Category: Uncategorized

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Lightbulb

A favorite Thomas Edison quote of mine is: “Just because something doesn’t do what you planned it to do doesn’t mean it’s useless.”
Off the top of my head, I can think of two instances where the disappointing result turned into very successful products.
The most recent was the invention of the adhesive that makes low-tack items like PostIt notes possible. The discoverer failed to create what he intended but found use in another application.
A second instance appears to have been the crackle glaze on Ming dynasty vases. It may have been an accidental discovery. But, as a wag once joked, “it’s a mistake, but what a mistake!” This last may be apocryphal.
It’s easy to dismiss what doesn’t appear to be of immediate use.
The idea of sowing crops instead of just gathering what was available; domestic animals; or pets like dogs and cats. None may have begun as ideas that set off cries of “let’s do it now!”
OK, it wouldn’t have been a “lightbulb” idea for the Stone Age – more like a torch?

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Hair

The Operating Room supervisor said no. My girlfriend said yes.
The sup was correct; my mask did not completely cover the tangle of curls from my newly grown burnsides. I liked the way my girlfriend smiled when she played with them, but I wasn’t happy with the supervisor’s scowl when she saw them. One saw something she liked; the other a blemish.
I didn’t want a beard, so the burnsides seemed to fit the bill – facial hair but no shaggy food-catching beard.
Doctor Harris, the possessor of a great handlebar mustache, suggested a neatly trimmed ‘stache was the way to go. After thinking it over, I agreed. It was a bit of a challenge to shape and trim correctly, but one day there it was—and no more curly burnsides. The supervisor admitted my mask wholly covered the mustache and was satisfied.
The girlfriend moved on to someone with full facial hair like a Yeti. But Sally, the supervisor, eventually decided it, and I was cute.
When one door closes, often another opens.

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Pat Sky

Pat Sky has died, and I’ll miss him even though it’s been over fifty years since I last saw him. Pat was one of the regulars in Greenwich Village around the same time I was there. Talented, witty, and not taken with his celebrity, he was an enjoyable individual to hang with – to use the argot of our times.
So all the obituaries are talking about his fame, songs, places he played, and records. Here is a story that I’d hope he’d appreciate:
One night in the late winter of 1965, there was a large and raucous party in the Village. I was attending but watching from the background as better-established performers did a round robin of songs for what must have been hours. In the early morning hours, a superbly intoxicated Dave Van Ronk called loudly for Pat Sky to ” get out here and give us a song.” Pat did not seem to be anywhere near. A search found him sleeping peacefully on the floor of the kitchen. Van Ronk then called for a guitar to be placed in his hands, predicting that even asleep, or passed out, Pat would start playing. Van Ronk put the guitar in his posed hands, and Mr. Sky did indeed begin to play.
We all moved on in life and didn’t let those early days define who we later became. Pat certainly did with degrees and other musical interests. But once we were young, foolish, and shared experiences, others only wish they could have had. Catch you at the big bash later; save a spot in the circle for me.

Here is the link to the NYT obit

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Wood

When I was much more active as a nautical carver than I am these days, I’d be asked why I was not on the coast. The simple answer was family. Normally I’d cleave to the shore and be done with it. My wife wanted our kids to be close to family, so inland, we went. Not wanting to admit to the simple truth when a good story was in the offing, I’d tell outrageous lies at boat shows. Like; climate change. I expected my home to be shorefront property in ten years. It was before we had better estimates of coastal flooding. I feel a bit less mendacious about these tall stories now when friends on the coast see their shoreline nibbled away.
I soon found some great reasons why a carver should live where I do – wood. Over the hill was a local sawmill, ten miles away was another, three towns over a major hardwood supplier where the cherry and mahogany were superb. Those suppliers were the ones closest. If I needed to go just ten to twenty miles further, there was another cluster. For the most part, these were rather spartan affairs – no fancy showrooms – just lots of wood. West of me had been towns and small cities that, in their day, had been significant furniture producers. The woods in our part of the state were natural tree nurseries.
That was some twenty-five years ago. Suburban sprawl and the opening of big-box stores had already ruined the business in other areas of my state. In my more backward area, they held on just a bit longer.
There is something about sorting through a pile of prime pine boards, looking for the perfect one for that carving, or watching planks peel off a log in a sawmill. The smell of lumber in a big box store is nothing like that of a mill or an old-time lumberyard where the wood gets stickered to prevent warpage, and the talk is all about board footage, four and eight quarter stock, or wide pine boards for restoration projects.

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The Woodland Garden Today – May 25, 2021

The woodland garden occupies about 15 percent of our lot. We wanted pathways and views that echoed the woodlands of New England with which we were familiar. This part of the garden grew haphazardly as we found plants to add. At some point in the past several years, it began to coalesce as a landscape. Only the tiny areas that we are still developing look garden-like. Nature has assumed control.

The majority looks like a woodland border area shaded, dappled sunlight, and a bright sunny area fringe. May is an interesting time in the Woodland garden with lots of plants in bloom.

  • rhododendron
  • rhododendron
  • The Bog-complete with carnivorous plant
  • honeysuckle
  • Dolls eyes in flower
  • pagoda dogwood and nannyberry viburnum
  • May Apple


We’ve placed a glider where we can look at the pond and our woodland garden. Our little garden provides a transition zone for the woods that lie in the back of our lot.

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Game On!

After the divorce, the Gray Menace seemed pleased with my wife’s absence. He would hiss at her, and she would whack him with a broom. Not the happiest relationships. However, with my nose buried in books much of the time, he grew bored. We were city apartment now, and the opportunities to terrorize small rodents and hang around with other tough cats were lacking. The oxymoron controlled chaos, best-described life with him anyway. But, now he was bored. A bored Clancy J. Bümps was a dangerous one.
Board games provided the answer. I was as poor in grad school as I had ever been during my Folkie years. But board games were cheap and available. After studying, I’d pull out a game and play against myself. Randomizing moves with game spinners and dice, I could be a very dumb opponent.
The Gray Menace began to take notice. He’d sit on the other side of the table and watch. Eventually, I began to talk to him about the game. Then I’d set him up as the opponent and ask him what his next move would be. One day a friend gifted me with a war game based on Napoleon’s campaigns. It had hundreds of tiny pieces of cardboard representing the units involved. Clancy paid close attention to the movements, so I let him play Napoleon. At one point, I got up to get a beer. On returning, I thought that some of the units seemed out of place but couldn’t specifically tell which; dozens were on the board. Clancy sat there erect, innocent, and waiting for me to make my move.
After a few beers, I needed a trip to the bathroom. Once again, the board seemed just a bit different. “Have you been moving pieces?” His glare seemed to say, “I the mighty Napoleon cheat? You defame my honor!”
After another trip to get a snack, it was clear that my forces were in retreat. “You stinking cheater!” I yelled. He instantly transformed from my cat into the Grey Menace. Reaching out a paw, he swept the pieces onto the floor and stalked away. I could see the French flag and Imperial Guard following him. As Napoleon noted: “In war, the moral is to the physical as ten to one.” I lacked the gumption to pursue.
Years later, I watched the first Bill and Ted movie. There is a scene where the character playing Napoleon is faced with a complicated chess problem. In a fit of pique, Napoleon takes his baton and sweeps the chess pieces to the floor. Hmmm, great minds think alike.

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Song Lyric Sunday – Highway to Hell – Like you never seen it!

Livin’ easy
Lovin’ free
Season ticket on a one way ride
Askin’ nothin’
Leave me be
Takin’ everythin’ in my stride
Don’t need reason
Don’t need rhyme
Ain’t nothin’ that I’d rather do
Goin’ down
Party time
My friends are gonna be there too

I’m on the highway to hell
On the highway to hell
Highway to hell
I’m on the highway to hell

No stop signs
Speed limit
Nobody’s gonna slow me down
Like a wheel
Gonna spin it
Nobody’s gonna mess me around
Hey, Satan
Payin’ my dues
Playin’ in a rockin’ band
Hey, mamma
Look at me
I’m on the way to the promised land

I’m on the highway to hell
Highway to hell
I’m on the highway to hell
Highway to hell

Don’t stop me

I’m on the highway to hell
On the highway to hell
I’m on the highway to hell
On the highway to hell

(highway to hell) I’m on the highway to hell
(highway to hell) highway to hell
(highway to hell) highway to hell
(highway to hell)

And I’m goin’ down
All the way
I’m on the highway to hell

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Woodland Flowers

Despite the 36 degree windy weather this is what’s in bloom today in my woodland garden:

from left to right in the top row are: Sanguinaria ( bloodroot), Trout Lily, Liver lobed Helatica.

The bottom photo is a pulmonary – lungwort.

Enjoy springtime in New England. The Pulmonary blooms for several weeks and has those distinctive spotted leaves. The Trout lilly is an ephemeral it’s stray bronze and green leaves are gone by the middle of May and totally disappears. The Hepatica pulls the same stunt. If you mis the ephemerals you’ll just have to start watching around the end of March. Their bloom time is variable each year. Near the Hepatica the Trilliums have sprouted, but there won’y be flowers for a few weeks.

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Habit

We like to think of ourselves as being unique. We are less than pleased when it gets pointed out that there is a monotonous pattern in much of our individual lives. Like that friend who starts humming the tune to the song “Dusty Boots” every time she washes dishes. Or the person you hate to drive with because his speed increases as soon as the light turns yellow.
You may smile at these and say that the friends have a few personal quirks. It goes deeper. The wooden spoon you always grab for automatically, the greetings you use habitually without thinking. Reaching to the right to turn on the light switch when it’s on the left – the last place you lived had it on the right. At last, your idiotic delight in using the word “alfresco” every time we go on a hike and eat our lunch on the trail!
It goes deeper; planners, designers and anthropologists, and even politicians study the patterns.
Next time you insist that you are an independent thinker, proud contrarian, master of your fate, think about…oh, let’s say your shopping habits on Amazon. Their suggestions for you seem suspiciously on the mark?