the head and pulled a recorder from her robe, magician style.
“I’m holding the best friend a journalist ever had, primed with fresh tape to document the evening. What do you say, Revenaugh?”

“Well, Daughter, they tell me I’m dying of cancer and the disease is effecting my short-term memory, (hard on a reporter.)
There’s some concern I may not make the trip home to my companion of the last few years (we’ll see if I still hold influence with the airlines.) I’m honored to be with you, always, and I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, (if he’d be so kind as to remind me who the hell he is.)”

Ivy winked. April Fools

The Bridge

2011-03-29T18:59:00.001-07:00

Patches of Blue

2011-03-28T13:10:00.000-07:00

I marvel at the trees so heavily endowed with cone there's no way for them to stand under all that potential. Hemlock, spruce and scattered patches of pine, droop. From a distance, the entire forest is rusted over. Pepper-birds, chirpy siskins, filling the airwaves with music, harvesting cone across gray, white and charcoal hills. Rust never sleeps. The woods ring with thrush and robin.

Mornings, I'm filling seed containers with home grown starter mix and though I wake to a skiff of ice, rain, or snow each morning, the late afternoons peak around 60°. Planting never fails to offer that sorely needed jolt, "Pick it up, Girl! There's a lot of living to do."

I grieve the end of winter. I adore snowshoe scrambling across the hillsides, making camp with a book and journal; watching, listening, conjuring. This winter pushed hard with deep, continuous cold and terrific wind, breaking deadwood from the trees, sculpting the mountains and snow across the river flats. Hooked into and surrounded by such a force helps keep perspective.

This year many peers from our community took quick and permanent departure. My friend, Garrison Keillor said about writing eulogies, something like, "if I start now, where would I quit?" I walk with mental recitations of good times spent in and around valley residents who've died and all of us left holding.

It helps considerably that I'm married to the idea of new starts being hatched from rich, old material, including break-up come spring. My winter bridge across the Klehini gave way around midnight. The rush of water soaked snow and ice, suddenly running free, filled the night air with green sweetness.

2011-03-01T17:11:00.000-08:00

We traveled up to Anchorage last week to pay a visit to old friends and take advantage of the state's positron emission tomography scan for Merrick; a PET Scan.
Happened also to be Fur Rondy, the kick-off celebration of sled dog race season.

It was terribly cold and windy.

The scan showed what we expected and hoped for. The large tumor has been dissolved. Chemo treatment around the world, operating like lounge centers for those fortunate enough to have medical funding, are finding ways to chemically halt the rogue cell production of some cancers.

The way in which people turned out to raise funds for Merrick's treatments still stuns me in the middle of the night. Our community has had many cases of cancer; many who survive and many who don't. We should all be able to have affordable health care and enjoy the love and support of friends and neighbors.

And, the loving support to die well.

I'm watching for signs of spring. Much longer days are making their presence known. Somewhere, beneath the snow, the rhubarb is turning blood red.

2011-03-01T04:16:00.000-08:00

I've been away and guess who's watching the 'stead?

The Hayman

2011-02-10T16:32:00.000-08:00

A reliable presence for small farms through out the Chilkat/Klehini Valley has taken leave this week and won't be making his usual round of deliveries.

Merv Armstrong of Haines Junction (more precisely, Dezdeash Lake, YKT.), died Mon. February 7th of a stroke. Merv operated his Hay Ranch at the lake for most of the last thirty years, supplying the region with a sweet mix of natural and Siberian grasses.

Our friends Bob and Margaret Andrews passed along this info for those hoping to pay their tributes. A celebration of Merv Armstrong's life will be on Friday, February 18, from 12 noon to 3p.m. at the Haines Junction Convention Center.

We'll miss the regular 'toot' on your way past, Merv.

Bob also gave me an introduction to JEFF LOWENFELS and his recent gardening articles in The Anchorage Daily News. I'm still such a newbie to the internet that I was thrilled to find such a great resource on Alaskan Gardening, so neatly bundled together. Thanks Mr. and Mrs. A.

So, here's to friends and gardens, and all matters in transition.

(looking down stream on the Dezdeash River ~ from Autumn 2010)

(a low snow year for the little barn and it's occupants)

Joan Dye Gussow

2011-02-10T15:42:00.000-08:00

This morning I've spent time wading through my own archival tsunami that I've intended to pull from someday.
The effort's been brought on by three things. The passing of one full year of being home in the Klehini Valley (after being gone two years to help care for our mom through her passing last February). I'm taking a U of A writing course in Klukwan this spring (always an excellent catalyst to dredge). And, third... I'm a woman of a certain age (be forewarned, I'm looking at creating photo albums with paper, glue and thirty years worth of images next! Every family has it's archivist. Ours moved to NYC!).

From today's inbox, ~via~ Matter Daily Bookstore and Review, I was introduced to Joan Dye Gussow. Gussow's work is published and reviewed here by Chelseagreen Books covering some of my most cherished topics, particularly backyard homesteading. She's an eloquent thinker with dirt beneath her fingernails.

This fine video interview is on the topic of her new book, 'Growing, Older'.
For those of us with "out the highway DSL", start the film, allow it to download while it's on pause, continue to explore elsewhere with another page, then, when you return, drag the slide bar back to begin viewing. Patience is... well, y'know the drill.

She's smart, provocative, and compassionate about becoming real. If you take the time to watch, I'd be interested in hearing what you're thoughts are.

I'm calling Babbling Book Store this afternoon to order, then share.

Spring Classes Begin in Klukwan, Alaska

2011-02-01T17:43:00.000-08:00

A variety of very popular art courses are being offered through the University of Alaska, SE. this spring in Klukwan Indian Village.

Last week, Jennie Wheeler instructed classes in high-top moccasins and skin sewing. Jennie comes to us from Yakutat, Ak. She says she always looks forward to teaching in Klukwan, the village where her mother and grandmother were from.

Twelve students, both adolescents and adults, completed beautiful knee-high boots and regular cut moccasins adorned with a variety of fur and leather. No two pair were alike. A number of the younger students met with us mornings before school and late in the evenings. When finished, the kids proudly wore their completed fancy footwear back to their regular classes.

Josie and her mocs.

Excited adults contemplated what their next projects might look like. Some will be offering their work through the Hospitality House ~ The Bentwood Box gift shop.

Carving, basketry and traditional woolen weaving classes will also further the local artists scope of marketable art.

Klukwan Writing with Daniel Henry is underway in the village.
The class is broken into two groups with considerable overlapping focus on both the practical writing skills that one might use with their job or community service position and a twelve week, over arching project designed by individual participants.
The work promises to be challenging while offering a chance to nurture local writers in a group setting.

The other classes and events in the village slated for the upcoming weeks will have a spotlight here at the Fair Light Review so be sure to check back on occasion.

And, as always... I'm interested in knowing what else is cooking in our community. If you'd like a column written about your activity, class or special performance, don't hesitate to contact me. I'm in the book!

Warmth, Chill, and Chits Abide

2011-01-15T15:31:00.000-08:00

The month of January has been inspiring; deep cold, windy, lean, post-holiday inspiration. The homestead and art studio at 39 mile are rocking.

I tend two Oberhasli goats; a milking doe named Jackquie and her wethered son, Ivan. They share the barn with Anna Lise and Zoe our two garden variety ewes. The tiny hen house up the hill protects ten Golden Comet hens and their glorious gentle rooster, a giant Barred Rock named Capt. Kirk.

Through providing shelter, food, water and attention the birds and crits reward us with fresh milk, wool, meat, eggs and garden compost for our river-bottom garden beds. The added plus is the four-leggeds adore alder and eating additional brush (where they're allowed to browse) giving me the false notion of maintaining a bit of open space during the green explosion called summer in South East Alaska.

And ... they love to hike the back country; fording streams and negotiating the deep forest over logs and through the dense understory. They're fine companions who don't mind carrying a moderate load for the old lady.

This time of year however, Mason and I are the only two on the snowshoe trails.

Merrick's Okum-pup comes to visit every couple of weeks. He cranks up the tempo for the old guy and I. The little fella has been a bit house bound of late with this below zero front, however. It's the flesh slicing wind that makes one wonder if it's still the cat's meow living so far North.

For Okum, it's not the cat's meow but the resident squirrels that keep his attention. The little buggers have found access to the interior passage between the walls of my fiber studio and the kid is obsessed.

Honeyman Jeff, has located their various entry points and blocked them adequately, dangling atop the ladder on ice but two days later, the nesters are back. When Oakie is here he's able to ride herd and at least keep them off in the forest.

Pup is away this weekend. Guess who is warm today and ready to listen to A Prairie Home Companion down through the walls?

Merrick at play in the spin-cycle.

The show promises to be extraordinary and this week we get to welcome Sara Watkins as a guest host while Garrison watches from the wings. Enjoy!

P.S. Guy Noir was RED HOT today. Nearly abated my hunger for GK's regular articles which I miss so much. I've provided the pod snippet ~ it's great. Time to ante up my online subscription too.

Sara and her guests were a delight. Check out Abigail Washburn. Her claw-hammer banjo made my musical month complete!

A New Year's begun!

2011-01-03T02:33:00.000-08:00

This has been a tremendous holiday season with friends and family (nearly the whole kitten-kaboodle as in one kaboodle, chock full of kits) plus fine food, and frolicking.

Hannah returned home from school just in time to help with five Geppetto's Junkyard performances of The Miracle of Life. The dinner theater was staged as a burlesque adaptation for actors, puppetry, and original music. I'll be writing more on this with the next update, but suffice it to say, it was a gas!

For Christmas dinner, Merrick cooked two mean (though happy) ducks, complete with stuffing and all the trimmings. We were also happily stuffed on Terry and Judy Jacobson's lefse and Caesar salad.

Micah and Jerin were missing but we kept close by phone. This is a picture taken during his recent SW trip.

Santa hired Handy Joe to surprise Merrick and Okum with a hand crafted freight sled.

We're settling into the nitty-grit of winter now, which I can't seem to get enough of though I pledge to offer a better update of pertinent news later this week.

A Happy New Year to all from 39 mile, Haines Highway.

Visitor from Afar 1948 ~ 1976

2010-12-10T02:02:00.000-08:00

Each December 10, I offer a toast to our older brother, Mark Lee Revenaugh.

From The Fair Light Review

"It's Saturday, the band is playing..." Honeyman!

2010-12-04T15:01:00.000-08:00

Take me to Town Hall... NYC!

My darling, Jeff, has helped to hook-up this beautiful little MacBook to the large sound system!

From The Fair Light Review

What a guy! Here's The News From Lake Woebegon from Nov.13, one Jeffe' would enjoy.

It's dumping great tonnages of white stuff, the living room floor is wide open; I'm dancing this afternoon!

From The Fair Light Review

Join me?

Sarah P. showed up in 'The Lives of The Cowboys' this afternoon. She's been put into safe keeping in the Museum of Natural History. If only!

Subscribe to A Prairie Home Companion podcasts here.

From The Fair Light Review

Online radio NCPR is now streaming River Walk Jazz, featuring John Hammond's brilliant career promoting and recording the jazz greats; Billie Holiday, Bessie Smith, Benny Goodman..,etc.

It's a NYC kinda day, 39 miles north of Haines, Alaska!

To: The Klehini/Chilkat Valley and Beyond ~

2010-11-21T22:45:00.000-08:00

From The Fair Light Review

Merrick's Swallow

Lets see..., just something simple. The right words written to the right tempo.
To the point, yet expansive enough to spread across the valleys and the coves, through every home and hovel.

Friends, neighbors, family and not-yet-mets ~ your generosity to raise such funds for Merrick, (gadzooks! such funds!) ~ in the spirit of artful fun ~ is fine.

We've large appreciation ~ star splitter gratitude ~ for this community quite small and wonderful.

Our love to you each,

Ade, Jeff, The Bochart Kids and Joe ~ Happy Holidays

From The Fair Light Review

Our Gal, Merrick

It's a writing day...

2010-11-20T10:07:00.000-08:00

Moonlight on new snow is a life long weakness of mine. This moon is Dleit K'ack'w, the early November/Little Snow Moon to Tlingit people of the Chilkoot area .

The Blue Willow dinner plate face in the sky makes a mockery of star viewing, casting the billions upon billions down onto the silvery flats. A late walk along the river eliminates any chance for sleep later.

Instead, I load the wood stove and stretch my sleeping bag onto the floor of the workshop. The triple pane sliding glass door frames massive saw-toothed brilliance, shining white above the black-blue forest.

Magic. And I'm the lucky participant.

The entire month has been tremendous. I've so much to write about and this is a perfect day for the keys. First, milking and more wood...

From The Fair Light Review

Morning Comes

Mid-term elections led November onto an odd course. Nationwide, many were left haggard, surprised, hopeful or ready to rally. Alaska's senatorial race is still being contested by tea-bag darling, Joe Miller.

Democrat Scott McAdams led an impressive campaign for a senate seat and will hopefully remain on the state political radar screen. The Sitka mayor has intelligence and integrity.

Lisa Murkowski's write-in campaign made history. If she's seated..., may she do well by both the state and nation. She's already helped slow the Palin parade, a helpful motion by default.

The scene nationally and beyond our borders is tenuous at best. May we all do well by each other.

The following Tuesday, Nov.9th, in Klukwan, an annual benefit dinner was held for the Jilkatt Kwaan Heritage Center. Master chef, Tony Strong was accompanied by two lovely and able assistants, Robin Grace and Sandy Barclay, each from the Mud Bay Peninsula. The trio met while harvesting wild mushrooms earlier this fall.

The event was well attended by Chilkat Valley community members. The handcrafted menu was heard described by Chef Strong on the KHNS news report of November 8, 2010 by Tara Bicknell.

Later, an art auction was held and it seems our community enjoys a good auction as much it loves dancing, food and winter. Attendants wrapped up the night happily overfed and packing home fine North West Coast art treasures.

Event organizer, Lani Hotch, was pleased with the outcome stating that the money raised will be utilized for projects and events at the Traditional Knowledge Camp and the newly opened Hospitality House, a reception center designed to greet local visitors, travelers and school groups interested in learning about Tlingit tradition and subsistance skills.

From The Fair Light Review

Saturday, November 13 was the big event day for the Bald Eagle Festival, culminating in a release of an adolescent eagle. The bird was found dumped from it's nest as a chick and has spent its first three years being reared in captivity. Thought ready to face the wild, she was met by well-wishers and a traditional Native ceremony to safeguard her journey.

The juvenile bird had some difficulty after its release and floated downstream with the current in the side channel of the Chilkat River. The location was chosen for its rocky bars and obvious available fish for easy food. The huge youngster hopped on shore looking as though it liked the thrill of cold water.

After close observation however, the bird was re-captured. It hadn't moved for several days from it's original landing spot and is now considered not quite fully prepared. Perhaps one more winter and a few white adult feathers will allow for an easier transition.

The bird will be returned to the Juneau Raptor Center.

Savory

2010-11-19T23:46:00.000-08:00

From The Fair Light Review

Ivan the Wonderful

2010-10-23T12:02:00.000-07:00

We sit closely on the leather couch, enough so that nuances can be felt by the tap of an elbow or by leaning towards his shoulder. Pointing to text, or a page number, is generally all that's needed.

Once the thick pages have been managed, (do we loose the texture of our finger prints with old age?), Ray's up and running - IN Key, recalling the harmony parts, regardless of his missing hearing aides.

We have fun acknowledging the song's history offered in the text and Ray never fails to pay tribute to his mother. His stories of a NYC upbringing in the twenties allows me to picture Ray's family singing around the piano. The melodies stay forever and for him, so do the lyrics. He's continued the rich tradition of singing with those friends who come to visit at the Haines Assisted Living Center, each Friday at 1 P.M.

We wrapped up yesterday's session by looking at a few of the essays, stories and songs written by the youth of Haines for the Peace Project. Ray was an educator for many years in the Haines schools along with his wife Vivian. He also ran the Chilkat Valley News, was prominent with KHNS Radio, and the Lynn Canal Community Players.

He's a literary guy and was a fine political activist in the region for decades. Who better to give some feedback on what the kids are thinking? His primary comment was... "It gives you hope, doesn't it?"

A potluck and awards will be given to honor the contest participants, Friday October 29th at the Haines Senior Center. All are invited.

This weekend, Haines hosts one of the better community opportunities towards the future. The second regional Drama, Debate and Forensics (DDF) tournament of the 2010 season will be held at the new school.

Alaskan teams from Wrangell, Sitka, Juneau, Ketchikan, Mt. Edgecomb, and Haines will be represented.

The teams work on a variety of speech delivery forms, researched and written by the competitors. Both literary and dramatic interpretations have been polished and will be performed. They'll also debate current topical issues as teams.

The state tournament held in Anchorage each spring decides who will be represented at the National Forensic League competition.

Our community usually turns out in full force as judges, timers, audience and by opening their homes to house this large event.

It's present and future community building and one aspect of Haines at it's best.

All Tucked In?

2010-10-18T19:25:00.000-07:00

From The Fair Light Review

As the season continues to wane, I'm stirred to ask friends, acquaintances and total strangers:

"So, how'd your summer and autumn roll?"

♨ Did the garden produce what you hoped for? What was particularly successful, (or a total bust?) Any new techniques that you'd care to share?

♨ Did you learn how to harvest or prepare a new subsistence food source that's particularly exciting. How about the fishing and smokehouse efforts this season?

♨ Were you able to attend the Haines Farmer's Market? Did you have a table? Are you planning towards being a part of next season's community garden, produce or handcraft efforts for market or the fair?

♨ What upcoming event would you like to see featured here at The Fair Light Review?

After being away from the Chilkat/Klehini Valley for the majority of two years, I find I just can't get enough. Though living 39 miles up the highway demands minimal trips to town, I may have found a workable solution. With that, The Fair Light Review, (formerly the Alaskan in the Hinterlands), is shifting focus.

If you're interested in sharing what's exciting from your world, I'd love to hear from you. I hope to aim towards a community resource page that promotes local food and farm, cottage industry and wild-crafting. Reviews on upcoming events such as holiday bizarres, art auctions, school, museum, library or theater performances will be featured as well. Personal tall tales are always most encouraged!

I'll be glad to showcase your story and include photos to promote your project or event ~via~ a phone interview, e-mail, (I'm at rilkemaid@gmail.com) or an arranged visit.

With the season's remaining fair light, shining towards local terrior, (the taste of a place!), I'm in the book. Lend me your corner of the Chilkat/Klehini Valley to write about.

Hope to hear from you,

Adrian Revenaugh Bochart

Alaskan Wild Life '78

2010-10-10T23:48:00.000-07:00

From The Fair Light Review

There's a story here...

A Summer Farewell

2010-10-02T22:38:00.000-07:00

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

Farewell by Hannah

Enjoy this harvest-time classic by Neil Young. I've also attempted to share the gorgeous version of Harvest Moon I heard performed by Garrison Keillor and Andra Suchy, (begins around 9:15) on A Prairie Home Companion

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

On Mt. St. Clair in Upper Lynn Canal by Hannah

Muffled Fall

2010-09-30T00:45:00.000-07:00

Silver bucket of whey soaked this tumbled form

Sprawled, I listen to hemlock drip

Fog drapes the river

While Dancing the Racoon!

2010-09-25T15:51:00.000-07:00

Drippy, white stuff has pulled the alder and willow over. This afternoon heralds the oncoming locomotive called winter and we're ready... well kind of.

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

The woodshed is full, the barn stocked snugly with alfalfa, grain and healthy animals.

The honeyman, at this very moment, is climbing Mt. Whitney with none other than our buddy John Svenson. An awesome undertaking and one that Jeff's been working toward for a couple of years.

Each of the kids are invested in very different paths, taking on adulthood with gusto and determination. Got nothing but admiration for all three and yes, I miss their company. I relish spending time together when we're able. They're fine people.

I'm finding my way towards the next volume. It includes a piano and loom, a bicycle and a camera.

Right now though a huge bowl of rhubarb and some twenty sizable zucchini are grinning at me from the counter. Time to be inventive with the canner and oven.

The woodstove is toasty and this fine little laptop is offering me the opener to the new season of A Prairie Home Companion. I've missed GK's syndicated columns, The Summer Love Tour, (enjoy the webpage) and having the chance to catch the show in person!

But, life feels wide open and the kitchen floor is made for dancing. Damned near as rich as a street dance in St. Paul tonight!

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

OOOh, The Too Tight Rag! Perfection ... haw YEAH!

Autumn Ambling

2010-09-13T23:09:00.000-07:00

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

As Summer Wanes

2010-08-27T22:24:00.000-07:00

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

Blueberry Splendor

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

Dawg Days of Summer

Saturday

2010-07-17T15:40:00.000-07:00

I didn't know!

Though my weekly fix of The Old Scout's articles must be abated by rereading the archives, rich and topical regardless of when they were published, my heart hungers for more.

To my delight, I find today that A Prairie Home Companion's show is constructed of highlights, allowing a summer break for the cast but that Garrison is broadcasting live from the studios in St. Paul.

I'm listening to North Country Public Radio from The Adirondacks at 24 kpbs. Not quite local but its a clean stream and there's my old pal.

After the show I'll return to making my puppet of Samuel Clemens as a mountain goat, for a performance at the fair. Maybe I'll take a special pause later with My Dear Sonneteer.

Life is rich.

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

Shine on.

Reunion

2010-07-14T14:26:00.000-07:00

Ever the champion
of the elegantly wise,
wrinkled, well seasoned,
I fantasized since a teen
of how quaint it would be.

How accepting I'd feel,
wonderfully odd and contrary to youth at full sail
Like an adoption into a foreign culture

Now, having become one
of the many elders at a family gathering,
where I know the opportunities
to be together are limited,

Telling the Great Old Tales
comes with a sadness

I was never good at good-byes

2010-06-11T15:07:00.000-07:00

My darling,

It's been such a long time since I've written. These weeks of delightful movement, as the mountains shed tonnages of snow, are glorious. The melt is washing away the banks of the river: roots, alder, boulders, logs. The roiling provides such a symphony it's matched only by the sound of new leaves in the tallest cottonwoods, blowing steadily among the spruce and hemlock.

A two-thirty dawn means to try and find the spirit to stay tucked in for a few more hours. But the work of re-establishing a presence amidst the forest is huge this spring and it calls loudly and energetically. I can't resist.

This body of mine, however, is not only much older but the odd, life-long aversion to sitting, now appears to have been a response to scoliosis. Who knew?

The doctor orders dancing and bike riding in addition to my other passions of garden and trail. New shoes, (some especially fine steppers for twirling, others for pedals and bluffs), and a new bike, arrive week after next.

Also evolving is the plan to visit the Mid-west. There's a story I want to write along the way.

Pictures soon.

Love always ~

Ade

My Life ~ So Sweet, It Smells

2010-05-31T20:14:00.000-07:00

I'm at that fortunate point in life that all I can be is grateful. Things really can't be much better. The nightmares in the world and degradation of the planet is ever present in my heart, crackling in my bones. Still, I wake up joyful.

It's partly due to the green and yellow pollen that wafts through the Klehini Valley and down the Chilkat Range in such thick plumes they might be mistaken for dust devils.

Potential growth, a biotic memory blanket is being layered thickly over the remaining snow, yellow as garlic powder. It sticks to my sweaty skin as I labor turning the garden beds in the eighty-four degree heat.

In the evening I smell like green sunlight.

Just add water
an epoch from now. I'll become
the next forest

BP and Bach by Garrison Keillor at NYTimes.com
I.H.T. Op-Ed Contributor - BP and Bach - NYTimes.com

(A special thanks to friend James for the editorial suggestions.)

That Merrick!

2010-05-10T22:43:00.000-07:00

From The Blue Room

Margaret Atwood ~ Why We Must Defend Writers

2010-05-03T14:39:00.000-07:00

On receiving the American PEN Literary Service Award last week, Margaret Atwood shares some increasingly important thoughts on freedom of expression.

Group Hug ~ Klukwan, Ak.

2010-04-25T00:21:00.001-07:00

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

Celebrating Culture Week in the village.

The Steady, Dripping Beat of Spring

2010-04-19T15:35:00.000-07:00

And now, the rains have come.

Yesterday, I lay out on a snowberm with Mason-dog watching the Canada Geese and Sandhill Cranes passing over head. Hoping to find a path through the cloudy mountain draw and discouraged by the dense, drippy layers, they circled back around several times providing wonderful company.

The jangling-rachety call of cranes to one another, keep their spirits aloft on the long journey while pointing out the sights below. We heard a cheer of appreciation for watching and a call to remember our wonderful time together last autumn. In many cultures, they pack the soul after death so we sent our best thoughts with them.

The hummingbird, who hitches a tail-feather ride with the larger folk, dropped off for it's first sip at my feeder yesterday. Dozens of smaller songbirds appeared by afternoon. We're all gearing up for the maniacal pace of a South East summer. The Hooligan aren't far from the Chilkat inlet and my heart and body are primed!

Looking out at the steady pour this afternoon, I'm reminded of all the wonderful paths Life's offered the last few years; ideas gestating and dreams still waiting to be acted upon. Farmstead, fiber-art, growing older with a fine mate, enjoying the escapades of our children in their adulthood's. I've the finest place on the planet and I'm rooted deeply and glad to be home.

But, there's a trip I'm preparing for ~via~ the Rails to Trails system. I'm wanting to cross the country from Oregon to Michigan, camping, cycling and using Amtrak. My folks had fun with such a trip back in the late forties and I'd love to do a follow up journey.

During such a trek, I'm wanting to spend time with the independent book sellers across the nation. Course, I plan to seek out the community festivals and street dances and enjoy fair season along the way as well.

Maybe I'll coordinate with a show or two of Garrison Keillor's Summer Love Tour on towards mid~August.

Now, I'd love to drive the sporty Ford in the picture from the tour's site, (well, in the right company, of course), but in lieu of such a chariot, I'm looking at a Kona Ute cargo bike. One jumped at me on a Fairhaven, Washington street right near the Village Book Store last month. I took it as a sign.

"A sign of what?"

Don't ask.

Yet.

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

Large Doses of Home ~ April, 2010

2010-04-12T16:21:00.000-07:00

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

And it's perfection!
This first week home since November, has been about helping my fella get caught up after a very long winter. Also, scratching out a place to be privately productive; the studio!

After months of being bedside and to get back in shape, I'm digging flights of snow stairs. These ephemeral constructs of whimsy melt away in a few weeks while allowing us to get in and out of the deeply buried buildings for now. As my body moves in labor my heart and thoughts are clearing. Sweet seeing if the whole system still works in sync, (and newly grateful for ibuprofen).

I've never been good at goodbyes. I can leave or allow connections to cool, (to be honest, I'm too good at that), but I'm utterly miserable at actual goodbyes. I keep an open place in my core for everyone I've ever cared for. There's lot's of open space newly acquired.

At present, there's a hungry greenish yearn for the gal who's been my universe for so many months, (catch sister Mic's green take). I suspect that feeding this yen is a question of being encompassed by the tender care she required from us and delighting in how she retained her identity and dignity right through her last breath. It was perfection in the most imperfect of processes.

We've made interesting family connections in T.M.'s home of 62 years. These last two, she relied on us, something we'd never anticipated nor would she have ever considered necessary. Her passing was perfect irony, perfectly her; Thursa May Wolfe Revenaugh.

The suggestion of a greenish cast to the cottonwoods and willows along the riverflats hasn't happened. Though afternoons are warm, it's staying quite cold at night and the snow pack is deep. Mornings, I'm able to walk everywhere with the snowshoes tucked under my arm.

Yesterday, we forded the river and climbed to timberline.

From An Alaskan Returns from the Hinterlands

I made a telephone purchase from our neighbor this morning. In a couple of weeks I'm to get sixteen, two year old hens for eggs and meat. The hen house is still a ways from usable. A marten nailed our three remaining hens a month or two ago and I want to be sure he's got larger options in the river and forest by waiting to bring the new flock home. The deep snow crunched the hen yard as well, so it's time for repairs this season.

I'm scouring the area for a baby buck Oberhasli to raise this summer. Our barn has two adult goats and two woolly ewes but our lead, Jackquie goat, needs freshening. No milk, kids or lambs this year!

That opens this summer for the barn occupants and I to focus on making trail and packing the hillsides. They're younger, stronger and far more resourceful than I and should help cut back on sore muscles and joints by packing my dictionary and camping gear once a week or so!

The garden starts have been warming by the wood stove, and ten feet under the snow is the rhubarb; coiled, crimson potency absorbing light in a deep white denizen and preparing to burst out, alive and bittersweet.

Traveling, Springbreak Style

2010-03-23T13:12:00.000-07:00

The desert kept Merrick, Joe, Okumpup and I entertained from Mojave to The Dalles, Oregon.
Oh, the high desert!

From Alaskan In The Hinterlands

I learned of Joshua Trees and wild donkeys, horses, and Pronghorn Antelope. Even met a a feral chihuahua out forty miles from anywhere but an undeveloped hot springs near Alkali, Nevada.

From Alaskan In The Hinterlands

Our youngest, Hannah, met us ~via~ Amtrak and we spent a lovely time in Ridgefield, Wa. with the Bochart family. We went dancing to jazz band music from The Russets of Ridgefield High at The Oak Tree.
Grandma Mary fed us large and we visited with all of the cousins and Aunties and Uncles. When we parted, Hannah and I caught the train to Bellingham as Joe and Merrick wound their way that direction in the pickup.

After a week of packing about and visiting B-town friends, (plus Hannah's favorite haunts), we girls are off to the big city of Seattle to hook up with cousin Merry Lee and have a weekend of living large including ~ A Prairie Home Companion at The Paramount Saturday March 27th.

From Alaskan In The Hinterlands

A happy 55th Birthday to our Poppaman! Wish you were here with us darling! Micah too!

The Ides of March ~ the darkside!

2010-03-15T13:43:00.000-07:00

It's the sweet darkside of the moon, rich with possibility.

It's now one full turn since our Mom, Thursa Revenaugh, stepped over the last twitchit of her life. A tremendous presence lingers, larger than when she was in her prime.She's evident everywhere I look. Every little kid's spark of mischief, each turn of random assistance from the cosmos, each grand-kid who walks through the door.

The collected essence of place and the accumulation of thought and experience in a given life. Even when that collection has been disseminated beyond its original location the memories speak loudly.

This month, I'm learning about Mary Elizabeth Colter, a lady architectural pioneer who hailed from St. Paul, Minn., her choice of hometown.

Colter took her love of the landscape and indigenous people of SW North America and created stunning buildings and interior design reflecting that love. At a time when architectural design was generally modeled on European styles, this uncommon woman turned the tide.

I spent yesterday at the L.A. Union Railroad Station where her work from the late 1930's still shines. The lunchroom, no longer in service will hopefully be turned into a historical monument. It's stunningly classic flavor incorporates traditional SW colors and building material and natural use of light.

Though she died in 1958 at the age of eighty-eight, she's quite alive at Grand Canyon in the buildings there crafted of rock and wood.

From Alaskan In The Hinterlands

I'll be writing more on this topic of place after I've returned to 39 mile. My kids have driven to Grandma's to help haul me home to Alaska.

I leave Bakersfield and my time spent caring for Mom by offering this fine Writer's Almanac entry from March 15, 2010. The poem Fields by Faith Shearin reflect my thoughts today.

Ade

A Room of One's Own ~

2010-03-02T19:08:00.000-08:00

From Alaskan In The Hinterlands

Something fine and kind resonates here that everyone feels.

There was plenty of room for all in this tiny, crowded house. Room for friends and strangers who became friends. Family, both nuclear and satellite.

Even when the place was brimming with the kind of unwashed frustration or hardship that left its occupants drained, nearly broken, others found those realities uniquely vibrant and wanted to be near. A part of it in some way.

They keep coming back, sorry now, that its mistress is gone. Proud to have known her.

Flight of fancy

2010-02-20T16:15:00.000-08:00

From Alaskan In The Hinterlands

Wrapped-up Warmly! Revenaugh-style~

2010-02-20T05:55:00.000-08:00

From Alaskan In The Hinterlands

Be Well, Our Beauty

2010-02-15T22:47:00.000-08:00

Took you a while to let it go, Ma.

We thought you'd let it go a long time ago.

Damned, were we wrong!

Glad you are on your way.

We're cheering for you.

Keep us posted.

All of us!

Loving you,

Your kids.

From On Her Way

Snow ~ Heavy snow or mud?

2010-02-10T20:40:00.000-08:00

The wind wasn't the only issue. It was the wet snow that stuck to the windshield in great, sticky, clumps requiring stopping every ten miles, getting out and slapping the wipers in a futile attempt to clear them enough to wipe.

"Flakes as big as Rhode Island, and only out here. It's like someone flipped a switch at Ten Mile. It's total Pig slop!"

The brood was hunkered into the back seats of the Ford Econoline. Each had enough space to be comfortable, as if cozied in private staterooms. The girls were sleeping and Lance was busy conjuring characters for his ongoing saga.

"Pull over and I'll clear the beggers. See if we can get a fresh start."

"Nah, we just did that fifteen minutes ago."

"Well, yes, but you're down to three square inches of visibility."

"I'm fine. As long as that guy ahead of me with one tail-light stays on the right side of the highway."

Warm snow. It was a coastal regularity measuring in double digit dumps. Add a little wind and the drifts calculated in feet.

The road ahead was two narrow trenches. The single red lens was mesmerizing. The sensation, that if you let your eyes drift, you'd suddenly know oblivion. Or the guy's rear end!

Tess knew better. If the lit dot disappeared, they'd shift into hyper vision and feel calmer, feel the direction that was home. The van could probably take them without any one at the wheel, it was so familiar with the route.

Dray ejected the tape of flashbacks and fresh tracks, barely audible above the working engine plowing through the white cement. Better to focus.

Dinner in town with friends had been a joy. The sizable stock-up on groceries and four jerry jugs of fresh water rounded out the effort of getting to town.
They left the gathering early. Snow had begun to come down with that certain intensity.

He was right. It started light and sparkly, perfectly individual stars catching light and adding that special mid-winter touch to the streets and holiday decorations.

Ten miles later and falling from an endlessly unfathomable source, the quantity of white was the Pacific Ocean in the sky and their small craft was heading away from shore.

~

2010-02-06T12:35:00.000-08:00

We've termed it, 'the dwindles', that steady, natural decline of everything you once were. All of it, wrapped carefully in bundles throughout the house, in albums and shoe boxes, tucked away like Easter baskets, waiting to be discovered by whomever is the last to come by.

And here you lie, wondering if all you've held to be right and valid about life is going to see you out the other side. No weeping or regret, all of that tended to with enough time and consideration to be useful to you now.

We've made you as comfortable as we're able, while we sit comfortably near, happy just to be in your presence. And happily, you're enjoying ours.

~
And Ma, it's snowing ~ like when you were a kid in Calumet; many, many inches. Coming down in bundling drifts. Rooftop and tree crushing drifts. Airport halting, highway clogging drifts.

You never liked snow.

I love it.

Hope Micah made his flight to Viet Nam.

Post Groundhog's Day storm, causing awe and wonder along the Mid-Atlantic.

'Snowmageddon' blankets Mid-Atlantic in heavy snow

Heavyweight slides in burned out Southern California are waking us up too.

California Storm Triggers Mudslides, Flooding

Posted using ShareThis

The Park

2010-01-26T14:04:00.000-08:00

From Home, The Heart of My Hearts

200 Rush Tickets Left for Prairie Home Companion & Sister Mick's nailed two ahead!

2010-01-09T15:46:00.000-08:00

Joe Biden said it best this week at the Huffington Post in a fine article about Why America Needs Trains .

My words: trains are a reliable and progressive system.
Rail transportation of goods and people are well worth spending plenty of money on rebuilding all across America. We need the jobs and less roads. It's that simple.

This year, I've loved schlepping up and down the coast to San Francisco, Portland, Seattle and Bellingham from Bakersfield ~via~ Amtrak. Its affordable travel that offers a great opportunity for engaging with people from all over, and - well, these days ... my time is affordable ~ passing by opportunities is not!

It works something like this: the S.F. International Airport is an easy connection for flying out to Juneau. From there I catch an Alaska Marine Highway ferry home to Haines, a little fjord edged berg that nestles in the northern end of Lynn Canal.

In June '09, I slipped away from caring for our Elder Ma in S. Cal. For a treat, I caught Amtrak up to San Francisco to catch Garrison Keillor. He gave an evening reading from his fine collection of 77 Sonnets .

As G.K couldn't join me afterwords, (my article)I went solo for what turned out to be a wonderful all-nighter of walking around the city, talking to strangers and visiting old familiar neighborhoods.

I was an adventurer as a kid. I traveled then by hitch-hiking. I hopped freight trains with a pal and caught the ever reliable Greyhound bus when I could afford it.

All to give me access to geographic and musical discovery.

In San Francisco the Palace of Fine Arts housed the Battle of The Bands in 1968. There were free concerts that summer in Golden Gate Park with The Dead and Quicksilver, Big Brother and The Jefferson Airplane.

A few months later, Jimi Hendrix stunned Bakersfield with an incredible performance at The Memorial Auditorium, (oh, those expensive eight dollar tickets!).

I found my barefooted way to the Newport Pop Festival at Devonshire Downs in '69.

The last performance I attended while still in Bakersfield was with the live-wire R&B man, Elvin Bishop, performing with full-on accompaniment at Bakersfield College in 1971.

For a year after I graduated from BHS, I criss-crossed the country, learning what I could, absorbing it all.

When I returned to the left coast, I decided to move to San Francisco. Newspaperman, Dick (Poppa) Revenaugh, had established half-a-dozen salon-like residences while learning all that was cooking in the Bay area.

The Fillmore District held his favorite music haunts. He was a regular at Minnie's Can-Do, the heart of the neighborhood at that time.

When I was in tow with my first roommate, actress Atoinette Attell ~ Toad, I caught a few shows at the old Winterland. North Beach and the Haight were always lively nights out. That year, I was a personal schlepper for Toad's live street performances at Ghirardelli Square and as a willing shill at the various comedy clubs of the day where she performed.

Though these were exciting and heady times for an 18 year old with a false ID, the ultra hip scene in San Francisco never quite jived for me. I could have stayed forever in The Fillmore of that era but I wanted out of the city.

When I figured that part out in 1974, I bee-lined for the forest and the small entertainment venues of S.E. Alaska. Talk about finding heady times!

In Ketchikan, I helped manage a warehouse type tavern, The Thunderbird Lounge.
Many of the seine fisherman and the pulp mill pipe-fitters who loved the joint were from St. Paul and elsewhere in Minnesota. The bar was down below the first home of public radio in Ketchikan, station KRBD.

The Minnesota boys spent Saturday afternoon shoretime introducing the west coast transplants to schnapps with beer chasers. Ever taller tales and their favorite home-town boy, Garrison Keillor gave them special distinction.

As part of a concert series, I helped with an effort to bring John Fahey to The T-Bird. Though the fellow arrived in town sorely sotted, and remained so throughout his stay, his musicianship was magnificent.

John Hammond and a collection of other fine musicians were to follow. Nights at the Thunderbird lounge were focused toward live performance and local poetry reading.

Saturday Night Live was also a hot commodity and played from a high-tech overhead Beta Max. There was chess and conversation. Writing groups and popcorn. Cafe/tavern style camaraderie and fooseball.

On a focused chase toward family, I wanted to be farther north still. Homesteading over the last twenty-five years, has been perfect. For income, my solid partner taught at Mosquito Lake Elementary and Klukwan School.

At 39 miles north of Haines, our lives revolved around home-school, snow shoeing and growing critters and gardens. Basically, living scantily in a large manner. And, did I say, a lot of snow?

We became highway warriors during the kid's high school years, a time that married nicely with the whole family being busily involved with community, both in Klukwan Indian Village and Haines.

The SE Alaska State Fair and the Bald Eagle Music Festival continue to bring us a week of saturation level fun in Haines. Just right for my tastes once a year.

This next week, I'll be coming up from Bakersfield on an Elder Mom-care-haitus. I'm about to hit Amtrak again and SF for a Jan. 16, 2010 performance of a Prairie Home Companion with special guests, Elvin Bishop and Jean Redpath at the War Memorial Opera House.

From the PHC website: The War Memorial Opera House is a palace that opened in 1932, a granite and terra cotta beauty, with high windows with keystones with lion's head carved into them, lions with sharp teeth. Across a courtyard surrounded by a cast iron fence is the San Francisco War Memorial, a courtyard that is medieval looking with trimmed hedges and knobby old trees. The War Memorial Building is where the United Nations charter was signed in 1945, and also the peace treaty with Japan after World War II.."

I'm in! The last time I caught Elvin Bishop, he had our community dancing through the night, without a break at the S.E.Ak. State Fair. He helped to deliver us to a 1:30 AM summer dawn in his fine, driving style.

Jean Redpath belongs in Haines. She'll see. We have a fine traditional folk community in S.E. Alaska, alive and well, adopting younger musicians who are choosing to stay to raise their families.

Gotta confess, I'm hoping to lure the whole group up onto our performance circuit.
G. Keillor might find he'd enjoy setting up a seasonal camp there. Perhaps then he'll help me to convince the others.

We'll be sure to include Bakersfield's Banshee in The Kitchen. Banshee, Jill Egland, has already expressed interest in our seasonal fair and music festivals.

Here's to outstanding, live, music performances on into the future.

Only 200 rush tickets available at the door?

Well, I've got the Amtrak tickets in hand.

And this just in,... Sister Mick got two tickets for the show!
I ask you, what kind of magic is that gal not capable of?!

The show was Fine. Find the story ~ In The Doon ~ a connection is above

Trucking

2009-12-21T09:06:00.000-08:00

~
Merrick & Okum

From Alaskan In The Hinterlands

It's not a large Radio Flyer.
In fact, it didn't hold my brother and I comfortably at all. I'm smaller by five years so I sit up front under the handle. His legs are balanced dangerously on the thick rims so he can use his heels as breaks. I'm suppose to help steer, though really my dimpled hands are just keeping warm under his and he likes the job of steering. We're in a high speed race car hitting the barely-paved slope, low to the ground, crunching gravel louder than a logging truck. I mean, we're fast!

Now. The wagon I pull in my dream is filled with precious things, stacked high and tight. I'm trucking it along the side of a mountain road this late, purple evening. The occasional headlights of on-coming cars don't know what to do with me, high beams or low. I'm straining to keep it upright and keep a steady pace.
Mocking bird, two lengths ahead is hop-loop bouncing, straight tail up, whortling foreign translations. Ma says they're spies who tell our secrets to the gods.

I wake up knowing the dream is about learning to use the internet and how to write. This is a learning process that's taking place in public. I've always crouched on a marble boulder in the middle of the river and told my tales to Raven. He laughs and tells his friends who gleefully bounce my stuff back and forth between each other, the mountains, forest, and glaciers. Any feedback I get is highly personalized. And private.

Though outdoors.

Dilemma and odd circumstances. I'll sleep on it.

A Turning Tide Goes Out

2009-12-02T18:51:00.000-08:00

My message is written and stoppered in amber glass stout and battered
Now to walk back to the redwoods where I last saw the sea wild
I'll toss it with a might to just the right current and stay
high on the outcrop watching it glint away

Old woman, return now down the well-worn path
Cozy-up in a cabin built by love and wonder till you're frail
what might come of your heart's desire

The wind is mixing with birch smoke
It's sweetness is fluttering across the face of the moon
I can hear the tide low against the shore
Light, careful, foot steps, swishing in the beach grass

My heart jumps and eyes tingle
Imagine

From Alaskan In The Hinterlands

Illustration, Girl Beside A Stream by Arthur Rackham via Creative Commons

It Ain't So Bad

2009-11-26T04:15:00.000-08:00

We're old. We both felt it today as we climbed up Vallejo St.
You were a damned good sport when the long monotony of I-5 was calling so alluringly, like ancient reruns when one is ill or discouraged.
I was trying to share a view of the bay, coaxing you with walk and talk of mountains and sunny days that we've climbed in the past remembering the moon through the giant Redwoods we'd wound around the night before.

You know what's missing? My famous old endurance, surprise and your smile.
The one that I've seen flash golden, stunned as though you were Henry Carter making the discovery of Egypt's child pharaoh, Tutankhamun.

Can't seem to crack that tomb.

But darling I'm thankful both for the walk and iced coffee at Mel's.

From Thanksgiving '09

Peek!

Winter Reflection

2009-11-08T19:39:00.001-08:00

From A Place Where The Edge Feels Like Skin

Today, the delight of listening to live radio via the internet brings me to near tears after so many years of being too far away to get 'a signal' from our beloved public radio station, KHNS.
Catching Prairie Home Companion, in front of the woodstove on a NASTY November day.

Makes home all the homier.

An Autumnal Joy

2009-10-10T18:57:00.000-07:00

Nearly three weeks ago, while visiting Ridgefield, Washington, I slept with the Sandhill Cranes. Nestled in my bedroll, out in the field beneath the stars, I felt the chill rising out of the ground just before dawn.
And then--- they began.
A lovely morning song rose from all over the area. As the purple drape of sky faded to lavender hinting gold, group after group waved their way above me. A glimpse of Sky and Earth merged, with me sandwiched in-between.

Field Game ~

A splayed prone cross on the stubbled field

arms are finger tip stretched recalling flight

I imitate the mewing bands of flop-legged

Sandhill Cranes who've just arrived in this

Washington field of dropped corn

swooped down from the far north

my heart beat and heat surge

beyond the reach of this gentle Chinook

wind in western attire

we whisper and laugh up the dawn

The Blue Green of Home

2009-07-04T23:53:00.000-07:00

Micah Bochart

In The Circle Game

2009-06-27T23:37:00.000-07:00

I was eight months pregnant with our first, young Micah to be. You called to let me know that your father was in the hospital fifteen miles from Jeff's parents, where I'd been staying to safe guard this high risk pregnancy.

I'll never forget the sense of trepidation I felt walking down the halls of The Brush Prairie General hospital. The stories shared from your girlhood perspective, to meet for the first time the one who I'd held responsible for all your rage, the unresolved anger and hurt that would splash onto us, your children. But you asked that I go.

I rounded the corner and an ancient, tiny, man, afloat within the hospital bed, looked at me and called me by your name.

And there you were, Thursa May, our mother, peering out from the face and body of your father, my only grandpa. He thought I was his daughter, unseen but somehow, unaged, for forty years.
I had vertigo. It was quite a moment.

I haven't asked what your grandson might recall.

A View From Afar

2009-06-22T22:15:00.000-07:00

The great path has no gates,
Thousands of roads enter it.
When you pass through this gateless gate
You walk freely between heaven and earth.

- Mumonkan

The young people of Iran, who's loss of life now hangs draped in symbolic metaphor, stand beside the countless eons of planetary loss from absurdly, misguided "human" behavior.

We're still crawling out from the belly of the beast and have a long way to go. Predator and prey, within our own species?

Our ability to behave with "deep humanity" goes back to the beginning, on our Mother's knee. The life giving, planetary existence on Earth absorbs our blood and renews our chances to survive with each new day.

As much of this hemisphere is celebrating Summer Solstice 2009, perhaps we can use the moment as a point of demarcation. To honor the dead by valuing the living, in perpetuity.

Life and death and the immediacy of our time well spent.

June's Delight

2009-06-15T14:33:00.000-07:00

Sisters entwined in a closeness only they can describe

Joey gets the hand cranked forge warmed up for bar-b-que!

"Dear Lady, it's 48°F today (which means the mosquitoes aren't so bad, a plus). A good day to bake. Your recipes are wonderful Mona. Our middle daughter Merrick, has become a baker extrordinare. Last night, we joined she and her honey out on the Chilkat Peninsula for Rhubarb Pecan pie. A small outside fire and a delightfully corny joke session followed. We took turns passing The Pretty Good Joke Book about. It was a lovely simplistic reprieve. You were there, in my heart."

The gathering assembles at Merrick and Joey's patch of green-ness for her 24th birthday.

Merrick's new potter's shed (complete with a piano!), on axles for easy relocation.

It's a Southeast Alaskan Garden Party!

Begin The Beguine

2009-06-10T23:37:00.000-07:00

Fearful of death, I walked in the mountains.
By meditating on its uncertain hour,
I conquered the immortal bastion
Of the immutable.
Now I am far beyond fearing death.

- Milarepa

The immutable... that which is unchangeable.
Though the course is not set, I sneak peek around the corner and see just which tones and colors will lure me towards my endgame. I'm hoping you'll be there.

We could steal our way into the midnight performance, sit quietly up above and watch the live connections between the stage and adoring audience. It'll remind you of your best shows, the entertainment you assembled that had them standing in the aisles, roaring for more.

It'll flush me with joy, the kind I feel when reminded just how great people are, in spite of being human.

Maybe we'd belt back a couple of tall cool somethings before folding into one another's arms, tickling each others fancy, and turning out the lights.

New dawn, we'll awaken refreshed and begin different lives.

Or, we won't.

IF we do, hopefully we'll recognize each other from a distance. I'd really like that. I'm starting to get a big kick out of what we share. Shall we finish this round out, with dare and pizaazz?

I think of Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night"

Night bird, open Love's narrow, cloistered, thrill

2009-06-01T18:09:00.000-07:00

"Grace changes us and change... is painful." Flannery O'Connor

Flannery O'Connor described herself as a "pigeon-toed child with a receding chin..." and a "you-leave-me-alone-or-I'll-bite-you complex."

When O'Connor was six she taught a chicken to walk backwards, and this led to her first experience of being a celebrity. The Pathé News people filmed "Little Mary O'Connor" with her trained chicken, and showed the film around the country. She said, "When I was six I had a chicken that walked backward and was in the Pathe News. I was in it too with the chicken. I was just there to assist the chicken but it was the high point in my life. Everything since has been anticlimax.” (borrowed from Wikipedia)

Night bird, open Love's narrow, cloistered, thrill...

To conjure an introduction to Ms. Flannery O'Connor is a new interest... "everything that destroys also creates", a rather Taoist take from her devout Catholic stance. She 's also noted for having said "Write not about character but with character."

I'm learning how to melt into other forms that character and characters might emerge.

Louise Erdrich, E. Annie Proulx, and maybe Ann Lamott are stepping up to the plate tonight as well as, Uh oh... Shirley Jackson just walked in!

Welcome to the cloister...

T'aint Fair Jim McGee

2009-05-25T18:32:00.000-07:00

Stuck in reverse can reach beyond all restraints of time. To decide whether to make use of family history, that near bottomless and ever renewable resource, is dependent upon how the memories have been held and by whom.

A story that's been long kept in the vaults of disregard, can lay quietly gathering strength, like metamorphic layers.

Tess tried to stay composed through the melting process as she lay on the ground between the buildings. She'd crawled out her bedroom window, knowing the narrow strip of green between the houses was glimmering as intensely as her room.

She'd soon be missed in all the chaos. But it was lovely just laying there until then.

The ground was the first damp coolness she'd felt against her skin since January when she'd laid with Fred, hands tucked behind their heads, elbows flared, smoking cigars. The black sparkles of the night dew reflected across the wind shield of his baby-blue Barracuda. They'd just found each other's rough edges and had turned everything to velvet; velvet as in the silky dark skin, her cheek across his belly. Velvet along the backs of his ample thighs. Velvet like the warm newly wet underside of her, laying together happy and naked.

"Darlin' for having been an astonishingly well-kept virgin in these heady times, I firmly declare that you are quickly developing a sweetly defined style of romance. Ahem! And your bass line..."

"Well," he laughed, "my cap's tipped in your direction Madam. You make it easy to be a fine lover; pass that I.W.Harper m'dear, would you?"

The new year was off to an interesting start.

She couldn't resist, "Fred, my God! Do you ever think of the beautiful babies we'd create?"

He had. And he was certain the world wasn't ready for them. Nor was he really ready for the two of them as a couple. Just trying to get past his family would be absolutely impossible.

Tess loved that his brakeman's job with the Southern Pacific Railroad, between Bakersfield and Barstow, were as dear to him as the chamber orchestra and choral group he was helping to initiate at East High.

She knew his plans might include family some day. But she also knew that he'd never be ready for the battles of a mixed marriage. The world was too filled with hatred and Bakersfield, sure as hell was no exception. Fred was a lover, a writer, and a musician, not a warrior. That's what she loved about him.

"Ladyfair, what you were confronted by last week in school is a fraction of what our kids will be fighting every day of their lives."

Tess easily recalled the bitch slap, that one she hadn't seen coming. Nearly brought her to her knees. She'd held her cool, knowing she was seriously out numbered. These girls packed knives. They were however, only delivering a straight up message. "White bitch, back off!."

"Tess, I adamantly want to spare you the ugliness that you're going to be met with on the front porch at my folk's place. Your family is bizarrely different, and God knows I love them all."

"Well then, my darling hunk of gorgeous humanity," she flung the words off rakishly, into the blackening sky,"would you kiss me with the love you feel and please say goodbye?" She'd become a nun.

Her whole life she'd believed if a person held tightly to every shred of focus that was available to them, working endlessly to expand that, that things would start to change. Will power with a sizable helping of intense passion piled on ever so thickly, just for entertainment along the way. Upon reaching the right level, the very fabric of reality would begin to meld and be reshaped. Much as her mind and emotions merged when loosing herself into another's body. Or performing beautifully before a rapt audience.

Like the time she flew as an eight year old under the full moon.

Luke was coming home though he'd only be there long enough for a weekend visit. He was leaving for real this time.

When he joined the Navy, she knew he'd be done in four years. He'd be home on leave often. She'd be just a year short of graduating when finally they could get some time together! It would be like when they were kids.

Those four years had brought so much change. Best was the birth of their youngest brother Barry. Tess called him "her little brown berry", and he loved her completely with the toothless delight of an infant. The joy that this new baby brought her, and to the rest of the house seemed to pull every one together, even their folks.

Tess wanted badly to blame Mom. Sheliah had always provided the rage, filling the house with yelling and dramatic plate throwing while Poppa would sorta laugh and stretch out among the babies on the living room floor, refusing to fight.

You knew better than to crawl in with Pops, even though he was just as crazy about playing with the little kids as you were. Hell, you couldn't leave Momma flailing about with all of that anger; it just wouldn't be fair. Shelia would stand in the doorway with her hands on her hips, furiously hollering, "just get the Hell up off that floor and fight this out with me, God Dammit!"

Pops would flatly refuse, holding a flying baby above his prone chest, "Sheliah honey, as of today, I'm through fighting with you."

A few weeks before, all four of the girls went with Pops to the florist's shop. They'd been given huge arms full of flowers to parade into Mom, all in a line according to height, crooning and crowing "Happy Birthday To You..."

Poppa brought up the tail, with a very large, very soft package tucked under his arm. Tess knew it was a wonderful floor length terry cloth robe; white with satin trim. She helped him pick it out at the shopping center. Macy's no less! It was nearly a hundred bucks!

But Mom surrounded by kids and flowers could only muster a Poloroid photo-happy smile. The fire that was dancing in her violet eyes was not the kind that filled your heart with joy. Serious trouble was brewing for her 40th birthday.

By late that fall they were living in The City. Mom was already back to work and they were now sharing the old Victorian with another family; Dad's mistress and her three kids.

The three adults worked for the State of California doing "Public Relations work". You weren't too impressed with that bunch were ya kid? Lot's of office parties with people who weren't anywhere near as much fun as the old newspaper crowd.

But it was wild having eight kids together under one roof. Now that you were the oldest by six years, you always had lot's of babysitting money and playground time. You practiced switching back and forth between Mary Poppin's magic, and Peter Pan, doing battle with pirates while rampaging Neverland. Always, waiting for Luke's leave home.

His last few letters said he'd finally found a mid-western girl to marry. He'd be driving up from San Diego in his '61 Plymouth, and not just on leave. He'd finished his four years with Uncle Sam's Yacht Club.

It'll go like this...you'll all spend the weekend draped around the kitchen table, telling old stories. Dad will be down from San Francisco and Luke will have everyone laughing so hard that Mom will have to tightly criss-cross her legs and pull off her glasses to wipe the tears again and again.

And you're never going to be able to let him know how you really feel. After all, you're brother and sister! So what if you've been this crazy about him your whole life? He's getting married, and moving to Wisconsin for Christ's sake.

Oh Shit! It sounded real this time.

A couple hundred crickets are singing in unison all around her as the melting begins. It starts very slowly out at the far edges of her extremities; her toes, up and along her legs, across her flat downy belly and beneath hungry breasts; rubber arms with still, tingling fingers, earlobes light and hot, free of all jewelery. As she softens in through her scalp and out along her long black hair the bedroom window is quietly closed. Melting alone.

It's all humming now as it worms its way easily down into her core, penetrating quite deeply.

She's pretty certain it's going to be a full moon... Shhh... stay focused.

Concentrate all of your will...

Out In It

2009-05-15T21:48:00.000-07:00

Smack! The middle of May and all of the protective shielding from the land of cool and moist has been burned away. Heat radiates from the softened asphalt, clinging to my drooping pace.

Hot city grime comes creeping up my legs, finding the salt of my earth, each stride met with thermal updraft.

The new straw broad-brimmed holds yards of hair and shades burning blackened shoulders, but nothing shields the ears or cushions the blare of a downtown five star alarm.

The blasting sirens, fire trucks led by ambulance, haul through mid-town traffic.

Babies in strollers instinctively cover their ears. They rock back and forth, wailing their own alarm, tiny stars suspended inches above the swelter.

The Grand Canyon Suite ( a visit to the dentist)

2009-05-12T18:01:00.000-07:00

Diminutive was never an aspect of our mother's personality.

Intellectually robust, dignified, and not afraid of much. I've always viewed our mom as I've imagined the Grand Canyon: perilously beautiful and deep. Resistant... Challenging... Difficult.

A timeless, rugged elegance with pink and mauve undertones.

The wheelchair backs into the dentist's examining room. A soft-bottomed, black spine-crusher with her elbows made chicken wings... Being accommodated?

Any movement makes her lavender eyes very large. She remains in the chair, seated... Pressed and vulnerable?

Her tiny, hammer-toed feet are swathed in a pair of fuzzy-chenille socks. Hot-pink Mary-Janes... Lost pride and dignity?

The upper front tooth went with the lost lower partial... practical humility, overly expended?

Tall and silver... Dr. Sullivan.

A straight-up wit from an era who still appreciates lithe and swarthy. He's easily seventy-six. He's been the family's only dentist for forty years. Both kind and smart he's wielding a zesty, lemon grass charm.

He's effectively flirting with her. Mom's eyes have begun to mist. Her mouth is confused and trembling. Her chin is chattering from stimulus overload.

He remembers 1968 when she first arrived in town and is now asking after each of her six adult kids, those he worked on. He frames any question with the answer conveniently built in.
He recalls her many post-retirement efforts with honest admiration.

She's only required to speak with her eyes. Those mercury quick pools of light are sparkling confidence and intensity.

Our Mama, diminished?

She's become capable of being ineffably fetching. She's charmed, and utterly fathomless and is only continuing to gain in grandness as attrition makes for added depth.

Sure kept a great dentist; the one who's stayed for over half her life.

Silk sleeved and turning from within, she's slowly winding down.

And there seems to be no end in sight. She's making a divine descent, enjoying the interesting view.

"My Hey May!"

2009-04-23T07:06:00.001-07:00

I'll be back

A Christmas Gift From 1979

2009-04-13T17:28:00.000-07:00

We had no notion of the scale. Of what really lay beyond the treacherous currents at the gates of the World Ocean.

Our old fat Captain, we’ll call him Pythagoras, is plastered in the corner of the wheel house. He’s madly calculating the surface of a sphere, the one he still hopes we’re navigating. I can tell though, by the yellow fear blathering in his eyes, that it's more likely two wings and and a prayer that he's digging for.

When doubt clamps on, clinging tightly to scurry up his toga as terror, he retreats to his stateroom bunk to solemnly strap himself in. We least experienced crew are now left to "hold course", meaning: "come to terms with life as you've known it."

The engines chug on as we tow the empty fuel barge, corking a thousand feet behind us. It rises far above the horizon like Noah’s mountain-ed ark, then to plunge out of sight beneath the siege of waves.

My senses are on alerted arousal. It’s as though my core has become snagged by tectonic force; a consummate lover is testing my worth. I know that a show of fear is a futile ploy and would dispel this mood so tenuously constructed. Endurance is foreplay within this consensual arrangement.

I find my position in the dogged, oval hatch. My hands brace upward above my head. My legs are splayed and timbered as I ride fluidly, wave upon wave and the boat pitches violently foreword and aft, starboard to lee.

Our deck light turns blackness to bottled sea glass. When the boat’s bow burrows beneath the mountainous waves, tree sized logs glimpse at momentary light then pummel on their way, past our wheel house windows. The swirling foam and buffeting wind continue to plunge us hour after hour, past the suggestion of day.

As the onslaught thunders rapturously down upon us, I realize Heaven is now fully unzipped. It’s openly pouring water from the sky on us and around us for a million years without abating. The clock strikes again, and again, 24:00, three times around.

Somewhere within this I’m melded and molded to a place of accepting that both tragedy and joy are life. That an absence of either; the void.

I’m gifted a transfer of power and clarity: Okeanos’ inherent passion of the unpredictable. Chaos lies within creativity and order, and are partnered in this marriage of existence.

The beauty of blueness, this marvelous globe, ...and that I am here to witness this miracle? Astounding.

After which, the sea was spent.

We limped our way into Port Hardy, B.C. My, you should have seen the galley floor!

Solo Flight Prayer

2009-04-11T16:36:00.000-07:00

Flying above the valley floor...to the myriad worlds beyond, and back again.

Spring's Shadows

2009-04-03T01:53:00.000-07:00

The tips of her fingers hold shadows delicately; her touch speaks of a gentleness, a deep compassion that belies her ferocity and sense of right. I can only stand back in surprised wonder as I watch the woman that she's becoming, unfolding from the little girl who rode on my back as a wolf pup.

Remembering the Giddy In Grunt

2009-03-30T17:00:00.000-07:00

Spring by our standards in the area of Haines, South East Alaska, were met head on today.

Light, snow flurries mixed with diffused shots of sun and the occasional blast of cornflower blue and direct yellow. It kept it beautiful to be out in and the trail conditions just right for being on top of.

The remaining snow depth is also measured by local standards and this year would be considered moderate. That's to say if you had legs ten feet long, you'd only sink in
up to your crotch when you punch through after stepping off to the side of the trail.

With legs of a regular length, there remains that suspended above a bottomless abyss feeling that I find rather exhilarating.

And when your boot gets stuck, which invariably happens, it's an aerobic workout getting back up with one leg extended back behind to keep your exposed sock from getting wet.

Then, as I bent forward on the well supported leg to try and fish the cemented boot out, my ham strings which have been forgotten for much of this winter sang the hallelujah chorus. Thrilling!

This was on the way to the barn to tend to triplet lambs born early yesterday evening.

The jerry jug of warm water for the new mama and her barn mates was bumping up against my thigh sloshing pleasantly. My biceps have turned to oatmeal this year as well. But it'll come back. I promise myself.

Today went well and for the first day of serious grunt and I'm glad to say that I took it at a reasonable pace. Now that things are thawing, I'll pull the sled full of barn material out onto the garden compost areas five times again tomorrow.

Daughter Hannah's bringing out fresh bedding for the new comers and the others who are pending birth in the next few days.

Somehow my love for this crazy lifestyle has always won out over the occasional season of inertia. Hoping to make an old timer's comeback this year (I hope, I hope, I hope).

The babies are still a bit scruffy looking but darned cute none the less.

(For my own use and any one else interested, here's a link for Strongwomen.com. High time I get the weights going, a sort of "do or die" effort, emphasis on the "DO".)

In The Splendor That Is Spring

2009-03-27T22:49:00.001-07:00

I delight in the darkness of the new moon.

Gifted by my Hannah Rose, this lovely necklace creation to adorn my shadow dance. I'm loved.

Back Among The Angel Birch

2009-03-25T22:41:00.000-07:00

The week is moving by so pleasantly.

Traversing along our snowy trail, the light and feel of sunlit peaks, chilled smell of cottonwood, willow and river, the music of thawing breeze all so familiar, I get vertigo.

I'm moving through my own body.

A Dance, Beloved, For The Price of A Poem

2009-03-24T03:12:00.000-07:00

A surprising warmth greets Mason and I, our long explore tired

The snow stays quite stickily on my red heeled shoes.

Barn friends are still waiting for clear ground;

their pointy cloven hooves, starving to join us

down in some green leafed out bower.

Just as my voice hits a high note, a tremendous slide

blind crashes ice shattering off the roof.

The red expanse looks at us gratefully; the smoke stack spared.

I'm again impressed with gravity.

(A wonderful Writer's Almanac with Redoubt and Volcanic Spew)

Shadow Sister's Time of Lament

2009-03-22T00:43:00.000-07:00

She said..."You know, back then at night the city would have this stunning silence which I adored, until the wretched times. Then the slamming, switching cars and squealing train brakes were my own personal Hades, clawed yet comforting.
It was like all the rage I forbade myself to express, found outlet nightly with the train's chaotic symphony, gently greasing down into my body with the radio's smoky FM style.
Darkest heaven on Earth."

They really didn't know how to reply. Back then she was offered another babysitting job and the lure of the open road after graduation. Which she took, grateful to leave them in peace and go to find her own somehow.

Image Reader

2009-03-14T07:19:00.000-07:00

A wonderful contribution and conversation recently transpired on Gather.com.

The Maiden's Journey is mythically portrayed in the art photography of Patrisha McLean's Flower Girls Blossom, and has been shared in an article by Ann Image Reader. Access is linked in the title.

Sally Mann, also known for the sensitive and insightful photography of her children and sentient landscapes she loves, has assembled a new body of work, What Remains.

Sally's beautiful work takes an artistic look at the dying process, death and...well, what remains. A descriptive coverage of the documentary on this new phase in her unique and controversial career can be seen with the link provided.

Once again, it's the stories of our lives and passages shared and portrayed where cultural evolution can be glimpsed. Hope you enjoy.

The Ensuing Coils

2009-03-12T16:39:00.000-07:00

Most afternoons, when bugs were young and drifted snow piled deeply all day, we'd hunker down under a common blanket, properly sandwiched. With paper words and pencils we'd draw straight through towards evening, making up stories, the ones that mood dictated..

(...and the mood always dictated)

One would have a take on WHY the dragon scorched the villagers season after season.

Another would feel compelled to drum up the smells of the scorched peasants, with lavishly obscure names while detailing the costumes and complicated quests.

The third, Cougar, youngest and most loquacious of all, would give voice to her vindicating girl hero. Cougar's valiant maids always rose victorious, upsetting One and Another by chancing cliche and repetition and prospective audience.

As the lamp wicks flickered low and effective, the tale would charge on, industrious, and roiling.

From out beyond the veil, held breath listening to a noise familiar. A thin, squealing, insipid tone. The wheedling whine of liquid sucking for air. Jerry jug grip, tightly tilted for the nightly fuel, the engine caught and spluttered to life.

Then followed grand clomping stomping of snow laden boots and bashing against the door.

Muscles bulged around quarters of spruce and hemlock, mere warmth for the evening as Poppa walked through the door.

Evening's electric light vanquished the dragon's spell, suspended now as words from the dance drifted off, past opening credits of that night's movie.

Things would pick up again. Later with lights out. We'd build up the fire and all tuck in.

Dream new material for the following day.

(linked in the title is a connection to Bent Lorentensen from Denmark and his report from the recent conference in Copenhagen on global climate change. Well worth reading.
Also, Gather science writer, David K. shared this article on the conference with really fine additional links. Take a look at his Dake Page as well with the RSS feed provided to the left.)

We're getting a sharper picture as the coils tighten.

Helping to Steer / or hand me an oar!

2009-03-04T18:59:00.000-08:00

Spreading the word...

I've added a few new features in The Blue Room (go through the window by clicking a link up and to the right).

The Blue Room now has The Writer's Almanac updated daily as a feed. Podcasts are available there and by going back through the vast archives a person can glean a good cursory exposure to literature and history. I've recently started going back through the great links Garrison Keillor's always keen to provide.

Ted Kooser, was the US Poet Laureate for 2004-06 and hosts American Life In Poetry which I've linked to. You'll find also The Poetry Foundation's RSS feed. These are both wonderful sites for all genres of poetry and prose.

Careful though, you might get lost.

New here to the Hinterlands' page is a feed to Bob Edward's daily show. There you should be able to get podcasts of the weekend show (though my piddy Pewter no can do).

I've featured an award winning documentary that The Bob Edwards Show produced called the Exploding Heritage on the practice of mountaintop removal for coal mining purposes in Eastern Kentucky. The show aired back in 2006. I hope to post a PDF transcript, excellent for those of us 'back-eddies' who are tech limited by choice or denial. It's a good read, just how to feature it here....?

Which leads me to my fellow Luddite, Kentuckian and poet/writer activist Wendell Berry (he's committed and I've fallen from grace, thus this blog), I've an RSS feed for a fine web page devoted to Mr. Berry's on going efforts.

These stories of controversial land use issues, will remind many of our on going challenges in the Chilkat/Klehini Valley and provide impetus for some of the potential environmental nightmares looming our way.

Hope you enjoy and give me a little feedback if inclined!

My Daddy Man's Valentine

2009-02-14T10:03:00.000-08:00

The following is taken from a site called Said the Gramaphone that I've just discovered:
"The little Latvian man played My Funny Valentine. The song by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart, made famous by Chet Baker. Chet Baker died as he was climbing from one balcony to another at an Amsterdam hotel, looking for money to buy heroin. Six months ago I stood outside that hotel, and I thought about this. The view is of boats.

A basement in Latvia, a little man in a sweater playing the piano, playing so well that I think I stopped breathing. The man played with practice. He bent towards the keys as he played them and then withdrew, listening, sometimes wincing (but not looking at us). I couldn't tell if he was wounded by the sound or soothed by it. He was very careful, like someone could get hurt. He played the melody but he also played more, playing around the tune, playing it with gaps, filling the gaps with long silences and wrong (right) notes. I wrote in my journal, - I do not usually keep a journal (I have a blog, see,) but I kept one then, - I wrote that he was "trying to find the vocabulary for heartache". It was very sad. Very, very sad. The man didn't look at us as he played. He looked at the keys, as if he was trying to read them."

My Daddy Man's Valentine
Adrian Eve Revenaugh (with nods towards me Hunny Man: "I'm stirring the pot here")

I'm starving here in my little bottle, spidy webbed over, watching the planet melting down, beyond the window panes. Makes me hungry for 'de world in de' flesh!

I never really expected to find myself here! That age old surprise, right? Busy doing what you do, getting along pretty well, then, Bam!

Well no, in all honesty, it didn't really go that way. Worked hard for a lot of years. Played just as hard, with lots'a play mates. You were a pretty damned good sport about all of that.

The time came, after enough fights around the bedroom, that we kinda reached an agreement; a parting of the ways. The creativity just sort of shriveled up and died. Like one of the meals I've so carefully wrapped up here; little dead parts hanging out. None too appealing now, when you're not hungry. But later on, when the appetite flares up again? Man! Heaven!

I guess, that's kinda what I kept hoping would happen for us, doll. You were not only the brightest, bar none, but the best in the sack; a real mink , a vixen.

You made love like all the wrongs in the world could be set straight by our screwing. Every noble cause. Every sin committed. Every personal wound, done to you, including the sins I'd committed. Your piss-ed-ness at your Father and your anger with the Holy Ghost, and humanity, or the lack there of. All could be made right again in that single act of passion. And, I was only too obliged to help you act out all those transgressions.

Funny, the last time we were in each other's company. Remember? It was one of the kid's weddings, Melody's I do believe, to that asshole, the pretentious Jew kid, from that wealthy, Bay Area family. I remember, Me and the Lady Winnefred had driven down from Washington in her Delta 88. Man what a rig! And she drove it like she was still flying for the Civil Air Patrol. Quite a Dame!

Anyway, we'd been drinking; arrived in good order and settled in for the night in that cheap motel. You must have been there with little Matthew, who wasn't so little any more, what? maybe 14 or so? Great kid by the way. Our final edition. You've done well. You didn't know it, but, I knew you would.

Any way, I don't quite remember how we got to that point in the conversation, but it was heated. I told you that making love to you was like being in bed with Abraham Lincoln.

Hey! I was drunk and pissed, and you were righteous and angry. Rightfully so.

But now, having been dead all these years, and being able to see old Abe in ways that a guy only gets to from down here, in the doon, I just wanted to tell you. What was intended as a jab back then, was actually true. Didn't have nothing to do with your perceived, lack of femininity. Lincoln was probably a pretty sexy guy, with out the beard. Ha! I mean, Illinois farm boy that he was. I'm kidding here. Thursa! Wait. Hear me out. Don't get pissed all over again.

What I'd been trying to say was that having you in bed was like trying to sort out everything that's good, and evil. Wild, and angry enough to cause the Earth to split open. And the sky to fall. Angry enough to cause civil wars.

Your furious, hungry, passion, driven from God only knows where, was like being embodied by all that is good. And it was Me that you chose to do it with! Many times over! In spite of all my failings and infidelities. You swallowed me whole.

And that's why we created such amazing children, six of them. You did that!

I just had fun planting the seeds.

(kinda makes me the father of our country doesn't it? now, what do you think of that?)

An Afternoon's Walk

2009-02-10T21:09:00.000-08:00

“All of us run out of time. But for those who have who have a legacy of doing what we do best, time becomes the muse.” unknown author
I marvel at the metaphor that can crawl up the pant leg of Life.
Here’s one. A Burmese python.
The one I saw last weekend was sixteen feet long. Magnificent, timeless beauty. A global symbol of knowledge and wisdom gained, of creativity and change.
I'd just come from a visit to Barnes and Noble.
At the corner I was attracted by an old for sale sign. Caldwell Banking hung from a large metal pipe. A house I’d passed a couple of times this year, caught my interest. In this economic climate? In one of California’s counties, worst hit by the rampant housing foreclosure nightmare. I know.
However, this little house had whistled at me as I was pushing my grocery cart by. It has obviously been unoccupied for at least ten years. I was curious.
It used to sit out on the edge of the irrigated oasis, now surrounded by the blossoming strip mall tenderloin district. I remember the last time I noticed the place thirty-five years ago, when I lived here as a kid. Then it was surrounded by fields, with farm equipment and family life, around and with in it. I could still see the oak and hawks circling, silhouetted in the dust inspired, fiery sunsets. It used to have a creek nearby. It probably still gets wet, from time to time, in the present ditch lined by security fencing and razor wire.
I stepped up to the green wooden frame screened door being held closed by a box from the Children’s Hunger Fund. Probably dropped there during Christmas for the non occupants of this sad hungry looking little house. A reference to Psalm 145 /13-16 was tacked to the box. I thought I’d check that out later.
The little house was completely in tact. No broken windows or vandalism visible, stunning considering the dodgy flavor of the surrounding neighborhood. I rolled my cart up and peeked in through the rusty screens of the green trimmed windows, and I wrote down the Realtors number. I just wanted to get inside.
I could make out that all of the original 1930's fixtures were in place, electric candle shaped sconces, glass built in hutches. The floral wallpaper was browned and peeling from years of the 116 degree summer weather.
Tongue and groove wooden siding, old school carpentry, fits of 0.32 to an inch, spoke to craftsmen with hand saws and knowledge. The skill and pride taken in their work still shone.
The cement foundation was still sound and square, also remarkable in this vast basin above the San Andres fault.
It appeared well preserved by the dry, arid climate and years of good care.
It also reeked of stories left for someone to discover.
Visions of a coffee house or community soup kitchen for drop-ins tickled my cockles. Maybe a resource information center for poet musicians, art students from the street and elsewhere.
It has a nice porch, front and back and a empty double-wide lot, perfect for a huge neighborhood vegetable garden; old people teaching kids who’ve never grown tomatoes or watered pumpkins. I sat for awhile and just let the imagination roll. It felt good. Number 801 Real Road. Has a nice ring to it.
The long walk back towards the park across the street from my mother’s Bungalow was most pleasant. I parked my cart with books, computer bag, and sweater next to the amphitheater where the young men practice SK8 boarding on Saturdays, across from the pick up basketball courts.
Not too many picnics, too cool yet I guess. There was the remains of a birthday party just breaking up.
The guys gave me the nod of approval to an eyebrow request to sit and act as audience. Everybody was strutting their stuff. Great jumps and noisy flips accompanied by the novice crashes, all so important (though not desired) to show you’re tough enough to take the impact. Young flesh, bones, joints and concrete, challenging gravity. My insides cringed, yet I recall that sort of thrill.
Soon every body split to go see “ A !!!HUGE, F--888--ING snake!!!”.
Everybody but the littler guys who were so focused they couldn’t be bothered. One of the fellas, who’d actually smiled at me, shrugged his shoulders when I asked him if there were any ‘women’ SK8’ers. That’s the same response I get wherever I go to watch. I told him, “I’da been there but for losing a cousin to a head injury on an old shoe skate-tacked-to-a- board misfire.” I could tell he was moderately impressed. Not by me but my casually delivered story. He said his dad skated like that.
The new kid who arrived with Ma and baby sister in tow, was maybe seven. Dressed high, in full Christmas camo, pants, jacket, still new and stiff. This one was sporting a helmet and was highly skilled. Junior jumps and turns ensued. This skater was also disciplined. This is an athletic art form, akin to dance, and though obviously still a beginner the newbie was not looking for an audience, just focused and practicing. When the curve of the amphitheater brought her close enough for me to make eye contact, I noticed the pink rhinestone earrings sparkling out from under her long ringlets, pulled back in a tail.
I watched long enough till the big guys came back and then it was time for me to go. As I moved across the park, my trail intersected with Steve the walking Python-mule/man, who was packing Jake the snake.
I love snakes. Always have. I was the kind of kid who tried to keep the baby garters in a cigar box tucked under my silky day of the week undies.
Jake was magnificent. His mule person, Steve, gave quite the informational spiel, warmed up from an hour as special guest at the birthday party. I learned volumes during those ten minutes. Holding Jake’s four inch diamond head, while allowing him to smell me with his tongue reminded me of being close to an elephants curious trunk.
He slowly descended off of Steve’s body, down onto the ground. As I crouched within arms reach, it was obvious Jake enjoyed my slow steady stroking of his magnificently patterned body. The feeling was mutual.
As Steve spoke on and a couple of other spectators stepped up, I noticed the little camoed SK8 queen had come close. She stood very, very quietly, hands held behind her back, breath caught, tree like. I encouraged her with my eyes to come closer which she slowly forced herself to do.
It took everything she had to reach out towards Jake’s slowly gliding body. The dry smooth warmth of his magnificently beauty so surprised her she began to smile, as I felt grateful tears trickle down my cheeks.

Shoot an Iraqi

2009-02-03T06:33:00.000-08:00

From The Bob Edwards Show (linked in the title) Monday, February 2, 2009:

"When Iraqi-born Wafaa Bilal's brother was killed at a U.S. checkpoint in 2005, the artist channeled the experience into a performance piece. For a month, Bilal lived alone in a room the size of a prison cell -- in the line of fire of a remote-controlled paintball gun. A camera connected him to the internet where people could watch him - and shoot at him - 24 hours a day. The piece was titled "Domestic Tension" and The Chicago Tribune called it "one of the sharpest works of political art to be seen in a long time." In 1992, Bilal came to the US where he became a professor, artist and now author. His new book is called Shoot an Iraqi: Art, Life and Resistance Under the Gun".

This is an important site as well for stepping up the effort to help returning veterans.Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans Administration.

My Trip To The Market

2009-01-30T20:31:00.000-08:00

Retail Therapy? Oh, grocery shopping day.

I arranged time yesterday for Elder Ma to have a care provider so I might walk my 'rescued' cart across town to make a badly needed stock up of groceries.

In route, I gleaned a delicious array of experiences including being able to walk for five hours. School yards, dogs, unemployed, or happily retired people sitting on the corners. It's an old downtown neighborhood.

The nonlocal retailer (the only book store in town within reach), allowed for a replacement copy of my favorite volume of Rainier Maria Rilke's, Book of Hours, translation by Anita Borrows and Joanna Macy. My borrowed or care package library has grown since I left home a year ago. Empty suitcase home, heavy return.

The store also provided me with a listing of upcoming events to plan toward. The Big Read, featuring The Empty Space Theater will be presenting a dramatic reading from Their Eyes Were Watching God, a 1939 novel by Zora Neale Hurston. Her work was central to our home school effort as the kiddos were growing up and bled into studies of other women authors.

The evening of the dramatic reading, a workshop for local word-smiths will be held. at the same location, handy on foot. Or perhaps I can lure Mom out. Though terribly cumbersome for her, the city transportation system provides excellent curbside wheelchair service on request.

But the major imperative of the outing yesterday, was to find a temporary replacement for the ice cave where I generally like to sing when I'm home. The acoustics in the deep, blue cave are pretty impressive. The sound of the melting ice dripping into the river sized creek is well...let's just say the sounds reverberate pretty nicely. The river flat and snow trails through the forest ring too. Combined with a lengthy walk, one gets a pretty good glow going.

The most recent replacement while here in Bakersfield, is beneath an interstate overpass with a six lane thorough fare below. Just one lane away, hundreds of vehicles hurtle past, doing at least sixty. I let my body hang very loosely, arms through fingertips extending outwardly, spine fully lengthened and eyes closed as I give myself over to vocalized transportation. As I vary range and intensity of volume, looping it back and forth with the streams and variety of traffic, it's like hurtling through space.

I practiced this most intently once on the back deck of a tug boat in 40' seas. Then, I had to be sitting in full rain gear with the waves crashing down around me. That particular storm, the back deck won out over being stuffed down into my tiny state room, waiting for the storm to subside. It gave me the illusion of having some say in the matter, as though the sea was a symphony in accompaniment to my relinquishing desire for control.

Yesterday, I'm sure I gave the motorists something different to ponder before lunch, though people here are used to crazies. I didn't cause a wreck, as far as I know, and it's free entertainment for all. Singing is very good for the body and soul, and something I try and undertake where ever I am. Cathedral, culvert, open sea, underpass, shower.

Back home however, out of doors, there's no one about but the occasional snow shoe hare or ptarmigan. Snow Chicken. And I think they get a kick out of it.

Eclipse

2009-01-28T08:56:00.000-08:00

The morning has slipped in on a sticky fog.

Another long night's vigil leave tattered hearts and endless Mind, shakey from boundless connection.

No longer asking Who's razor edge?
Nor How.
And Why vanished with the bang.
"What"--- is well, everything, and everything IT is not.

Leaving ....when... open ended.
Now, is the effort at hand, quietly focused.

Breathing with her, every draw, though lungs went sludge from pollution, I enshrine new potted green, left from the holidays, near her bed, so she can smell a promise of our love returned. She's awake, frightened as am I, that Our deeply held convictions won't be enough. Though magical thinking dumps countless thimbles full of evidence, the rooms are papering with ghosts.

The trash collector moves. Hydra armed noise muffles high banshee wailing, sweetly symphonic though lacking the mercy of a lethal kill. She stays alone, woefully unprepared, more so as the gray matter dwindles. Or is she?

I light a candle and make jokes to see her radiant smile.

Thirteen swans draped with dawn, V their way South.

But wait...

It's spring.

My Morning Brew Taj Mahal/Sacred Hour --- mixed bag radio

2009-01-24T03:57:00.000-08:00

"In the end, ultimately the music plays you, you don't play the music."
Taj Mahal

The thigh deep waters and the frigid current feels somewhat intimidating.
Though very old this bright day, I'm a strong and keen navigator.
I'm quite familiar with the stream, now freezing from the bottom up.

Because of this, making my way across takes total concentration.
The other shore beckons and I'm happy to go towards it alone.
The brilliant sun is bouncing off the snow.

Both sides of who I am, Male and Female are fused and charged, a shuffleing deck of cards. Blacks and reds flying into each other, clear distinctions meld into me.
I'm headed up river.

I'm across the water. Now to clamber to the top of the slippery snow berm, white and fractious, This requires time and patience. I use my snow shoes to dig footholds. Climbing straight up, toes slamming into the white wall, brings me out, and onto the other side of the main channel.

Back on the other shore, Raven sits. Watching. Chuckling. He's also me, my lover.
He'll be Mountain Activated. I'll be the decomposing process. Making things fertile. The zestiest of actions.

Love to my dear ones! Off to walk pavement today, in a brackish, glowered city gray!