The other day I shared a photo of a notepad I bought, on which someone left a message before I purchased it. Seems other people get a kick out of finding messages left in strange places:
http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2011/12/30/forgotten-bookmarks-the-secret-life-of-second-hand-books/
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Corning vs. New Hamburg, Part II
Today at approximately 8:30 in both locations. Hi, Sarah!
 |
| Corning Museum of Glass, Rakow Research Library |
 |
| Troy Road, near New Hamburg. |
Friday, January 13, 2012
Corning vs. New Hamburg
About 8:30 AM today I sent the following picture to my friend Arfie from my iPhone. I was on Troy road, facing the Hudson River in New Hamburg, NY.
Arfie responded in kind a few minutes later with a picture from his home in Corning, NY.
I've sent many pictures from New Hamburg to my brother Pat in Orange, CA. He's collected a few and altered them here.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Unfinished #1
I remember Ron loading his campervan that morning as if the night before never happened. Annette, Doug and Gwen were sleeping off their hangovers, but he was up early getting ready to leave.
He went from porch to van to porch to van, moving the boxes he’d packed between finals to their proper spots on the floor between the seats. His hair followed him like flaxen wake.
Bing, his cat was mildly intrigued by the long braided leather lanyard, which held his keys, swinging from the back pocket of his cutoffLevis
When the last box was in, Ron stopped and pulled off his sweat-stained concert tee – I think it was an old Yes concert shirt – wiped his face and hands with it, and put it carefully on the back seat. He grabbed a cotton BoSox jersey from the front seat and put it on.
“Good morning,” I said, weakly, from just inside the paint-choked screen door.
He stopped and stared in the side-view mirror of the van, his back to me. He pulled a rubber band from his pocket and tied back his hair.
“Morning,” he responded finally. He did not turn to look at me as he fussed with his hair a little more. The he moved to the back of the van, opened the hood and fiddled with the engine a moment, let the hood slam, then came up to the porch, holding his now greasy hands up like a surgeon after washing. He stopped just outside the screen.
“Would you open it for me?” he asked.
“Sure,” I responded, and opened the door and moved aside. He breezed past me to the kitchen. I could hear water come on and off quickly, then heard the step-can open and shut. He then came back out to where I stood, and stopped right before me.
He looked right into my eyes, just as he always did when he spoke to me, when he spoke to anyone, but it made you think they were there for you. They were green or hazel or whatever we never agreed they were, but they drew me in and he never knew it and he did not know right then, either, that if he asked me to drive to the Andes with him in that rickety tin can on wheels – right there, right then – I would have done it.
My mouth opened slightly. I wanted to say something, start stuttering it, “I … I … I…,” but he started speaking first.
“Just send my piece of the deposit when you can. I trust you.”
“Okay.”
He kept looking right at me – not staring – looking. My eyes darted back and forth from his left to his right but his gaze was fixed at the center of me.
“It was fun last night. Hope we can do that again someday.”
“Yeah.”
He let go his gaze slowly, as if following a feather floating through the air. The imaginary feather took his gaze to Bing. He walked outside and grabbed the feline like sack of potatoes. Before the screen door slapped back into the frame, he and Bing were in the van.
I heard the engine roar and watched them back out of the driveway, and disappear beyond the hedgerow. He waved.
It was then that I noticed I’d been wearing only a bra and panties.
(x years later)
One man on the other side of the table never looked up. From the moment he walked in, sat down, and started writing notes, he never looked up. Occasionally, when one of his team spoke, he nodded in approval but he kept writing. Not typing into his Ipad like everyone else – writing in a pad of paper in a weathered oxblood leather binder with aMont Blanc pen. He never once checked his cell phone like the rest of us.
He wore no tie or undershirt like the rest of his team, just a clean black jacket, black slacks, a white oxford shirt. He ran his hand over his grayed brush cut every now and then, as if checking to see if his hair was still there. It was all there, more so than his younger team members.
At one point in the negotiations, as his one of his colleagues spoke, he stopped writing for a moment and stared at a point in the center of the table. He quietly laid his pen down and soundlessly drummed his fingers on the table, to his right. As the colleague continued to speak about an important contract rider, his brows came together and I saw something familiar in his eyes. Then he quickly grabbed the pen, put his eyes back to the paper, and started writing again.
During the first break he walked swiftly outside to a water fountain. Two of his colleagues followed him with travel mugs full of coffee and chatted with him as he took a sip of water. I could see through the glass that he was talking to them, but he did not look at them. When they were finished talking to him, they nodded heads and walked away. The man then leaned against the wall, held his left hand to his chin with his left elbow in his right hand. And he stared into the imaginary spot in the center of the table again from the hall.h
I could see his eyes and then I knew. They were hazel, or green, or whatever we never agreed they were. They were all that I could be sure identified him as Ron, but I was certain. I walked outside to where he was and without looking at him I took a long drink from the fountain. He did not acknowledge my presence, but kept staring.
When I finished my drink of water, I stood up and looked at him. His eyes instantly shifted and he looked right at me.
“I … uh …” I started
He kept looking right into the center of me.
“… Ron?”
“How have you been, Cynthia?” (He NEVER once called me ‘Cindy’ like the rest.) He said this warmly. Or at least that’s what I felt wash all over me. I was afraid for a nanosecond that I’d wet myself. But I felt relaxed all of a sudden.
“Well, it’s been what – 25 years?”
“Yup.”
“The last time I saw you, you just packed up and left us, you and Bing…” I was starting to relax. I fiddled with my wristwatch and looked about the office. But he kept his gaze right on me, and he still held his chin in his hands.
“You had that ancient VW – what was it, already 15 years old when we graduated? And you packed it that morning and you left. We were all hung over, but you got up like you’d drunk water the night before…and packed your van. You’d packed your boxes all that week between finals, you didn’t study at all!”
One of the lawyers called us back in the room. People started filing back in. But Ron and I stayed at the water fountain, him still with his chin in his hand, me rambling on.
“And you had that Yes shirt on that day, and you switched into a BoSox jersey before you left. I remember it like it was five minutes ago! How…” I started to ask, but he moved. He straightened his back and let his arms down, slowly to his side.
“How have you been?" I said, dropping to a whisper. I went to look into his eyes, but he moved his gaze back to the conference room, through the glass. Then a sly grin slid over his face and he blushed.
“I remember you were wearing just bra and panties.”
He went from porch to van to porch to van, moving the boxes he’d packed between finals to their proper spots on the floor between the seats. His hair followed him like flaxen wake.
Bing, his cat was mildly intrigued by the long braided leather lanyard, which held his keys, swinging from the back pocket of his cutoff
When the last box was in, Ron stopped and pulled off his sweat-stained concert tee – I think it was an old Yes concert shirt – wiped his face and hands with it, and put it carefully on the back seat. He grabbed a cotton BoSox jersey from the front seat and put it on.
“Good morning,” I said, weakly, from just inside the paint-choked screen door.
He stopped and stared in the side-view mirror of the van, his back to me. He pulled a rubber band from his pocket and tied back his hair.
“Morning,” he responded finally. He did not turn to look at me as he fussed with his hair a little more. The he moved to the back of the van, opened the hood and fiddled with the engine a moment, let the hood slam, then came up to the porch, holding his now greasy hands up like a surgeon after washing. He stopped just outside the screen.
“Would you open it for me?” he asked.
“Sure,” I responded, and opened the door and moved aside. He breezed past me to the kitchen. I could hear water come on and off quickly, then heard the step-can open and shut. He then came back out to where I stood, and stopped right before me.
He looked right into my eyes, just as he always did when he spoke to me, when he spoke to anyone, but it made you think they were there for you. They were green or hazel or whatever we never agreed they were, but they drew me in and he never knew it and he did not know right then, either, that if he asked me to drive to the Andes with him in that rickety tin can on wheels – right there, right then – I would have done it.
My mouth opened slightly. I wanted to say something, start stuttering it, “I … I … I…,” but he started speaking first.
“Just send my piece of the deposit when you can. I trust you.”
“Okay.”
He kept looking right at me – not staring – looking. My eyes darted back and forth from his left to his right but his gaze was fixed at the center of me.
“It was fun last night. Hope we can do that again someday.”
“Yeah.”
He let go his gaze slowly, as if following a feather floating through the air. The imaginary feather took his gaze to Bing. He walked outside and grabbed the feline like sack of potatoes. Before the screen door slapped back into the frame, he and Bing were in the van.
I heard the engine roar and watched them back out of the driveway, and disappear beyond the hedgerow. He waved.
It was then that I noticed I’d been wearing only a bra and panties.
(x years later)
One man on the other side of the table never looked up. From the moment he walked in, sat down, and started writing notes, he never looked up. Occasionally, when one of his team spoke, he nodded in approval but he kept writing. Not typing into his Ipad like everyone else – writing in a pad of paper in a weathered oxblood leather binder with a
He wore no tie or undershirt like the rest of his team, just a clean black jacket, black slacks, a white oxford shirt. He ran his hand over his grayed brush cut every now and then, as if checking to see if his hair was still there. It was all there, more so than his younger team members.
At one point in the negotiations, as his one of his colleagues spoke, he stopped writing for a moment and stared at a point in the center of the table. He quietly laid his pen down and soundlessly drummed his fingers on the table, to his right. As the colleague continued to speak about an important contract rider, his brows came together and I saw something familiar in his eyes. Then he quickly grabbed the pen, put his eyes back to the paper, and started writing again.
During the first break he walked swiftly outside to a water fountain. Two of his colleagues followed him with travel mugs full of coffee and chatted with him as he took a sip of water. I could see through the glass that he was talking to them, but he did not look at them. When they were finished talking to him, they nodded heads and walked away. The man then leaned against the wall, held his left hand to his chin with his left elbow in his right hand. And he stared into the imaginary spot in the center of the table again from the hall.h
I could see his eyes and then I knew. They were hazel, or green, or whatever we never agreed they were. They were all that I could be sure identified him as Ron, but I was certain. I walked outside to where he was and without looking at him I took a long drink from the fountain. He did not acknowledge my presence, but kept staring.
When I finished my drink of water, I stood up and looked at him. His eyes instantly shifted and he looked right at me.
“I … uh …” I started
He kept looking right into the center of me.
“… Ron?”
“How have you been, Cynthia?” (He NEVER once called me ‘Cindy’ like the rest.) He said this warmly. Or at least that’s what I felt wash all over me. I was afraid for a nanosecond that I’d wet myself. But I felt relaxed all of a sudden.
“Well, it’s been what – 25 years?”
“Yup.”
“The last time I saw you, you just packed up and left us, you and Bing…” I was starting to relax. I fiddled with my wristwatch and looked about the office. But he kept his gaze right on me, and he still held his chin in his hands.
“You had that ancient VW – what was it, already 15 years old when we graduated? And you packed it that morning and you left. We were all hung over, but you got up like you’d drunk water the night before…and packed your van. You’d packed your boxes all that week between finals, you didn’t study at all!”
One of the lawyers called us back in the room. People started filing back in. But Ron and I stayed at the water fountain, him still with his chin in his hand, me rambling on.
“And you had that Yes shirt on that day, and you switched into a BoSox jersey before you left. I remember it like it was five minutes ago! How…” I started to ask, but he moved. He straightened his back and let his arms down, slowly to his side.
“How have you been?" I said, dropping to a whisper. I went to look into his eyes, but he moved his gaze back to the conference room, through the glass. Then a sly grin slid over his face and he blushed.
“I remember you were wearing just bra and panties.”
Strange Things I Appreciate
I like to carry a pad of paper with me* to record todos or names of things I might want to get someone for Christmas, let's say. I found these aluminum-encased Memo Mates a few years ago and took a shine to them. They come with a pen that is part of the clasp that keeps them shut. I've gone through a few because once in awhile I bend one beyond redemption and need a new one that is flat and sleek enough to slide in and out of my pocket without ripping my pants or getting caught in a seam.
When I purchased my last one, I opened to find a message from someone - sometwo, actually:
I don't know why, but I like this sort of thing. I remember my cousin Mary setting messages in bottles afloat in Lake Ontario many years ago after finding one. I've left notes in books on slips of paper, written, "why are you looking at this" on the undersides of desks and shelves, and dropped a few messages in bottles myself. A friend of mine sent a notebook off into the mail once with the instructions to write on one page and mail it to someone else they knew. I wonder where that is now and what is written in it. Maybe it's at the bottom of a sock drawer, maybe it is still circulating.
(* My father once told me that in a staff meeting his commanding officer chided his fellow officers for being unprepared. The commander said that all officers should carry, "a pen and paper and $5." Someone had the temerity to ask what the $5 was for, to which the commanding officer responded, "an officer in the US Army should be able to buy himself a sandwich when he wants to." In honor of my father and this commander, I try to follow the advice - but my $5 is the debit card I carry, and lunch has got a little more expensive since the Vietnam War.)
When I purchased my last one, I opened to find a message from someone - sometwo, actually:
I don't know why, but I like this sort of thing. I remember my cousin Mary setting messages in bottles afloat in Lake Ontario many years ago after finding one. I've left notes in books on slips of paper, written, "why are you looking at this" on the undersides of desks and shelves, and dropped a few messages in bottles myself. A friend of mine sent a notebook off into the mail once with the instructions to write on one page and mail it to someone else they knew. I wonder where that is now and what is written in it. Maybe it's at the bottom of a sock drawer, maybe it is still circulating.
(* My father once told me that in a staff meeting his commanding officer chided his fellow officers for being unprepared. The commander said that all officers should carry, "a pen and paper and $5." Someone had the temerity to ask what the $5 was for, to which the commanding officer responded, "an officer in the US Army should be able to buy himself a sandwich when he wants to." In honor of my father and this commander, I try to follow the advice - but my $5 is the debit card I carry, and lunch has got a little more expensive since the Vietnam War.)
Thursday, January 5, 2012
New Year's Day, 2012
Just a few pictures of nothing changed on New Year's Day in Beacon.
 |
| The Fishkill falls in Beacon, East Main street. |
 |
| Driftwood assembly, Long Dock Park, Beacon. |
 |
| Spit of gravel near the kayak launch, Long Dock Park, Beacon. |
 |
| Long Dock Park, Beacon. |
 |
| Berm, Long Dock Park, Beacon. |
 |
| A willow in the wind. |
 |
| Looking south along the Hudson to Denning's Point from Long Dock Park, Beacon. |
 |
| The kayak building at Long Dock Park, Beacon. |
 |
| A pile of lumber near the old Dutchess Boat Club, Beacon. |
 |
| Madame Brett Park, Beacon, where the Fishkill drops to the Hudson. |
 |
| Graffiti near the falls in Beacon. |
For the Love Of Tobey the Cat
I had to get outdoors New Year's Day, so I grabbed my camera to see what I could find. Near the falls in Beacon someone made a tribute to their cat, Tobey, who apparently passed on this last Christmas day.
On the submerged ledge of the cement dam near the falls there were may coins, and probably more lie in the depths below it. Though not superstitious, I dropped a few coins myself for Tobey. Maybe more for myself.
Losing any pet hurts. I have long liked cats so this struck my heart and reminded me of all the kitties I have seen come and go. They all taught me about life and death, being alone, being a friend, taking care of someone. Enjoying a silly moment. Passing an afternoon with a book and the warm weight of a cat on my lap, or leaning against my legs. I miss them all - Harry, Malcolm, Roland, Yabo, By-Tor, Cheetah, Smokey, Woodstock, Jasper, Kitty Dukakis [sic], Tiger, and many more whose names escape me just now.
We often make fun of people for feeling down "because their dog died" as the expression goes. But it hurts just as much as losing any other family member. Stupid fucking Sara Maclachlan doesn't help, either, with her SPCA commercials. I have to turn away whenever she comes on. It's bad enough that her voice is so beautiful, but paired with the pictures of the animals who don't - and may never - know the love that Tobey did saddens me.
Goodbye, Tobey. I'll never see the falls at Beacon quite the same anymore.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)