Not Our Era

A hot, arrid wind out of the east loosens seed in the withering field and shakes the brittle grass.


Ninety again today, and no clouds.


The ground is hard and bulbous under our moccasins. The dogs pant on their sides in the shade.


We would call this a drought. Yet the heat suits the bulk of life around us.

We see a monarch, newly emerged, drying its wings. We see its larval stage chewing under a milkweed leaf. And on the next stalk, the large milkweed bugs are gathering.


All this in a glance without taking a step.


So much happens we know next to nothing about.


We are reminded this is not the Age of Men, but the Age of Insects.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Weekend Fare

The weekend wraps itself around food and sunsets.

Friday: Dining outside is a primal pleasure. Pitching a tent near a pond in a vineyard and serving local species (both as fare and as diners) is a good way to raise money to promote the National Road.

We like to sit by a fire after dark. A guitar player adds to the music of the crickets even if he doesn't know all the words to "American Pie" by heart.

Saturday: Combine human courtesy with a talented chef, and the result is memorable.

Finding international dishes prepared with fresh ingredients in Youngstown, PA (Arnold Palmer's hometown) is a surprise. Stop and see Michael and Yelena Barnhouse at Barnhouse Bistro (also known locally as the Tin Lizzy), and you won't be disappointed.

Open for both lunch and dinner, their menu ranges from burgers or bangers and mash, to lavender lamb Bolonese or cassoulete. There's also the "small plate of the day" and the seafood of the day.

It's a rarity, but everything on their menu tempts us.

They seem to be working hard at the American Dream and deserve success. Yes, her accent is Russian. His is Ohioan.

Sunday: The weekend is far from over, and so is the summer. We're going outside to wallow in it.

The last of anything can be the best of it.

Stretch the day.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Calm Yourself

Yes, it's true.

Timber rattlers live in a few places along the Great Allegheny Passage, just as they do throughout most of these mountains.

Rest easy. You're not on a plane.

You're in the open. On the trail, you will never come upon one unexpectedly.

You can leave them alone, as they will you, given half a chance.

Timber rattlers are not aggressive, not territorial. Docile by reputation, they will not strike unless threatened.

"They generally coil up and rear back before they strike," a friend and naturalist told me. He has studied timber rattlers for 30 years and is a recognized expert in Pennsylvania.

"A man is fast enough to jump out of the way," he says. "You just have to be sure you're not jumping onto another one."

On the trail, having a long, open view in both directions, this is not a problem. State conservationists say a three-foot buffer is all you need to be safe. So make it 10.

Timber rattlers are summer solitaries, gathering in their dens only to hibernate for the winter. That happens in mid-October. They emerge in April and scatter, usually foraging for mice in a loop that brings them back to the den in the fall, and rarely wandering more than a mile from the den.  Males, however, have been known to travel five miles in search of a mate. That happens in July and August.

They return to the same den throughout their entire lives (30 years). Those who study them are secretive about den locations, even with each other, with good reason. Word gets out, a massacre is likely. Ignorance breeds fear.

Rattlers often follow the same course they followed last year. So if you are lucky enough to see one, keep your distance, and be looking for it again about the same spot next time.

To put things in perspective:

• There has not been a death in Pennsylvania from rattlesnake bite in 25 years.

• Timber rattlers and their dens are protected. They are important to the ecosystem and endangered.

• There are only 6 deaths per year in the U.S. from all forms of snakebite (mostly diamondbacks out west), while deaths from wasp and bee stings range from 30-120, 10-20 die from dog attacks, and 75-200 from lightning.

There's been a media outbreak this summer of rattler stories. Some may consider it sensational. But the public would be better served by a headline that read: "Bees and Wasps Reported Along Trail."

Remember, when on the trail,  we are the intruders. We should behave as respectful guests.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

The Scattering

The Scattering

The barred hawk lies broken

on the seed hulls at the feeder,

a bit of down stuck to the window pane

where he dared to pass through,

a songbird spared, perhaps,

the small gray permanent residents

nowhere to be seen, frightened, still, by the corpse.



Thirty years ago I cleaned the splattered wall,

rolled up the bloody sheet and stuffed it in the can;

sometimes, still, the rages of my father interrupt my sleep,

his failed paintings propped against the attic rafters

among the drift of flies and now the collapsing boxes

of my daughter's things. His portrait of her childhood,

painted from memory, is a clumsy likeness,

yet there they both are, in the distortion.



Cut off in both directions, isolated by extinction,

I scatter her ashes over the island of the moment,

over the ironweed and goldenrod, over the chorus

of bees circling this field become child.

Apples are falling in the wine-red thorns.

Monarchs are leaving for Mexico. The swallows are gone.

Absence is always a surprise, and none of us is coming back.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Blink

Our TV won't turn on.

We had just hooked up satellite radio in the house and run it through the stereo. While we were at it, we hooked the television audio into the stereo as well. The plan is for more music and less TV.

So when we wanted to watch the full first season of Flight of the Conchords on DVD and in stereo, and the TV went dumb, we thought it was our fault.

Two days later, after hours of double-checking and resetting and calling 800 numbers and googling, we discover it's not us. It's the TV. Specifically, it's the garbage capacitors in the power supply.

When you call Samsung, they answer quickly. Then they play dumb, like a capacitor problem is news to them.

But when you google "Samsung power supply repair" on YouTube, you see that the best of the scores of choices has been viewed 128,000 times. One of them is us. We learned enough to forget soldering replacement capacitors ($30) ourselves and just ordering a new power supply board for $110.

We also learned there's a two-year old with a bright future in either electronics or the theater.

At one point in Part Two, and on cue, Milo takes the capacitor from his  hand, holds it up, looks directly into the camera, and somberly explains, "Vee-see poodit pee-ay."

You can hear his mom barely containing herself.

Thanks, Milo. We understand.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

The Limits of Paleontology

The Limits of Paleontology


In their summer of tunnels and bridges

A continent of trees and rivers

Buckled where they leaned together

And they chose to honor secrets,

The ferns and fishes hidden

In the hills that held them there,

Her head tipped back against his shoulder

And he said her ears were pretty

And she thought he said her tears,

The moment more beautiful misread.



copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

High Achievement

The pleasures of Paris are legion.

Every few hundred meters we found another astonishment, another garden in the high style, another temple to divinity, another palace brimming with masterpieces.

And in a city with 7,000 restaurants, the next lovely cafe seemed always just a few steps away.

Two-thousand years of civilization can accomplish much.

And yet, walking our own field and woods, untouched for 40 years, we realize the works of men have their limits.

We are reminded the highest forms of beauty have little to do with us. So often, the best we can do is nothing at all.

copyright 2010 J.O'Brien, all rights reserved

How We See

The empty space defines existence.

Taoists think so, believing we must empty ourselves that we might be filled, rid ourselves of misconception and prejudice that what is true might come flooding in.

Artists know the power of empty space. If we were to sketch something as ordinary as tomatoes in our garden, we would draw negative space, creating the outlines of the empty places. Sketching slows us down and makes us look closely. It is a form of meditation.

The abstract spaces are just as real as the concrete, and they have infinite depth.

We live in emptiness, bound  on all sides by the concrete, but that is only in one dimension. In negative space, we are limited no longer to the vines and the fruit.

Possibilty dwells in emptiness, in the unforseen, the unexpected, and the unimagined.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Early Autumn

In the morning, backlit cobwebs hung with dew,

In the evening, katydids playing their rasps,

Pay no attention to the calendar: Today is the first day of fall.

Walnuts drop in the yard, striking the hard earth like a drum,

Bagworms return from their night feast to sleep the day away in their tents,

The deer are in the corn.

Our instinct tells us to stack firewood and fill the oil tanks.

We do not fear the coming winter,

We do not regret the passing summer,

We have this day,

We watch the long sunset from the hilltop.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Time Is Elastic

The stasis of summer ends,

Change enters the valley.

Seeds takes flight,

Dragonflies patrol the field.

The spring runs dry,

And the pond lowers.

We watch for rain;

Acorns drop in the dust.

We move through life

Like light and wind.

Let us be mindful.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Goldenrod in August

Goldenrod has bloomed while we were gone,  the five varieties in the unmowed field now opening in succession.   

In June, daisies follow the sun. In July, milkweed flowers. In September, it will be asters.

Summer flows molten with us or without us.

At sunset we sit  beside a small fire to keep away mosquitos. From behind a shutter, a bat  launches its hunt, then another, patrolling the blue air in silhouette.

The quarter moon sets through the pines.

The night has a thousand notes.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

New World

Rain had darkened the stones when we awoke, and we were glad for it, the ground baked hard, and the fields going brown, noticeable even from a mile in the air.

Good to be home, to the hollows filled with haze, to the yellow dust rising  up behind us on the road, to the overgrown yard, to the rusting logshed roof, to the wild sunflowers falling at the cellar door, to the tomatoes bursting on their vines, to the pile of mail having reached its angle of repose on the kitchen table, to the dogs so beside themselves at our appearance they shake each other by the neck and run circles around the house, to the goldenrod blooming, and the blackbirds flocking, and the crickets singing in the weeds.

We will start again today.

It feels like the New World. It really does.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Clouds

We flew into the sky
from which we fell,
to cross the sea
and fall again
into familiar hills,
short on history perhaps,
connected in our span
from rim to rim,
clouds and continents within.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserrved

Sky

For all the sights of Paris, what stunned us most was the sky.

Rain fell as we stood in line to enter the museum. We didn't mind. We like rain.

Inside for three hours, we immersed ourselves in paintings, experiencing the thrill of discovery -- perhaps in a work we did not know, perhaps in an unexpected emotion from a work we did.

But when we stepped outside, the sky had opened, and it overwhelmed us.

Going underground again to take the Metro held no appeal. As we walked, we thought about Monet trying to capture the reflection of the sky on his pond and the depth behind it. Though famously dissatisfied, he came closer than he thought.

How brave the artist who would try.

No Photo, Monsieur

Make no mistake, this is good coffee.

Just as surely, the machine is fast and efficient, and is lovely to behold sitting on your kitchen counter.

But the capsules they require are a controlled substance. Even in Paris, they can be found only in four stores. The giant Swiss firm that makes them would prefer we joined their club and ordered on the internet, but we hop the Metro and head to their "flagship" store near the internationally trendy center of the city.

Inside, the tubes of capsules are purchased downstairs only after you have met with your coffee consultant, a thin, well-dressed young man with the look of an investment banker. The tubes are pretty stacked against the wall. We take a picture. Security appears, wagging a long finger and speaking into his lapel. But we got one, and this is it.

A few Metro stops later, we wander through a townhouse-now-museum built in 1548, checking our backpack full of coffee capsules at the entrance. Paris is rich with museums and centuries.

Outside, mounted gendarmes clop by. We wonder if they have been summoned to subdue an insistent picture-taker at the Coffee Palace.

Celebrity at the Louvre

Like cattle in a chute we were stampeded toward the world's most famous painting.

We had stepped around a corner as  directed by a sign that read "Mona Lisa" and were caught in a river of humanity.

The chute was a marble hall, hot and dank, one of countless opulent passages in the world's largest palace and museum. It opened into a room full of digital equipment, recording what we calculate to be 10,000 bad pictures a minute of that crafty smile.

Roped off a good 30 feet away, many barely looked at the painting, so busy were they photographing themselves before it. We love to be in the presence of the famous.

The Louvre displays 30,000 paintings, but people are the big show.

(As always, click to enlarge.)

Nightfall

We spread a cloth close to the water.

We open wine. We break bread.

Granite warms our backs.

The sun sets behind the cathedral.

People crossing the bridge above stop to look, their faces lit.

Every one smiles. It can't be helped.

On both banks, lovers carress.

We live in a golden age.

Paint

Dining outside in the dark suits us, even if the cafe happens to be on the side of a hill, and our salade vegetarienne tends to slide toward the river.

We have returned from another day exploring the city, this one in Montmartre, the hill on the Right Bank, famed residence of Picasso, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, and the Moulin Rouge. Most of the artists there now bang out small acrylic cityscapes for sale at every other shop for 30 euros, or they dash off charicatures in charcoal and chalk for posers fresh off the bus.

History is history, nevertheless, and an impromptu turn around the next corner frees us from the gauchery of trinkets. On narrow side streets we can imagine for a few moments what it might be like to live a life dedicated to creation and beauty on this hill.

Somewhere the young and the talented are just as passionately pursuing their art. Maybe even one of these glowing souls seated around us will contribute as much.

Close Quarters

If you don't get to the Eifel Tower until 10 a.m., you will be 20,000th in line. Really.

If you are not lusting after a fuscia replica, you're better off walking to the river and following the Seine to the Musee D'Orsay, formerly a rail station in the grandest of styles, and now home to the world's largest collection of impressionist paintings.

Lots of spiraling skies and floating undraped nymphs, all masterpieces. Watching the lookers, we are more convinced than ever that we are all tormented and all aroused, though some of us like to pretend otherwise.

Paris is packed in August, and we are learning how to avoid the beaten paths.

One other thing we have learned is how to park a Smart. They all do it this way.

Europeans are more comfortable in close quarters than Upper Turkeyfooteans.

Civilization

In the Luxembourg Gardens (Jardin du Luxembourg) we come upon a gaggle of artists setting up for a show. They are busy with the mechanics of assembly, but willing to answer questions as they open crates and drive screws.

We raise our camera, and an older gentleman with strong resemblance to one of the principals points to the younger man and calls out with obvious pride, "L' artiste! L' artiste!"

In a city so rich in public places, whose leaders have (eventually) given back so much to the people they serve, in a culture that reveres its artists and philosophers and scientists as much as its generals, in a society that values human discourse as much as productivity, one better understands the word civilization.

Exposure to such a world at a formative age could change a life.

Legs

We sit picking tradition from our teeth, sated. Picasso did this here, too. Nothing like an aloof waiter serving you goose gizzard and white beans with a barely-hidden sneer to warp your view of the human form. We finish our frogs legs and meander past the art shops, indulging our sensuality in our selection of greeting cards, and catch the Metro to the next neighborhood down the Seine. Paris, for a city of 11 million people, is surprisingly compact.

Walking across the bridge to the Ile St. Louis, we see below us a man at home in his own corner of the Left Bank, relaxing in his living room, at peace with the world. We wish him well when it rains.