It is one of those fall days, the first cold windy day after a relatively warm string of autumn days. The air is clear and the wind gusty. Leaves are falling and swirling.
On a similar day in Germany, some years ago, we drove into the Odenwald to an area called the Felsenmeer, the sea of rocks, an area where an ancient continental glacier had once deposited tons of rocks in giant piles and rows where hardwood forests would eventually grow among the stones.
Our first daughter, almost two at the time, was enchanted by the combinations of colors; lichen, leaves, granite and trees. As we walked the trails she became most uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, she began to dance with the blowing, falling leaves. Round and round, as a child will do with her arms stretched out to catch the colors and her blonde curls bouncing on her head. Sometimes I believe in magic. Sometimes I believe in enchantment.
A day like this always brings this memory back to me.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Old Man at Meteetse
Cody, WY 9/26/2011
I saw him at the small Meteetse museum, an old man just passing his days. He asked where I was from and proceeded to tell me that his uncle had worked at a cotton mill in Atlanta, and that his mother had once flown there, and she had told him that she could hardly see the tips of the wings on the plane, they were so long, and that he didn't see any reason to fly, except for emergencies. He wanted to be on the ground.
Several days later, we again stopped at Meteese, having braved a rugged road to nearby Kirwin, an abandoned mining town. We went into the only bar/cafe in the tiny town to get a bite to eat.
The old fellow was sitting at the bar, alone, nursing a beer. While we were waiting for a table he asked where I was from. I reminded him of our previous meeting, and the uncle he had mentioned. He said he had worked on many of the surrounding ranches over the years, including the Legendary Pitchfork Ranch. He began to talk of his family. He and his sister had lived in the house where they had been born and raised. She had passed several years ago. All of his family are now dead. He is the last of that line.
Just think of the history he has witnessed. I wonder how many stories he has to tell.
I saw him at the small Meteetse museum, an old man just passing his days. He asked where I was from and proceeded to tell me that his uncle had worked at a cotton mill in Atlanta, and that his mother had once flown there, and she had told him that she could hardly see the tips of the wings on the plane, they were so long, and that he didn't see any reason to fly, except for emergencies. He wanted to be on the ground.
Several days later, we again stopped at Meteese, having braved a rugged road to nearby Kirwin, an abandoned mining town. We went into the only bar/cafe in the tiny town to get a bite to eat.
The old fellow was sitting at the bar, alone, nursing a beer. While we were waiting for a table he asked where I was from. I reminded him of our previous meeting, and the uncle he had mentioned. He said he had worked on many of the surrounding ranches over the years, including the Legendary Pitchfork Ranch. He began to talk of his family. He and his sister had lived in the house where they had been born and raised. She had passed several years ago. All of his family are now dead. He is the last of that line.
Just think of the history he has witnessed. I wonder how many stories he has to tell.
The Quiet Rebel
Cody, WY, 9/26/2011
Mike drove down from Big Sky to explore the Cody area with us. We all had some time to talk and catch up. He and I had worked together last year and had become friends. A bit unusual since Mike is 25 and I am 63, his father's age. But Mike doesn't accept limits without thought.
As a student in high school and college, Mike was gregarious. He is till ready for a party or a concert, but his several months working in Yellowstone and Big Sky, and exploring other places in the west taught him to value solitude.He has borrowed from a friend the idea that loneliness is the sorry state of being alone, while solitude is the glory of being alone. He is a very skilled night photographer and goes on lone hikes high into the Tetons, or far into the Utah desert to capture incredible images. This choice of lifestyle is not a temporary stopping place for him, it is his life.
His computer gave up the ghost so Mike is using the opportunity to research for a novel he is working on. No easy task since the subject will be alternate realities and perceptions. So his journey continues. It seems to me that his is the type of journey that requires quite a bit of courage.
Mike drove down from Big Sky to explore the Cody area with us. We all had some time to talk and catch up. He and I had worked together last year and had become friends. A bit unusual since Mike is 25 and I am 63, his father's age. But Mike doesn't accept limits without thought.
As a student in high school and college, Mike was gregarious. He is till ready for a party or a concert, but his several months working in Yellowstone and Big Sky, and exploring other places in the west taught him to value solitude.He has borrowed from a friend the idea that loneliness is the sorry state of being alone, while solitude is the glory of being alone. He is a very skilled night photographer and goes on lone hikes high into the Tetons, or far into the Utah desert to capture incredible images. This choice of lifestyle is not a temporary stopping place for him, it is his life.
His computer gave up the ghost so Mike is using the opportunity to research for a novel he is working on. No easy task since the subject will be alternate realities and perceptions. So his journey continues. It seems to me that his is the type of journey that requires quite a bit of courage.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Top Secret
Cody, WY, 9/21/2011
During the Vietnam War, I was a part of a secret communications operation based on the legendary Indian Code Talkers of World War II. The idea was to use soldiers from north Georgia, east Tennessee, and western Carolinas as radio operators. North Vietnamese intelligence operatives, many speaking excellent English, would not be able to understand a dialect that had never been adequately archived and recorded.
I wrote down one exchange that occurred in January, 1969. The following is an edited transcript and interpretation:
Orange 1, Orange 1, Howz yo momma?
Gud, gud, an yers?
(Security verification)
Hole bunch them lil sumbitches in the war. Yall come on ova chere.
(We are under attack.)
Git som dem gud ole boyz. Wil opin can of whup ass.
(Request reinforcements and artillery support.)
The operation failed due to a lack of communication between the radio operators and the officers they reported to, usually 2nd lieutenants, and recent college graduates. These young men usually spoke only fraternity, so if the first sentence of a conversation did not include the words "naked" and "beer", they lost interest.
So, to all veterans of the aforementioned code talkers, "I slute chall!"
During the Vietnam War, I was a part of a secret communications operation based on the legendary Indian Code Talkers of World War II. The idea was to use soldiers from north Georgia, east Tennessee, and western Carolinas as radio operators. North Vietnamese intelligence operatives, many speaking excellent English, would not be able to understand a dialect that had never been adequately archived and recorded.
I wrote down one exchange that occurred in January, 1969. The following is an edited transcript and interpretation:
Orange 1, Orange 1, Howz yo momma?
Gud, gud, an yers?
(Security verification)
Hole bunch them lil sumbitches in the war. Yall come on ova chere.
(We are under attack.)
Git som dem gud ole boyz. Wil opin can of whup ass.
(Request reinforcements and artillery support.)
The operation failed due to a lack of communication between the radio operators and the officers they reported to, usually 2nd lieutenants, and recent college graduates. These young men usually spoke only fraternity, so if the first sentence of a conversation did not include the words "naked" and "beer", they lost interest.
So, to all veterans of the aforementioned code talkers, "I slute chall!"
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Maria
Cody, WY 9/20/2011
Near Old Faithful in a cold dismal rain, a woman asked if we were going to Mammoth. Gale told her we could give her a ride to Old Faithful and that a shuttle might be available. The shuttles had shut down for the season the week before so Maria said she would just catch a ride on the loop road. Against her protestations we took her to Mammoth and made a new friend on the way.
Maria is 60+ years old, from Madrid, Spain and has been traveling around North America. She has been through Alaska, the Canadian Rockies, Grand Canyon, and after Yellowstone, she will catch a plane out of Jackson Hole on her way home. She travels by bus when she can and where there are no buses, she asks for rides. She spoke of 9 mile glacier hikes and constantly mentioned the kindness of people she had met.
So, we met a very brave lady, very optimistic, and we have an invitation to visit Madrid.
Near Old Faithful in a cold dismal rain, a woman asked if we were going to Mammoth. Gale told her we could give her a ride to Old Faithful and that a shuttle might be available. The shuttles had shut down for the season the week before so Maria said she would just catch a ride on the loop road. Against her protestations we took her to Mammoth and made a new friend on the way.
Maria is 60+ years old, from Madrid, Spain and has been traveling around North America. She has been through Alaska, the Canadian Rockies, Grand Canyon, and after Yellowstone, she will catch a plane out of Jackson Hole on her way home. She travels by bus when she can and where there are no buses, she asks for rides. She spoke of 9 mile glacier hikes and constantly mentioned the kindness of people she had met.
So, we met a very brave lady, very optimistic, and we have an invitation to visit Madrid.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
What I Learned at Baptist Church Camp
Cody, WY, 9/18/2011
I learned that a metal trashcan full of wire coat hangers, flung down a narrow hall at midnight made a terrible din, and that such an act would have repercussions other than obnoxious sounds.
I learned that prayer and meditation hour was, for a twelve year old boy, something like the eternity they often mentioned in nightly lessons. It was also a perfect time to take a canoe out on the lake, filled with all the other paddles of the other boats, so no one could come and force us to pray and meditate.
I learned that boys and girls were to be separated into two large groups, so that a girl named Carol would only be seen from afar. There would be no long anticipated walks, hand in hand, on sylvan paths, so the only reason I went to church camp was moot.
I learned that a metal trashcan full of wire coat hangers, flung down a narrow hall at midnight made a terrible din, and that such an act would have repercussions other than obnoxious sounds.
I learned that prayer and meditation hour was, for a twelve year old boy, something like the eternity they often mentioned in nightly lessons. It was also a perfect time to take a canoe out on the lake, filled with all the other paddles of the other boats, so no one could come and force us to pray and meditate.
I learned that boys and girls were to be separated into two large groups, so that a girl named Carol would only be seen from afar. There would be no long anticipated walks, hand in hand, on sylvan paths, so the only reason I went to church camp was moot.
Friday, September 16, 2011
I Don't Know, What Do You Want to Do?
Cody, WY, 9/16/2011
Picture it. Night. Summer, 1964. A '62 Ford Falcon station wagon, lights off, creeps up a small rise. Two shadowy figures lie prone in the luggage rack on the roof. When the vehicle reaches the top of the rise, high beams illuminate the garbage dump and thousands of large rats run in all directions. Simultaneously, the marksmen begin shooting their semi automatic .22 rifles. One, two,....maybe a dozen rodents bite the....garbage.
The wagon slowly backs down the rise and the snipers reload. Quiet descends over the Cartersville garbage dump. They wait. Not too long. Rats don't wear watches. The process is repeated.
Small town Saturday night. No dates.
Picture it. Night. Summer, 1964. A '62 Ford Falcon station wagon, lights off, creeps up a small rise. Two shadowy figures lie prone in the luggage rack on the roof. When the vehicle reaches the top of the rise, high beams illuminate the garbage dump and thousands of large rats run in all directions. Simultaneously, the marksmen begin shooting their semi automatic .22 rifles. One, two,....maybe a dozen rodents bite the....garbage.
The wagon slowly backs down the rise and the snipers reload. Quiet descends over the Cartersville garbage dump. They wait. Not too long. Rats don't wear watches. The process is repeated.
Small town Saturday night. No dates.
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