It’s fair to say that it’s been a weird gardening year here in Central Massachusetts. A late frost took out the cherry and peach blossoms but missed the apple blossoms by a day or two. Last year we had a spring and summer near drought that kept the apples from being very successful, and the grapes just this side of piteous. By contrast, although we lack our cherries and peaches, the apples and grapes promise to outproduce any year since the plants were planted. Even the semi-wild New England Spy apple, which seems to be a volunteer plant from the ancient orchard that once stood near here, is heavy with fruit. For those unfamiliar with apples, after the fruit starts forming, but before they grow large, you get a phenomenon called around here, June drops; the tree sheds fruit that won’t develop properly. This year we had very few June drops, and the apples and the grapes vines are very heavy with fruit.
Of course, there is July and lots of August to go before things are ready for harvest. But the prospects are good for canning applesauce, grape jelly, and plenty of fresh fruit to eat and share.
There is truth in not counting chicks until they hatch, or predicting harvests in June. But it is so tempting.
Delicious? Best? It has to be homemade maple syrup over vanilla ice cream. It’s hard to romanticize something that is already quintessentially incredible. I know, I know, I’m a bit over the top on this. But there you stand, finishing up the last jars or bottles at about midnight on a late March night. There is just a bit left in the bottom of the pan, not enough to start another container. Since everyone else in the house is sound asleep, it belongs to you alone.
You move to the fridge and pull the ice cream out of the freezer. It’s not that much syrup, so you carefully measure out the treat and pour the still-warm syrup over the ice cream and watch it begin to melt. You hear someone stirring upstairs, so you take a large spoonful before you can relent and offer to share.
Many a missive has been written about maple syrup, but here it is in simple terms: Homemade is so good it’s sinful.
I haven’t always been such a lion of sartorial excellence. If you dig into the far recesses of the closet, there are some well-cut and expensive silk and wool sports jackets and maybe even a suit or two. I’m kind of afraid to dig that far back. I may have worn a suit twice since 1995. Those are the remains of my former career as an applied anthropologist and government ‘crat – GS12/something or other. Do you perhaps riposte with a “What the hell happened?” I was on the brink of brilliant career opportunities when the government decided to”reinvent” itself with fewer ‘crats. I was one of the ones who was reinvented out of a position. Perhaps the change saved my life, for it’s never been as frenetic, idiotic, or stressful since.
It certainly changed my wardrobe.
The uniform of the day is very casual, Dock pants and a T-shirt. In cooler weather, a long sleeve T-shirt or Henley shirt replaces the T-shirt. You do not need to be a polymath to understand its simplicity. I have no need to dress in anything but a leisurely style.
Much of my work these days is remote, so there is little need to get gussified for galumphing around the house. At the small television station, I run, I’m in a server room or the “crypt,” where we control the studio equipment, edit, and do other stuff. Since the crypt occupies part of a basement, is air conditioned in the winter and heated in the summer, has no windows, and is a generally awful place, dressing up to go to the station is dumb.
Lots of my activity happens at home in front of the computer, where I perform about fifty percent of my work for the television station. No need to dress up to get a cup of coffee.
Now, otherwise, I am gardening or working on my latest ship portrait in the woodcarving shop. I don’t have a lot of downtimes, and I’m not expecting a call for an interview requiring digging into the back recesses of the closet for that raw silk sports jacket, the bespoke double-breasted, or the plain brown suit.
So come to think about it, I might be overdressing.
The Maine Boatbuilders Show was an unusual event. They held the show on the first full spring weekend in the old Portland Company complex on Fore St. in Portland, Maine. The show was funky. The overhead cranes in the big bays still loomed over your head. The cranes were reminders that this space had been a locomotive manufacturer in the 19th century. Used as workspace by Portland Yacht Sevices, it was lucky to get a brooming out between when they moved their boats out and before we put our displays in. No matter, it added to the ambiance of a casual “have a good time” show.
My booth was always on the second floor under a leaky ceiling. Did I mention that the first full spring weekend is fickle? Some years we’d have full-blown blizzards; next year, lush spring weather- though usually not the lush spring weather. Black plastic was frequently spread over our heads to keep the water off our displays. Despite these issues, the Maine Boatbuilders show was the must-do, must-go to spring event for many of us in the maritime trades. The longstanding comment was that despite the crowds ( thousands every day), it was the best opportunity for the builders and craftspeople to get together before things got crazy in the spring.
I was always in the same spot. It was one I proclaimed to be mine show after show. There were historical reasons. In the first years I did the show; I brought along a portable workbench and tools to demonstrate carving. The only place to put the bench was along a planked knee wall. In the first year, while working on an eagle, I noticed that there were newspaper clippings and poems varnished to the planking. My booth was in the old pattern makers shop. My bench appeared to occupy the same space as a craftsman of the 1850s. The pattern maker whose station I held had been a strong Abolitionist by the essays and poems he had varnished to the plank knee wall. I could almost feel that carver looking over my tools, checking my sharpening, and doing a critique on my technique.
Friday was the first day of the show, and as is the case with many of these shows, it was the day most likely to yield serious business. A good Friday would make the show, repay booth fees and other expenses. Saturday yielded serious visitors early in the day, and Sunday was for families. Sunday also died well before closing. Sunday, you had to watch out for the three PM bargain hunters- “Hey, I’ll give you five bucks for that, and you won’t have to pack it out.” But, care was required because people who were serious attendees who had not been able to get to the show earlier blended into the late show crowd. I was scrupulous not to pack up first because I found those individuals to be great customers. Sunday was the day that frequently sold out on my assortment of spoons, spatulas, cutting boards, and other galley items. One could expect that predominantly women were buying those, but it was equally male and female. Youth looking for presents were also frequent shoppers.
Early in the day, before the show opened, booth holders would walk the show to see who had made it this year, make early deals, and arrange for evening plans. After ten or so years of doing the show, acquaintances became friends and business associates. We had dinners in groups on Thursday ( setup), Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Lunches, on the other hand, had to be rather hurried because we had to tend our booths.
Sunday, at closing, there were those in a hurry and those who took their leisure. Most of my friends did an efficient job of packing all the goods and then sat down for a drink, soda, crackers, cheese, and conversation. There was no sense hurrying; people were hauling out huge displays, and the relatively tiny loading zones would be jammed for the first hour or two after closing. Exhibitors with boats inside the building would typically wait till Monday morning to finish packing out.
As we sat there Sunday, the only thing that wasn’t under discussion was how much money we’d made at the show. It might be weeks or months until all the work generated showed up in our shops or wound up in our bank accounts in the form of deposits. So, we talked about clients…oh, yes! Rudder Kickers – who came around asking a thousand questions but never buying. Strollers – who endlessly walked the show but somehow never looked at anything. Standing Room Ony- who stood in rapt conversation for half an hour blocking access to your booth. DIY’ers – who came up to you and said: “You know I could do this myself.” You politely smiled and restrained yourself from saying, “but you never will.” After it was all over, we parted company for the drive home. Our community of three or four days dispersed until next year.
Neither I nor any of my associates still do the show. Four days is a considerable commitment and a bit too much show for aging bodies. Regrettably, some have gone over the bar, and we’ll never see them on this shore again. Other shows, like the WoodenBoat Show, have similar features and casual communities that coalesce and disperse annually. Next time you attend one of these shows, look a bit at the interactions. A lot is going on besides sales.
I’ve had friends taken up, almost literally, in spiritual ventures. That’s right; cults, churches, movements, rites, and rituals. I was active in some regions of what we used to call the counter-culture. Sooner or later, many of us took the plunge into some religious or spiritual experience that we thought would make irrevocable changes in our temperament; me included.
Most of my friends emerged on the other side of the charismatic movements with some residual beliefs but a strong disdain for controlling individuals and movements. Then again, some never reemerged, and to this day, I wonder what became of them. There did not seem to be any pattern as to who would get involved; those raised in secular environments or those from strict religious backgrounds. One pattern always seemed to emerge, though was control – control the access of the individual to information or people outside the “bubble.” this could be through physical isolation, diet, but mostly control of information.
Most of my friends and I came through these experiences with a deep individualistic sense of the spiritual and religious. But in my case, I also came to have a profound disregard for the sort of control that can flow into a group from the pulpit.
Many seem to regard the Evangelical movements as stand-alone phenomena. I view them with a suspicion derived from having seen and lived through similar “faith-washing” idiocy of the sixties and seventies. Leaders speak ex-cathedra from the pulpit determining how you live your life in its most intimate detail. The playbook is the same, just jazzed up with modern technology and marketing techniques. As a result, I tend to view individual spirituality as a beneficial personal choice and organizational spirituality as a potential means of mind control.
Reflecting on the cost of cults to the individual, I’d agree with Heinrich Heine that “Experience is a good school. But the fees are high.”
Xenia here. The humans are asleep. I was on the prowl at 3:30 this morning to guard the house, and they wasted the entire night in bed. They don’t realize how much I sacrifice to keep their home safe. There was that time when the young eagle got the squirrel outside the fence. Did I run away? No! OK, I did retreat to the porch, but that was prudent.
I’ll just have to get a nice long stairway aria going. He does respond so well to my singing…it’s time for breakfast!
Max here. Dogs don’t waste time. I’m busy 24/7 licking myself, planning how to requisition food supplies, scouting the trash, and guarding the house against chipmunk invasion. Didn’t you know that the chipmunk apocalypse was a real thing? Bless you! Of course, it is. They run around looking so cute until, wham! They’re in the house stealing the food and getting into the trash. Everyone knows that you can’t do that!
What the hell? The cat is screaming again. Ah, it’s breakfast time. I’ll trot into the kitchen; perhaps, he won’t notice the napkins I tore up last night. I hate it when I get busted just before breakfast. No wet food, just dry. Nobody understands me!
Pendant-style hooks hold many old patterns and tools in the carving shop. Today they provided a perch for this young woodpecker. I found it flattering that a young fellow woodworker had dropped in to observe how humans do it. But I firmly told it I did not need an apprentice, even if it only wanted sunflower seeds and suet for pay.
The last thing I need is a flock of birds showing up looking to drill holes in wood, hunt for seeds, and generally mooch around. Human apprentices are trouble enough.
The taste of my mother’s Spanish Rice and my grandmother’s Hungarian poppyseed bread manage every time to transport me back to the holiday parties we had when I was young. Aunts, uncles, and cousins, the sound of Latin music on the record player, people dancing, and intense conversations in Spanish and English being carried on at a lightning pace.
In the corner sits the Christmas Tree covered in ornaments and tinsel. In the dining room, the dog and cat plot nefariously the best way to bring down the large cake my godmother had brought. They’d share the proceeds and be happy despite the punishment.
These scenes were repeated so often that there was no need to worry that they’d ever cease until, of course, they did. So now, during the holiday season, I’m the one cooking, telling my adult children the stories, and occasionally driving late at night with tears in my eyes when a Latin song comes on the radio that reminds me of those parties.
There has been a tool ban in effect since before Christmas. No new tools are allowed in either shop. It just reached the point that organizing was getting impossible…OK, I admit it…finding what I had reached crisis proportions. I did it because I had to.
The co-enablers, my wife, and my kids were warned not to provide me with new toys that would promptly go missing somewhere in the downstairs machine shop or outside the carving shop. Inventories, you say? Huh. You have no idea. I’m a carver; I have many, many small tools.
In any case, last night, I got around to the unpleasurable process of making more permanent frames for the most recent three or four ship portraits. The big miter trimmer has been pulled from storage and the boards rough cut. But something was missing. I couldn’t find my digital bevel gauge. I searched both shops twice, got down on my knees and, looked below the benches, checked a storage box or two. It was absolutely absent.
This morning I grabbed a cup of coffee, sat down to write this, and there it was, sitting on the shelf to the right of me by the computer monitor.
This migration of tools into the office has to stop. There is now a ban on tools in the office. That should resolve the problem.
This is a Flashback Friday presentation from several years ago – today I am off to visit a boat show.
A part-time occupation of mine for years was teaching media and television production to students. The area of teaching the course that always provided the most significant issues was Copyright and usage rights for the music. With MP3 players, iPods, and streaming services, students could orchestrate an entire soundtrack to their lives. But the concept of ownership of that music was a slippery concept for them. “Mr.C. I paid for that music when I bought it from iTunes. Why can’t I use it as the soundtrack?” “Because you didn’t buy the music; you purchased a license to a copy of the music. You can play it on your personal equipment. To use that music on your video, you have to have the right to do that.” After a while, the kids grasped the concept. And I introduced them to music in the public domain and “fee for use” music. So much for the kids.
Adults had some similar issues. I had been asked to help out a parent edit a company video. Helping him shoot the video was easy. But editing took up most of my instruction time. He wanted to create a piece for his company using a popular tune as a background. It’s a standard editing style. You edit to the tempo, transitions, and beats of the music. I asked him if he had rights to the music. He looked at me as though I was unclear about who he was and what his place in the universe was. “The call is already into Disney.” With the students, I could, after sweet reason failed, overrule a wrong call. However, I was doing this project as a favor. I couldn’t tell the client to get out of my editing suite. He explained that his company already called Disney about the rights and I shouldn’t worry. I smiled, knowing what the results of a request to the Mouse would be. I tried to tell him how hard it would be to get a reply from them and how persistence could be followed by a really nasty cease-and-desist letter. I knew at once where his son had gotten the slight sneer he affected. His editing progressed, and I gave up on giving guidance. People need to fail on their own at times. The tempo of the edit was snappy and appealing. But as time wore on, there was no response from the Mouse.
The panic was beginning to set in. Finally, I was approached with the problem. The video was only going to be shown at company functions. Would the company be safe in using it without consent? I told him that he should ask a media lawyer if he wanted a correct media opinion. I had no interest in making myself vulnerable to suit. But informally, I said things had a nasty way of getting out of control with unforeseen consequences. One individual innocently uploading the video could create a cascade of copyright infringement issues. Is there a way out of the problem? He asked. I thought about it. It’s common to edit to a piece of music. Some editors have tunes that they like to use; others edit to music that is licensed for a video. It’s not uncommon for the ground to wash from underneath you when negotiations fail. You have various choices: re-edit, write custom music, or find “Sounds Like” music. Sounds Like approaches the tempo and sound of the original but with relatively low-cost fees for use and without infringing on Copyright. That was the answer here. For a modest fee, the video was completed.
Afterward, I revised my pro bono standards to exclude freebies for friends and was happy to return to teaching students.
You must be logged in to post a comment.