Aliens

Daisies and hawkweed opened this week in the field-returning-to-woods.

They showed themselves in the twilight just after the blackberries bloomed. The field is sweet with the proceess of fruition.

We used to be vigilant about aliens, rooting out non-native species when they appeared, only to discover, decades ago, that ox-eye daisies are among them -- a bit of a surprise, since daisies graced the fields of our childhood and gave us pleasure always.

Now we are more tolerant, all of us happy for a little ground to grow in, entering the cycles of death and renewal.

Especially when we began to think of ourselves as aliens, too.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Between

Hammock weather begins in June.

Ours has hung between the pear and the walnut for decades, mostly as decoration, representative of an idyllic life, something to aspire to.

We like the idea of swinging in the air under the full-leafed boughs. (A bad idea, however, when the fruit is ripe and falling.)

We like giving ourselves a push and looking up through the rocking boughs.

We like it, too, in the dark, swinging under the Milky Way, the radiation of the universe affecting our souls. We like to think it's curative.


HAMMOCK

Swing in that between

between the dusk and night before

before the cloud pillars expire,


Between to watch the dark lie down

down in green thatch of the field,

field of crickets keening light,


Geese in dark procession down,

vires black-beaked in the boughs

swing in that between.


copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Backlight

Each morning we step outside.

Winter and summer. First thing.

Even before the coffee brews.

Travelers home from the country of sleep.

The sun just clears the woods, shadows long in the yard, each blade of grass tipped with dew and the sun in it. Ten thousand suns at our feet.

The field-returning-to-woods is thick with wonder. A spider line rises and falls in a breeze unfelt, more a slide of air than wind, light refracting on its length, a linear prism.

Songbirds fly low toward the house, tracing scallops through the bright air.

Mourning doves call from the dripping trees.

We understand the mundane dread of having to be at a specific place at a specific time.

We know the privileges of time.

We keep this appointment with ourselves.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Stripes and Stars

We're going to don a star-spangled T-shirt and drive the little car into town for provisions. It's a good weekend for patriotism.

True, only part of the car was made in the USA (the rest was made in Europe), as opposed to none of the T-shirt, but it makes the statement "less is more," and we like that.  It's fun to drive, and we like that, too. Also good: It's easy to wash.

We never wash and wax a car without remembering our father's 1958 Oldsmobile Super 88. Our father was a perfectionist, especially when smaller fingers were polishing the chrome. "High-nickel chrome!" he would say. My brother can tell you how our fingers ached.

In the fifties, you may have recall, excess was far from wretched. Too much was just enough. They had earned it, after all, saving the world from authoritarianism.

Washing the car in the yard with the ballgame on the radio, going to town for something to grill, inviting friends over for a few hours of relaxation under the sun -- that's part of it, too. And to everyone who has worn this country's uniform and done their duty, we say thanks.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Confined to Ordinary Beauty

The fog lifted.

We could see everything.

There was nothing left to see.

Scenes worthy of calendars abounded. And that is the point. We'd seen them before on postcards and magazine covers, available in the public domain, furnished by the visitors bureau.

A more subtle landscape stays with us longer. At the time it may seem hardly worth photographing until we stop, until we are still, until we renew our acquaintance with the ebb and flow that surround us.

Be it the currents of a tidal river filling in reverse, or a tree-lined road to a beach known mostly to locals, the fog helps us take a closer look. 

Such views are always there, of course, when we eliminate distraction.

Some might call it meditation.

copyright 2010 J.O'Brien, all rights reserved

Maine and Back

We've been visiting family in Maine. Everybody's good, thanks.

We did what we usually do in the pine tree state.  We walked the beaches. We ate lobster rolls. We picked up a few round stones. And we rode our bicycle up and down the coast, exploring inlets and capes in the sea breeze.

There's a lot to see in Maine, and from a bicycle is a good way to see it. We gawked left and right so much our neck really hurts.

Late May is a fine time in York County: The air is warm, and the tourists and the mosquitoes have yet to swarm.

We're not sure if the Bushes are here yet for the summer, but already a few visitors gather along the road near the commemorative anchor and look across the water to Walker Point, hoping for a glimpse of American royalty, some waving beside their Jaguars at the slightest sign of activity.

We have always felt at home among New Englanders, smart, sensible, casual people. We notice the change in humanity when we switch planes in New York, walking past the urban pleasures to the gate where folks are gathering for the trip north.

Returning, we are struck by our own perspective, welcomed by the totems to our own great regional events.

Is this a great country, or what?

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien

Water Wheels

The crushed limestone surface of the Great Alleghney Passage spoils us. It packs well, dries quickly when properly graded, and rides smoothly. We forget what a path through the woods can be like. The C&O Canal Towpath reminds us.

It reminds us we live on the Water Planet. It reminds us the towpath was built for mules. And it reminds us of our limitations as pack animals. Pulling a Bob trailer through the mud for 30 miles creates a sense of accomplishment.

It also reminds us to drill holes in the toes of our hybrid sandals to let out the water.

We don't mind the slower going. It feels good to have done  it, and to be dry, and warm, and grit-free.

The combination of the C&O and the GAP makes for a ride like none other on earth. It really is "The Ride of Your Life." And while we think of them as one trail, it is a trail with a split personality.

The Towpath is often a double track (shown below at Big Pool), created, I suppose, by National Historical Park Service vehicles. In  an all-day rain, these can become long troughs of brown water. We learn it is still easier to ride through the water than in the middle or on the berms.

That the GAP is built and maintained mostly by volunteers is a credit to our better natures.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

History from a Bicycle

When the 150-mile Great Allegheny Passage joined to the 184.5-mile C&O Canal Towpath in Cumberland, MD, it created a linear classroom for American history.

Connecting D.C. and Pittsburgh was George Washington's idea. He wanted to link the nation's capitol, beginning with the Potomac River in Georgetown, with the Forks of the Ohio.

Digging the canal began on July 4, 1828, the same day as ground was broken for the B&O Railroad. The canal would eventually reach Cumberland, leaving the railroad to finish the connection. Much of the GAP follows some of those lines since abandoned.

All of this makes for a gentle grade and pleasant riding. You pass through not only Revolutionary history (both the War for Independence and the Industrial) but Civil War, as well.

Further west, you even pedal through (not over) the hills where young Colonel Washington touched off the French & Indian War. This was wild country not so long ago, and what we like about it is, it's still not so tame.

And now you can sleep in the midst of history, too. Beginning last fall, the C&O Canal Trust made available for public occupancy three lock houses, once the abode of lock keepers and their families.

We did that over the week end. It exceeded expectations: pretty surroundings, clean and comfortable, heated, illuminated, beds but no linen (we used our sleeping bags on the beds), and a hot plate for cooking (though we cooked outside, taking advantage of an ample supply of dry firewood). Water came from a drinking fountain on an outside well, but on the C&O we always carry our own supply to drink.

A fourth lock house will soon be ready to rent. Amenities and rates vary from house to house, so check it out online. Ours was $85 a night. Google "Canal Quarters."

Our house (Lock House 49) is stocked with pictures and books on the canal and on those who lived here, and we read well into  the night. The fire died down and the stars revealed themselves. Owls serenaded us to sleep.

Come morning, we donned our rain gear and pedaled off, happy to have been the first overnight visitors to arrive by bike. We recommend it.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

What the River Says

We know well these few miles of the Great Allegheny Passage.

Just six miles from the house, we can hop on the trail here and ride west all the way to Pittsburgh, or east all the way to Georgetown.

May is fine for that, warm in the sun, cool in the shade, and the insect population not yet in explosion.

Years ago we volunteered to keep an eye on our home section. We have ridden it countless times. But today we are on foot for a slower, closer communion.

The river is our companion, and we could tell you where we are by the sound of it: rapids close to the Markleton cut, the stereo rush of Islers Run close to the bridge, and further down, silence as it runs away from us, then returns like distant applause 140 feet below us when we round the horn and cross High Bridge.

It is as if we hovered above the domed ceiling of a concert hall just after the final crescendo of a masterwork.

And to that we say, "Bravo!"

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien
all rights reserved

Country Ball

Thunderheads were building in the west, and the dogs were anxious. It didn't look like the game would be played. So we were happy to see the sky brighten as we drove up the rutted farm lane between the closed gas station and the picnic grounds and parked on the grass with the other SUVS and pickups.

We found a seat on the bleachers. We praised achievement and accepted failure, which is the nature of baseball, encouraging the disappointed. "Get 'em next time, Joe! Good effort, Schultzy! You can do it, Levi!"

We even cheered skilled plays by the boys from the town across the ridge. Magnanimity flows like maple syrup when the breeze is warm, and the boys are poised, and the parents are calm, and the storm has passed us by.

Finding a game on summer evenings where we grew up was a social activity. Folks carried lawn chairs in their trunks and took a ride to one of the small towns, villages really, where the ballfields were still central, a holdover from another century. There were leagues at every age, and it was a treat to watch a neighbor's son pitch one evening, and his grandfather the next.

Tonight, for a few hours, not much has changed. The ballfield has been there against the woods for a hundred years. The outfield ends where the cornfield begins. The backstop is still four poles and roll fencing. Everybody follows the rules, passed down unchanged from one generation to the next.

There is comfort in continuity.

We know we're home.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, al rights reserved

The Closer Universe

A mist fills the valley all day, the fifth ridge hidden in haze. We live in a realm of distances and clouds.

The close-at-hand is in sharper focus, the hawthorns tipped with rain, the features of the field inverted in the lens of each drop.

In the woods, the path is flanked by anise-root taking its adult shape. We chew a stem, and the wild licorice taste goes well with contemplation.

We could stand for an hour and look into the hills, alone with our thoughts.

We could kneel for an hour and lose ourselves just as easily in the world at our feet.

The universe is infinite in all directions.

As it is in us.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Sailing

The woods closes in. The path to the cabin in late afternoon is a tunnel through green under a low sky, insular, hushed, and confirming.

Yes, this world contains heaven, when we seek it out.

We build a fire in the grate. A favorite book feels fine in the hand, the weight of a life's work, the heft of a man's dreams, disappointments, and passions. Yeats has always thrilled us, especially beside the fire.

     That is no country for old men. The young
     In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
     – Those dying generations – at their song,
     The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
     Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
     Whatever is begotten, born and dies...

Just right for rocking with our feet upon the hearth, our pantlegs steaming, and the rain beginning again on the roof.

If you wish to do a little sailing to Byzantium, spend a day beyond the news and out of reach. We recommend it.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Cold Rain

The first poppy opened this morning in a cold drizzle. We hear a train in the Casselman Valley, and we know it will rain all day.

And just now, a few wet snowflakes slant in from the northeast. No ball game tonight for this fan.

A few days ago we saw our first barn swallows, arriving with the emergence of swallowtails and fritilleries. The air is full of flight. Summer seemed near. But today is a temporary click toward March instead of July. Fine with us. We like slow.

Yesterday evening we sat watching twilight tint the city, and as the game played out in its precise rhythms, we were happy to be there in "America's Most Livable City."

Tonight we'll stay home, maybe walk to the cabin, build a fire in the stove, and read by candlelight, surrounded by the dripping, shining woods.

We are also fans of the cold rain. Us and the poppy.

copyright J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

The Way They Were

We were flipping through the local newspaper yesterday, and the tributes to dead moms caught our attention.

We had held our mother's hand last December as she floated away. Her last message on the machine we still listen to from time to time. "It's Mom. I'm fine, so don't worry. Talk to you soon. Love you." She spoke our name like no one else.

In the newspaper, there were the usual sentiments, heartfelt certainly, though wrapped in lame verse, end-rhymed and sentimental.

We studied the pictures. All these long-lived women, shown near the ends of their lives. More fitting, it seems to us, would be a picture from their prime.

Take, for example, this picture of our own mother at 18. We didn't know her then, of course, country girl, high school valedictorian, winner of the English medal. But it's a good way to remember her, nevertheless.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Maybe One More Snow for Mom

Wind rules.

A day of motion, boughs streaming, meadow grass bending, the woods a dance of green veils.

The trees give the wind a face, Thoreau wrote, and the wind gives the trees a voice. In the woods, the voice and movement reminds us of a Baptist choir.

A good day for errands in town, where the talk is about expected snow.

It is the day before Mother's Day, busiest day of the year for Somerset Floral and our friend Craig Oglevee, the hardest working florist we know.

"We stopped answering the phone an hour ago," he said at mid-afternoon, barley looking up from one more ambrosial creation. But he did not seem unhappy.

We always wander in his greenhouse when we visit. It's like living in the future. Today we are pleased to find sturdy heritage tomatoes he has grown from his own seeds for years.

No more big-box-store plants for us, shipped in from foreign latitudes. This year, if our tomatoes get the blight, they will have come by it honestly.

We take a chance on a couple of baskets of double begonias we will hang from the old barn beams that hold up the porch roof. It's a week early. Used to be, Memorial Day was the time to put out summer flowers. Now it's the 15th. Everything now is two weeks early. You can count on it.

We water the begonias and tomato plants and put them back in the Subaru in case it does snow tonight, and it might. Our trip to town accomplished for the week, we're not going anywhere. Like we often say, no need to rush the seasons.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

The Visions We Carry

Pirates round the bases early and often to the whoops of the several thousands, us included.  Success breeds noise.  We were ready to enjoy it.

Facing another drive out of the mountains and into the city, we had run first, an easy jog along our dirt road.

We have learned that even half an hour in the natural world fills our heads with visions that carry us through the day.

So we sat among strangers sharing the pleasures of baseball as our team built a big lead early, and we could see wild columbine blooming on the banks, and the fierce-jawed ants opening the buds of peonies still thriving near the abandoned cellar hole of a long-vanished farmhouse.

The fluid nature of the game has international appeal. Its joys and disappointments transcend language. That is what drew us together, be it from the other side of the planet, or from a dirt road in Upper Turkeyfoot, also a world away.

The game ends.

We walk to the car in the dark.

We find our way out of the city and its confusions.

We ride the long road into the dark hills.

We hear the gravel snapping under our tires.

We shut down our engine and stand in our yard under the constellations.

Today we will finish at the computer, slip on our Asics, and run the road again. Among the life forms of these mountains, we will see the people of the park.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Cinco de Mayo

The earth rolls back into its own shadow. It has been a day worth celebrating.

Not for sums. Not for swelling bank statements or for another Mason jar of coins buried under the fence post. This day has been an accumulation of natural wealth. On the fifth of May at this latitude, the beauty of the surface multiplies.

Miss a day in the woods, and it's not the same world. Yesterday we were busy with accounts, not of our own choosing. But today we have our feet on the earth, immersed in the ancient cycle of something new each hour.

We walk to the cabin to replace the window in the storm door with the screen, a Cinco de Mayo tradition of one.

Ragwort stands tall in the corner of the field, appearing as if by sorcery.

In the woods, the waxy blooms of May apples are attracting the pollinators under their full umbrellas. And overhead, the sky is a brilliant blue lace draped over the fresh green crowns.

Let others squander their afternoons scheming for geld. We have more important business to attend to. We have fields and woods to walk in.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Half Marathon

You could tell them by their sapphire jerseys, wandering the city after the big race. Some even wore their medals, an impressive weight on a ribbon picturing bridges. These were the finishers of the Pittsburgh Marathon and Half Marathon. We were among them, my son and I.

We had followed a training schedule for three months, rarely together, but sharing our progress each day via e-mail.

"Speed work tomorrow," I'd say, figuratively. "Hour run for me with striders," he'd say. We'd wish each other well. The winter sped by. Then there we were, pinning our bib numbers to our shirts in a downtown hotel room at 6 a.m., ready.

There were so many people in the race 10 minutes passed after the gun before we could move, a shuffle at first, then a walk, then a slow jog, then an easy run as the crowd yelled. It was great fun.

We crossed three rivers and five bridges. We turned our faces up into the cooling rain. We heard the bands and the cheering squads and the encouraging neighborhood folk along the way. Before the final two miles, I passed a group of young women runners reciting Hail Marys. There was a need: 20 runners would be hospitalized. But we are fine, and thanks for asking. A restless night last, perhaps, joints aching. And stiff muscles today. But recovering fast.

At one point it was a thrill to look across the Ohio at the stream of runners headed back toward the center of the city, my son among them. No, he did not juggle.

I have read there was a problem later at the finish. Something about a suspicious microwave hauled away by the police, x-rayed, and blown up out of harm's way. The explosion left a residue of Styrofoam and ravioli.

We live in a cautious time.

Back in the mountains, we pulled into my son's driveway to return him to his proud family, his children in the window. That was our finish line.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

The Names

The Irish have a digital problem. It's the apostrophe -- a point of honor for the Sons O'Erin.

We left hours early, knowing the traffic in the city would be massive. It is, afterall, the weekend of the 16,000-runner Pittsburgh Marathon, Pitt's Commencement, and a Penguin Stanley Cup playoff game.

But we had prepared with diligence, training for 12 weeks, eating right, and reserving a room near the finish line in the heart of the city. We were set.  Until the nice young woman at the check-in desk had no record of us.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't see it. Let me try again...No, Sorry," her pony tail swinging.

"It's the apostrophe," we said. We're used to this. Clickety-clickety click.

"Ah, there you are!"

So we're here in the room, digesting carbohydrates with our legs up, looking out over the Allegheny to the Mellon Area, already imagining the skyline without it.

Earlier we had visited the finish line to see what it looked like with normal brain function, then wandered about in the Convention Center buying marathon T-shirts and picking up a bag of freebies -- socks, Wheaties, packets of dehydrated iced tea, gift certificates, shoe freshener balls, water bottle, nutrition bar -- and looking for our names on the big board set up in the middle of the hall and reminiscent the Vietnam War Memorial in D.C.

People stooped to touch their names and take pictures with the Macro On.  We scowled.

At least the apostrophe was there.

As far back as I am likely to finish, I'm not  greatly concerned, for once, how they misspell my name.

I'll tell you how it goes.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved