Solstice at Sycamore

Sunday, June 21, 2009  Solstice

(Road to Nowhere; Sycamore campsite)

The cool, moist air fled, replaced by oven-hot air from the west. Yesterday, the temperature hit 102 degrees. The heat finally drove me to the pool, along with the other hardy souls who stayed on. It was my first visit to the pool. A quick dip in the sun-heated water was refreshing; the side show of nearly naked campers cavorting in the water, strutting pool-side, was . . . (word search) memorable. I won’t recount the specifics, except to say the experience brought forth images of whales lolling playfully in the water prior to mating. 

My neighbor, Linda, sat down next to me, joined by her daughter, her husband and their 3 year-old son, Tyler, a wiry little tike. We watched as mom and dad heaved Tyler into the water. Tyler screamed in protest and came bounding out, mom and dad in hot pursuit. Dad grabbed him by the arm and hoisted the little fellow back to the pool. After more screams of protest, they gave up. Linda turned to me, needing to explain. “He’s autistic,” she said. “There ain’t much that pleases him.” 

Linda and her daughter discussed what to do with the boy while Tyler screamed. Suddenly, he reared up and head-banged his mother so hard that the impact nearly knocked her cold. The daughter wanted to leave, but Linda persevered, insisting that the couple stay for the evening barbecue. All evening, I could hear Tyler’s shrieks until, at last, they went on home to Ft. Bragg. Raising a kid like that would be tough. 

This afternoon, Linda and her live-in, Ronnie, (a nice fellow with the biggest belly I’ve ever seen) came over to say ‘good-bye’ before setting off. Before leaving, Ronnie brought me up to date on diesel engines. He said a Cummins diesel was the best. Ronnie was born in Wyoming, raised in North Carolina. He’d like to go back, he likes cold weather, but he reckons he’ll stay in North Carolina. “Got too much going on here.” 

Linda said they enjoyed sitting out evenings, listening to me fiddle. “You play real purrdy,” she said. “You play in an orchestra or something?” 

What I learned at the Airstream dealership . . .

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

(Argosy with new sea-green awning.)

This morning I towed the Argosy to the Airstream dealership in Greensboro where it is now being refit with a new awning. Upon arriving, the first thing I learned was how to hitch and unhitch properly. (Lift the trailer to relieve stress on the sway bars. I also learned that the electrical problem (no power) was due to a tripped breaker. Flip the switch; problem solved.

Looking at me crosswise, the shop guy asks, You didn’t know there’s a breaker box? No. How long have you owned the trailer? Two years. Did ya’all here that,” he hollers. Two years! She’d had it two years.! 

I learned more when the shop guys filed into the customer lounge for lunch. As was their custom each day, they tuned in the TV to watch Judge Egan (Court Channel) dispense justice.

The case before the judge involved a silver-haired, fast-talking fellow named Jim, who sued his ex-wife for back taxes and a lawn mower--both awarded to the wife in the divorce decree. Jim began by joking with the judge, to soften him up. He said his ex-wife wanted the divorce because she claimed he didn’t pay enough attention to her. “He watched women’s volleyball all day long,” the ex-wife chimed in. “Is it true?” the judge asked. Why, they were Olympic gold medalists, your honor, Jim said. Judge Egan turned to the camera and raised his eyebrows. The shop boys groaned. “Hey there, Mr. Slick,” one commented. “You lost that round.”  

Jim tried again, saying him and his wife had irreconcilable differences over money. She says I’m cheap, he said. But I think of myself as thrifty. Your honor, he continued, I’m like you. I was raised poor. I was a grown man before I knew that chickens had white meat. This ploy worked better. Judge Egan did him one better, claiming that he was grown man when he learned that baloney went on a sandwich. The shop guys muttered their approval. 

After the ex-wife presented her side of the story, i.e. the back taxes and the lawn mower were awarded to her in the divorce degree, Judge Egan got down to business. He asked Jim about that. Had he raised these issues in divorce court? Jim was forced to acknowledge that he did not. Why not? Jim fumbled, then blurted out that his attorney had advised him to settle the divorce issue first before making a claim in a ‘civil court.’ 

Divorce court is a civil court, Judge Egan shot back. (Shop guy 1: He’s done.) And what you’re asking me to do is overturn the decision of the divorce court. (Shop guy 2: Stick a fork in him.) The camera panned to the ex-wife. (Shop guy 3: She ain’t saying nothin.’ Her mouth’s wired shut.)

With the bang of a gavel, Judge Egan ruled in favor of the ex-wife. Case closed. As Jim left the courtroom, Shop guy 1 added: It ain’t so funny now, is it buddy? 

Chatter resumed through the commercial break, centering on last evening’s thunder storm. Ben, another shop guy, complained that his damn dog run off in the storm last night. First clap of thunder, that dog’s gone. 

The reference to thunder brought shop guy Ricky into the conversation to show what he knew: Dogs is real sensitive to lightening on account of their bodies have low resistance to electrical current. It don’t take much current to kill a dog. It takes on amp to kill a man, which ain’t much considering a bolt of lightening delivers around 12,000 amps. Takes less than half an amp to kill a dog.

Well I’m about ready to kill mine, Ben said. Damn dog runs off at the smell of lightening. First thing this morning I get the call from my neighbor. Would I please come get my dog out of his hay machine. 

Dogs can feel lightening coming before we even hear it, Ricky says. Dogs is real sensitive that way. The program resuming, Ben turned his attention back to Judge Egan. Seeing that I was still listening, Ricky continued his discourse on lightening.

Did ya ever notice that puppies ain’t afraid of lightening? It’s cuz they ain’t been shocked yet. Once they get shocked, they’ll do anything to get away from the current.

Ever wonder why your grandma told you never to stand in the doorway during a lightening storm? Same with a barn. If the front and back doors line up, the lightening can arc clean through the house. I seen it happen. A fellow called me out to look at his breaker box after the house was hit by lightening. Melted that breaker box onto the floor. The man couldn’t understand why his TV got hit. He unplugged it before the storm. 

Well, Ricky said, I noticed that his front and back doors lined up. I told him that the lightening went right through the house, the difference between the positive and negative charges on either side, created an arc (lightening bolt) between the front door and the back of the house. His TV set was hit inside the house. That fellow just couldn’t believe it when I told him. That’s why airplanes get hit by lightening. If the plane flies between two clouds--one negatively charged, the other positive--the arc can hit the plane. 

You probably heard that lightening won’t hit a car cuz of the rubber tires. But I seen a car burned up by lightening. A lady parked under a tree. Lightening hit the tree, ran down through the roots, then arced back up over the car. It can arc a long ways like that. The truth is lightening can go about any place, any direction it pleases.

Ricky leaned closer to me. I don’t tell many people this, he said, but I took a course in electrical engineering. They teach electricians that electricity flows from negative to positive. That’s one theory. In class we learned there’s another theory that says electricity flows from positive to negative. No one knows for sure. You got to pick one theory and stick with it. You can’t be guessing which way the current’s gonna go. Ricky leaned back in his chair. This is my theory, he said. Lightening’s gonna go where it wants to go. It makes its own rules. 

Ben rejoined the conversation at this point, describing the power of last night’s storm. Boom here! Boom there!, he said waving his arms, adding that he reckoned somebody got it. He was right. Someone did. The news reported that a 68-year old man was killed while clearing brush in his field. North Carolina ranks fourth in the nation in lightening deaths.

And that’s what I learned at the Airstream dealership . . .

Why I love Old Time music!

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Why I love Old Time music. . . 

A good day to travel, I said to myself Thursday morning. A good day to head on up the Old Time and Bluegrass music festival in Mt. Airy, North Carolina. I was anxious about the trip. The Argosy blew a tire on the way to Union Grove and had been docked at Battleground Wrecking since, nearly two weeks. It’s like being bucked off a horse. Best thing to do is to get right back on and ride. So, I girded up the cinch, packed up the truck and started off. I didn’t get far before I noticed a problem with the  truck--no power to the radio, AC or wipers. The radio and AC, I could do without; the wipers, no way. What to do? The shop guys up at Sturdivants guessed it was the ignition switch. Wore out. But after starting and restarting the truck several times, the switch seemed to be working fine. What to do? Cancel the trip? Or take the chance that the switch would fail again? I decided to chance it.

Down the road at Battleground Wrecking, the Argosy was out front, fitted out with two new tires, a spare, shock absorbers and repacked bearings. “She’s good to go to California,” the shop guy advised. Mt. Airy will be good enough, I said. Off we went. It was the right decision. Traffic was light; the weather held. The Argosy trailed along obediently, riding much smoother with the new shocks. To top it off, I pulled in next another vintage Airstream (circa 1965) owned by Bob White, from Huntsville, AL, a master OT fiddler, collector and music producer. 

That night, as the rain poured down from the heavens above--Glory be! The Argosy near floated away--I laid in the stateroom listening to the music that continued late into the night and on toward morning--OT tunes, simple, rhythmic tunes, like a heart beat.

The next morning, Friday, was cool, gray and soggy. The campground was quiet, save for one, lone banjo picker off in the distance. I took up my fiddle and followed the sound to a shed where a young fellow played. I recognized the boy. He was a member of a group of two families from Florida, total of ten children, the oldest Adam, 20 years old, the youngest around three or four--all home-schooled together and all accomplished musicians. The boy introduced himself, politely, Noah’s his name, and asked me to lead off. After several rounds of “Angeline, the Baker,” Noah’s 14-year old sister wanders in, smiling, fiddle under her arm. She joins in and away we go with “Julie Ann Johnson.” 

By the time we play out Miss Julie Ann Johnson, another fiddler arrives along with a woman a stand-up bass, both of them (I’m not making this up) with toddlers strapped to their backs. The fiddler leads out with “Sarah Armstrong,” and I swear to god, I’m not making this up, that baby girl strapped to her back started bouncing, waving her arms and legs in time to the music, and, all the while, through all the bounding, her mother didn’t miss beat. Turns out the two women are part of a two-couple group (the husbands turned up later) from Lawrence, KS, who call themselves “Prairie Acres.” The group performed on stage with those two babies strapped to their mothers’ backs. They were terrific, placing easily in my top five. Seeing those two perform with babies on their backs reminded me of Ginger Rogers who danced every step with Fred Astaire, backwards, in high heels! And they call him the great dancer.

By now we had a major jam going--fiddles, guitars, banjos--upwards of 20 players and more standing around listening. We just kept right on playing till the sun broke through and Noah’s mother came to gather in the flock for lunch. “Great jam,” someone said. It was, everyone richer for the experience of making music together, unsolicited. 

That’s why I love OT music . . . .

Friday, May 15 -- Still Alice

(left--Katie takes charge of NannyCare)

I vowed before leaving Salt Lake that I would do nothing for a solid month but swing in the hammock, looking straight up at the sky. After nine months at NannyCare I was four ways done--baked, fried, sauteed and toasted. The very LAST thing on earth that I want think about is Nanny! Bless her heart. . . 

Well I haven’t kept my promise. I’ve been running here and there so fast I haven’t had time to hang up the hammock. And worse, Carolyn handed me a book about Alzheimer’s as we headed out to Gerryland and I stayed up all night reading it. Here’s the funny part. The book is titled Still Alice, a novel by Lisa Genova. My version could be titled, “Still Alive!” Funny how replacing the ‘v’ for the ‘c’ changes the meaning completely. 

The story is told through the eyes of Dr. Alice Howland, a professor of cognitive psychology at Harvard, who develops Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease (EOAD) at the height of her career, age 51. The novel progresses from the first signs of the disease, the diagnosis, informing the family (EOAD is inherited, one child tested positive), work issues, and finally, arrangements for care.  

The author knows what she’s talking about. Lisa Genova has a Ph.D. in neuroscience from Harvard and writes for the National Alzheimer’s Association. 

What I found most interesting, and helpful, about the book was hearing the tale through the voice of Alice Howland. Much of it ran true to what I saw at NannyCare.

In one incident, Alice and her husband, John, are about to go out for a run. (Exercise delays the disease.) Alice forgets they plan to run and begins reading a book. John asks what she’s doing? “Aren’t we going for a run?” Alice remembers the run, but she’s confused about when John leaves for a conference.

“Are you going to the conference today?”

“No, Monday.”

“What’s today?”

“Thursday”

When does Lydia (their daughter) get here?”

Sunday.

“That’s before you leave?”

“Yes. Ali, I just told you all this.” 

Alice asks John to wait while she goes to the bathroom. In her confusion, she ends up in the broom closet. Panic sets in as Alice realizes that she’s lost in her own home.

The title, Still Alice, conveys the author’s premise that, despite the loss of memory and diminished capacity, Alice Howland is still Alice, i.e. still herself in terms of her understanding, feelings, wants and  desires. To that, I would add, that my Alice, my mother, becomes more of herself as she regresses, i.e. more of the core self reveals itself as the layers of affect and artifice fall away.

For anyone interested in Alzheimer’s disease, Still Alice is a good read. 

Thursday, May 14 -- Gerryland

The minute I saw the grass in the pasture and smelled them pines, I knew that I was back home. Glad to be here!

Tuesday evening, Carolyn Holt picked me up at the airport. Next morning, ‘Sweet Baby’ Bob cooked us breakfast and delivered me back at Gerryland. Outside, the Argosy was draped in a green, mossy film; inside, dust covered the furniture, shelves, window frames. Spider webs crisscrossed the corners; insect carcasses littered the floors. But Gerry had vacuumed the floors, cleaned out the air conditioning units and chased off the black snakes. The casita, studio and the Argosy wintered well. There was some flooding and mildew in the studio, but overall, no major damage. Even the food stored outdoors remains edible. Mini Mo started right up; the AAA guy got the truck running. 

While peering under the hood of the truck, precariously close to a big wasps nest, I asked the AAA guy if he minded the wasps. “Nope,” he said confidently. “I don’t bother them; they don’t me. Besides, I’ve been bit so many times, it don’t bother me no more.” Continuing, he said, "If I get into a critter’s home, he can kill me. But if he comes into my home, then I kill him." It's a Southern (guy) thing, I suppose.

After the MiniMo and Old Betsy were up and running, I tuned up the fiddles--Heide, Mousehole, Adeline and Erynn--then, downloaded pictures. The next few days, I took advantage of the cool weather to do the heavy, outdoor work: scrubbing down the Argosy, stem to stern, and clean out winter droppings from the storage areas 

The hard work done, I drove to High Point to visit Andrew and Joni, and met Mya Isabelle, a chubby little creature, who struggles to hold up her head, focus her eyes, and make sense of the world around her. Two things she knows already: where supper can be found and how to make her wishes known. Joni is the confident mother; Andrew, the proud papa. 

Andrew has seen many changes in his life this past year. “Yeap,” he said. “I sold my Audi and turned in my ‘man card.’ Now I have a wife, a mortgage and a baby.” The Audi had become troublesome, expensive to maintain, while his vaunted man card was so worn that barely a shred remained. He agreed. He’s gotten his money’s worth from the ‘man card.’ Was it worth the sacrifice? Looking at Mya, he said, “When I look at this little face, it’s worth it. That’s the cutest little face ever!” 

My wish to my son, Andrew: May he always feel this way. 

(Andrew, Joni, Mya pictured top right)

May 09

Friday, May 1 -- Las Cruses, New Mexico

Flew into the El Paso airport yesterday after departing NannyCare. There to greet me were Jack and Delilah Eakman. After collecting luggage, we headed out along #28 where we stopped at Chope’s, an Eakman favorite, for the best Mexican food ever. Who knew it could be so good!

After touring Las Cruses, through the desiccated downtown, to the new developments spreading west to nowhere, past the New Mexico State campus, home to 28,000 students, I wondered why anyone would live in such a desert. Jack and Delilah love it here. They can’t wait to sell their place in Big Sky (Delilah: “I’m sooo done with winter!) and live here year round. My instinct is to follow winter as it migrates northward on our warming planet.

This evening, as we sat on the patio sipping tea under the clear New Mexico sky, talk turned to the question that Jack posed on my visit to Big Sky in September. That question being: Is the Mormon Church a cult? 

After pondering the question all winter, I found that it depends on whom you ask. Those on the outside tend to answer in the affirmative: Yes, the Mormon Church is a cult. Those on the inside, many of them surprised, even offended by the question, declare firmly: No, the Church is not a cult. It’s a church, Stupid! 

Yes, a church and much, much, much more, which happens to be the point. To the faithful, the Church is a church, as well as a highly integrated culture (some would say ‘invasive’), social organization, priesthood brotherhood, theology, philosophy, political system, lifestyle, guide to living in this life and the next, and, last but not least, an highly effective old boy’s network. The Church is many things to its active members; it plays many roles, performs many functions in their lives. 

Here is my brother Henry’s answer. Henry lives in the heart of Happy Valley. He’s a thoughtful man. Although now a card-carrying Republican, he was once one of five registered Democrats in his district. His first response to the question was, No. The Church is too big to be a cult. Then, upon reflection, he asked: What do you mean by ‘cult?’

I rephrased the question this way: Suppose the Prophet (capitalized in Mormonland) asked every member of your ward to pack up their families and move to Missouri. How many would go?  

Without missing a beat, Henry responded, “Everyone I know, including myself. If the Prophet told me to go, I’d go.” If fact, he said, if any of the General Authorities asked our ward to go, we’d all go. The order would not have to come from the Prophet himself. 

Having said that, he looked at me and asked, “Does that make us a cult?” 

Jack remarked that the Mormon Church reminded him of a “well engineered bee hive.” He was surprised to learn that, indeed, Utah’s state symbol is the bee hive.  

Which is it? Church? Cult? Integrated culture? Well engineered bee hive? All of the above?