Lately, it seems that I'm playing fast and loose with severe weather. I'm not a huge risk taker, but besides my recent near-miss with a tornado in my beloved Bernheim Forest (see a previous blog) there have been a few high shear winds and tornado fly-bys at my office and at home.

Still, after today's Clark (Indiana) near miss, the sky had cleared and was bright and suny.

Left work and headed to pick up B. She wanted to go walking andreports were saying hail at midninght ... so plenty of time. Famous last words.

We changed, drove over the short distance to Iroquois Park and the weather was outstanding. Maybe 77 F, very comfortable for Kentuckiana. We walked down the two mile loop. The half-moon was clearly visible and white in the evening sky. It was ages before sunset.

Half-way down and tot he 1 mile marker, the clouds darkened and descended. A little lightning. Half way back on the return trip to the car the sky started to really rock and roll. Thunder pealed and echoed through the trees. Squirrels started to skitter, chipmunks ran into their burroughs, and birds hushed. In the distance, a flock of geese from the top of the park in their lake nearly screamed - I'd never heard such a ruckus. they must have been over a mile away.

Still, we thought we had just enough time to make it back tot he car and drive home. Then, the sky went green.

The tornado warning sirens blared.

Oh oh.

We began to walk quicker and about 100 yards from the car the hail started. Ouch. It was more hail than rain, but marble sized. That kind of hail stings when it pops you on the head and skin.

Then about 50 feet from the car, the sky just opened and poured. We practically dove into the car, and then we had a choice. Sit it out, or make a run for it. We decied to drive home.

B's phone rang. It was her pal from the office, J. She said they were in the basement and were worried about us. She'd heard there was a tornado touch down in Iroquois Park !! (We live only 4 blocks from the park and she thought we were at home.) Later we learned that apparently the tornado swooshed over the park and skirted just south of our house.

I drove with my glasses dripping, my clothes soaked, and windshield fogged. The wipers barely pushed the wall of water away. Then ... home ...and we plunged into the garage, intot he door, grabbed the portable radio, flashlights, and headed to the basement. We sat out the storm, prayed that the poor people in the path of the storm would be spared heartbreak and injury, and after a bit, the sirens ceased.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I met a new friend this week, though he has been dead nearly thirty years. His taciturn negativity is not my style, but his transcendentalism suits me. His name is – was – Loren Eisley (1907-1977).

His essay – and God was he an essayist – on The Star Dragon is profound. However, the poignant aspect of the essay is at the beginning. His father lists up the three year old just as Halley's comet passes overhead. He tells the tiny boy something he will never forget and will never be able to fulfill.

He basically says, if you live a careful life and live a very long time, you will be able to see the come again. Though I will be long gone, we will live this moment again, together, in your old age. Memory and myth. This is the transcendental angst of which Eisley wrote – pondered – and how man in his microcosm of Nature will exist. Or will he? Perhaps like his life, cut short to early to see the cosmic event, are we pigeon-holed by evolution to a dead end, unable to change? Will we devour the landscape until a new parasite evolves to devour us and make us extinct.

Eisley's essay leaves us with a sobering thought. The poor, limp creature from which we descended, dwelt this earth of several hundreds of thousands of years despite predators. Who is the weaker and more advanced? The ancestor we bushwhacked and usurped? Or we, who are possibly at an evolutionary precipice and ready for apocalypse?

I purchased that frog-troll-potter-thing.

 

It was sooo easy.  One phone call, and it was mine.

 

I asked if the artist would tell me the story behind it, and otday I got only a fleeting comment.  "I wanted to show the primal potter."  Hmm.  I guess it will be up to Chris Perridas to make the story for the artist.  I am a writer, after all.  I did say that?  Yes!  I am a writer and proud of my art.

 

Stay tuned.  I pick up the thing Saturday.

 

The artist is Page Candler .... click ... and behold a clay-fairy wonderland.

 

 

Today I set out to have a transcendental experience. I needed magic.

 

After some personal time, B- and I looked out the window. The overnight rain turned to snow and the trees were taking on a powdery look. We both knew we had to go to the forest.

Driving into the magic of Bernheim in winter was exhilarating. We made a bee-line to a special area where the injured or otherwise “challenged” deer are kept safe. We began to walk into the stand of trees and beheld sugar frosting on the brown hickory leaves, the tree bark, and limbs.

We walked through the billowing snow that nit into our cheeks and chilled our noses. No hint of global warming today, and the birds were alive and foraging for precious food to keep those high body temperatures elevated.

Through the variegated forest we trekked and over several wooden bridges. Beneath each bridge was a veritable torrent of creek water from the downpour the night before.

As we rounded the trail we navigated past the fence of the deer pen. They were lonely and almost dog-like the came running when they saw us. I plucked some greenery out of their reach and they devoured it greedily. The one-eyed buck rubbed antler stubs (they shed antlers) against the fence with a tenderness and devotion bred by hundreds of school children encouraging this behavior.

In the wet and snow covered mud, I picked through the trail fill. Often, because I know fossils (I am a scientist) I see bits of Devonian coral, brachiopods, and fossilized wood. Today I found two small fragments of petrified wood and a bit of coral. Left there, they would disintegrate. I rescued them for my overflowing collection.

Then we went to an open area to look for our “friend” - a special red-headed woodpecker that we watched recently build a nest. Today, it was not to be seen, but hundreds of robins were every where we walked. Then, we spied a downy woodpecker – after first hearing its thin rap on a tree. We stood in the below freezing wind and took in the simple pleasure of watching one of Nature's fellow creatures.

I encouraged B- to go with me to the art gallery. I was so pleased she did, because there was magic there. The front of the gallery was filled with Russian art. The docent told us they had already left. There were fish, mannequins, and other typical Russian iconography. However, in the back area was where my heart raced.

Among the Bernheim fired pottery was one piece that spoke to me as a weird tale writer. Entitled “The Potter”, it was a glazed pottery image of a troll-frog with several horns akin to some triceratops. Its gnarled fingers crafted a clay pot.

Afterwards, we talked to the docent at length and soaked in Bernheim lore.

The time that a huge flock of sand cranes flew over and people ran to see. They were like a “tornado” in the sky.

Then there was the anticipation of the arrival of the annual migration of cedar waxwings who would eat what the robins left behind.

The overlooking of the deciduous holly grove when the leaves drop and seeing only a mist of reds and yellows from the remaining berries.

Too soon, the day faded and we had to leave. But I have in my mind to call next week and get that Lovecraftian imp. If I do it will be my first real “art” piece. Sure, I've bought prints, but this is a one of kind creation that leapt from someone's artistic imagination – a piece of soul.

Stay tuned – will I follow through?

In the meantime, I walked with Thoreau today.

I admit it.  I've always been geeky.  One of my favorite things is to prowl used bookstores.  Today, did that armed with a 15% off coupon to boot.

 

Up and down the aisles, I fondled words.

 

I groped, garbbed, and caressed new and ancient books alike.

 

B- didn;t mind, because she was right there with me.  The lust in her eyes when she spied several out of print antiques, ahhh, what a gal.

 

We came away with 20 volumes - some just beacuse the cover art was worth the price of $1, some for other reasons.  I was stunned to see a volume of Bardbury's life I'd given to a (now MIA) friend as a loan.  Originally $35, it was a teal for $14.  An out of print book of Scottish ghost legends for my already burgeoning collection.

 

All in all, 15% discount applied, I walked out under $65.00.  Wow.  There must have been over $200.00 in cover prices.

 

The trip was so heady, B- and I had to qualm our racing hearts.  Like thieves that just heisted the Queen's jewels, we went to our Riviera - the lake within Bernehim Forest. 

 

The ducks, geese and swans had each chosen a section of the vast lake.  Some stood on ice, others hiddled on the shore.  We took in the exhilarating chill air and thanked Heaven for Nature and Books.

 

 

Tonight I celebrated Winter Solstice in the Forest. I drove through the gates just as the sun set. Dusk fell and quickly segued to twilight. Venus was so intense as it ruled the Western sky, it could easily have been the Christmas star.

The group of eighteen assembled and shivered as the temperature dropped below 30 F. Dressed in layers, I followed the guide into the large meadow and through a dark break in a grove of trees by the lake and once through the heavy thicket emerged into a Holly grove. We felt as Druids amidst the evergreens in the dark night.

Actually, even on a moonless night such as this, the sky is amazingly light. The Earth is dark and shadows are deep which makes you want to look up as you walk, not down.

After reflecting on the myth and beauty of the Holly, we crossed the huge prairie meadow. It was so different. In summer, the insects were so noisy, the din was deafening. Now silence reigned. So silent, the growl of trucks on the interstate several miles away could be heard casting echoes over the prairie.

We next went to an oak grove to meditate on mistletoe. In Europe, the mistletoe was cultivated by a priest who climbed the oak and slipped the evergreen parasite with a golden blade. The pieces were laid upon the fireplace hearth for peace.

The American version is poisonous. It embeds itself into the bark of the oak, and while it leaches its life from the tree, it also carries out photosynthesis.

By now my feet were getting cold. The sky was so crystal clear that the stars fairly exploded. Not just the familiar Orion's Belt or Big Dipper, thousands of stars were evident from horizon to horizon. This was breathtaking and humbling. The ancients must have felt the same.

We ascended a hill to the grave of Bernheim and his wife, and we reflected on the nature of light. Solstice was celebrated because as the days got shorter, a ceremony was needed to keep all daylight from being extinguished. Solstice is about light. The star light, and bon fires. We remembered New Orleans for a moment and how the plantations would send servants to the river and stream heads and light enormous bonfires. Travelers on flat boats would float for miles and see hundreds of bon fires on Solstice night.

The grave site of Bernheim has a monument to light. Bernheim wanted all people to be brothers and sisters and to enjoy and embrace Nature.

I met a man in the dark, Jimmy, whose face I never saw. But his voice carried and though he gasped for breath from asbestos exposure, and was hard of hearing, I learned a great deal about Jimmy. He was a welder, a widower and recently remarried. He enjoyed using his walking sticks and adored his new wife. He was older that me, nearly sixty, and a resident of Marion County, but had traveled across many states in his life. He told me about a cross country trip to bring back a heavy pontoon boat, barely making it between gas stations the drain on the engine was so great.

All in all, Jimmy regaled me with wonderful stories of his life. Too soon, I was headed to the car to get warm. But the night had magic, and stories.

 

 

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If you're new to technorati, like me, they claim that your blog will garner more traffic.  I'll keep you, my fellow bloggers, posted on progress.

 

 Update:

 

12/16/05.

 

Technorati:  Bleah

I e-mailed TWICE for assistance with only a canned reply and no help.

They ask me to embed the html above to flag my blog, but now I feel flogged.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt: [p.123ff] :

[I read] The diary gave details of a chicken sacrifice. ... They broke the chicken's legs and pulled out its tongue. ... "I will not torture chickens," I muttered. [p.124] I dreamed [that night] that I was in a prison ... a woman walked up and down the row stabbing [men] repeatedly with a small knife until they were dead. ... the woman turned to me.

"You've been found guilty ... I have to kill you now."

"Oh, no, that's going to hurt."

"No. I'm going to give you injections [until] you go numb ... the numbness will reach your heart and you will die."

She began the injections ... paralysis was moving up my body when [a] young man walked in the room. "She's innocent."

"Okay," the woman said ... "I'll stop giving her the shots."

I awoke, horrified. Then I laughed. No one reared, as I was, in the Southern Baptist Church could fail to know that Jesus ... had come to my rescue.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today, on a 3-1/2 mile walk, I was taking pictures as I went.  I was trying to focus on a raspberrylike berry that had just burst open to show orange seed pods (which did not come out) when B- yelled.  "A squirrel is going crazy."

 

We thought maybe that the squirrel - a small, hungry thing - was attacking a bird's nest.

 

We watched as it chittered and chipped away, bobbing in and out of a knot hole.  Finally, we saw the matter.  Another young squirrel blocked the entrance and refused passageway.

 

Here are those pictures and a few more.

 

On a lonely Tuesday I look down. My left hand sits resting in my lap. Perhaps because it is the thirteenth of September, or that night approaches, but I’m captivated by that hand as if it is a detached object.

I recall a time long ago when my youthful hand had smooth delicate skin, nearly hairless, and oh so tender. Just a babe back then. I pause for a moment and think how fresh my skin looked during my childhood, especially compared to my elders. My characteristic, familial and genetic long fingers pronounced even back then. I wonder why that I never learned to play the piano?

A child born of too-late-in-life parents, I felt surrounded by history and age as a kid. All those old, gnarled hands playing kitchy-coo or paddling me when I did wrong. Those beefy male hands calloused by work and the Depression and the War. Those age spotted female hands rough from wringing clothes and scrubbing floors.

My Grandpa’s ninety plus year old hands had parchment skin, thin, stretched pale over bones, but not much more than bone. They still had strength, though. He gripped my hand from time to time.

“Ouch, Grandpa.”

I remember my first funeral.

I think of the hands of the dead in that lily smelling parlor. Bloodless hands, more cold wax than flesh. My family taught me early, that to say goodbye to the dearly departed, a living person touches the hands of the deceased.

“Goodbye.”

Chills.

I held those dead hands, clutched in eternal prayer and shuddered.

Icy cold.

Tonight, I look at my nearly fifty year old hand.

Veins are thick cords planted under the skin like webs spun by a fat spider. It has a Mr. Spock from Vulcan greenish-blue tinge. That skin is jaundiced. I wonder. Is it due to insidious diabetes that I daily beat back as if it were a wolf howling at my back door, or has my medicine destroyed my liver in a way that sophisticated blood tests have not yet detected?

That pitiful thin wrist stares back at me. What keeps it attached? Why doesn’t it break off like the spindly thing it appears to be? Yet it matches my long fingers. How could it be different?

I look again at that hand. There! A paper cut scar across one of the knuckles. It stares at me, tells me of that thin boundary between my innards and the fear-filled world laden by dangers.

It’s ring finger still shows a shadow of my wedding ring I haven’t worn for two years. I have no reason – no excuse – I just don’t. What does that say about me?

That hand still likes to hold hands with a girl – always my wife – but a fellow can dream, can’t he?

I take a deep sigh.

I contemplate the future of that hand.

I will soon enough have my Grandpa’s hand … and then … someone living will reach into my casket, my last resting place, to say goodbye to me. That same hand, then cold as clay, will surprise them as it wrenches the heat from their … warm, living … hand.

“Goodbye.”