Philippe Petit Book Signing In Phoenicia

Philippe Petit (“Man on Wire”) Knot-tying and Book signing
Saturday, May 25th, 2pm
Methodist Church Hall, 25 Church Street, Phoenicia 

Petit will sign copies of his new book

Why Knot? How to Tie More Than Sixty ingenious, Useful, Beautiful, Lifesaving, and Secure Knots

which will be available for purchase at the event
Each guest will receive a red cord and instruction on how to tie some of Petit's favorite knots.
FREE

Philippe Petit, universal poet laureate of the high wire, accomplished what may be the most astounding “artistic crime” of all time. He walked a high wire illegally stretched between the rooftops of the Twin Towers of the World Center. Philippe’s book, To Reach The Clouds (Man On Wire in paperback), recounts that adventure and is the basis of the 2009 Academy Award-wining documentary film, Man On Wire.

Daily Freeman article:  http://www.dailyfreeman.com/articles/2013/05/12/news/doc518ef92b3072d130380388.txt

For more information on our $200,000 campaign for Library Re-Build, go to our special website www.phoenicialibraryfund.com
Questions or more information, stop by the library or call: 845-688-7811

Summer Visits To Woodland Valley

Here is a lovely piece that WCA member Johanna Jordan sent to me about Woodland Valley. Thanks for sharing your memories of Woodland Valley with us Johanna!!

Summer Visits to Woodland Valley

 Of course, I only know Woodland Valley as it is in the summertime.  In the more than sixty years I have been visiting, I have only been when there is snow on the ground three times. Once when I was in college, during a snowstorm of at least a foot, three college friends, my brother, and my father stayed at a neighbor’s winter-ready home across the brook for a weekend. (We carried our supplies from the state road.) Once for a few days in mid-March when the snow was melting and only patches remained. And once around Thanksgiving for less than a day, just to see if we could be warm enough in our cabin in 20 degree weather.  We couldn't. 

 So mostly I know the fullness of June foliage, the exploding population of birds, the irritation of champion no-see-ums and mosquitos, the pleasures of unfurling ferns, the crowds of various butterflies, the mysterious stillness before thunderstorms. Dawns loud with birdsong, deer in their fresh summer coats almost orange, parent birds nesting and feeding, the long long dusk with the song of the wood thrush. Late summer nights with the sound of katy-dids. Owls calling to each other.  Once, sitting up at night, terrified, I heard the dying scream of an owl's prey.  Once, saw mother bear and cub.  There were deer foraging right outside the bedroom window.  Red squirrels.  Grey squirrels. Flying squirrels. Once a porcupine crossed the brook not 10 feet from where I sat, completely unaware of me.  Skunk.  And the raccoons that we used to feed and learned not to. Chipmunks. Mice. Evidence, that one year, that beavers had tried to build.  Once a mink.  Several times, otters. The show-off dance flight of the hummingbird.  The flame azalea between our cabin and our neighbor’s home covered with dozens of tiger swallowtail butterflies. Staying up at night to see stars.  Shooting stars. Satellites. The Milky Way. Walking at night. Berry picking years ago.

 And always the brook, Woodland Creek.  The clay banks, and making things of clay.  Creating dams.  Moving and just plain throwing rocks. Learning the brook by walking in it. Getting to know it really well. Always the sound of the water.  When I stop the car after our long journey, turn off the engine, step out, I am flooded with the special quiet of the place, and the special sound of the brook, never stopping, different in different seasons, but always there, always comforting.

- Johanna Norgren Jordan

A Parrot In The Woods

While we are waiting for this next snow storm to play out (just started snowing a couple of hours ago - 2 inches so far) here is a lovely story written by WCA member Johanna Jordan. Enjoy!

A Parrot in the Woods

 Once upon a time, a pretty long time ago, around l977, (Imagine! I was just 40! ) I spent a week in Woodland at our family summer cabin totally alone (and without a car). 

Wilderness!   I wanted to experience BEING alone, I had (and have) never lived alone.

It was probably June--cool enough to have a small fire in fireplace at night, warm enough in the day to be outside all day.  

Which is what I did, roaming the area, walking up the creek, climbing hillsides, following deserted trails, even animal (deer) trails,

with never a worry about getting lost: one walked downhill, down stream, and eventually get to something known.

I sat in sunshine outside and watched butterflies: it was a great week for them, I saw many species.  They seemed to be attracted to the yellow plastic chair I sat in.

I saw hummingbirds, one doing his nuptial dance, spectacular swoops and dives.

I ate and slept whenever I wanted to.  I wrote, I drew, I made photographs, I walked, I watched, I observed.  I was quiet.  I talked to a few friends on the phone, not much.

I enjoyed  my time.  I experienced myself.

One day when I was walking about looking for dry wood for a fire, I heard a loud whoosh, sounding like the wings of a large bird.  I looked up,

and there was a magnificent parrot--sitting on a branch close to me.  It was red, green, blue, yellow, and very beautiful. It looked as big as a hawk or vulture.  It looked at me.

I held out my arm, purely instinctively, and it flew down onto my arm!  What was a tropical bird doing in the deep forest of the Catskill Mountains?

And what was it doing sitting on my arm?  Clearly it was tame, it did not fly away, and I could walk with it on my arm, feeling like a queen with a talking bird.

It did not talk.  At least, it did not talk to me.  I walked with it a bit, liking the feeling of the weight of the big bird as it adjusted its balance.

It would fly up into the tree branches, but return to my arm when I held it out. Soon I had walked to my neighbor's house, and they came out to marvel at the bird.

It seems they had heard about a resident further down the road who kept such a bird and had lost it.  So they called and arranged for it to be picked up.

It stayed around the neighbor's house for a few days, proved thoroughly tame (they said it ate off their plates at mealtime!) and eventually was reunited with its owners.

I was not at all reluctant to let it go; I wanted to continue my Experience.  And I did.

Jj 12/21/12   

Peggy Neu's Latest Huff Post Article

I got a message from Peggy Neu a few days ago. She has written another article for the Huffington Post. Here is what she had to say about it.

Hi everyone:

Check out my latest HuffPo piece and when you have a chance like or share it so it stays on top  (currently Meathead is in front of me so we have a lot of work to do!)

Thanks!

Peggy

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/peggy-neu/michael-symon-meatless-monday_b_1557306.html

Paul O'Neil is 101

WCA member and frequent Woodland Valley View contributor Mike O'Neil sent this to me a few days ago.

June 9, 2010

As I did a few years ago, I’d like to share the EDITORS’ NOTE from LIFE’s August 28, 1970 issue because it extols my father and his writing, and is a fitting way to celebrate his birthday, June 9. Depending on how you look at these things, he is—or would have been—101 years old.
Happy Birthday, Pop.

MO'N

EDITORS’ NOTE
He knows an Iron Fraudator When he sees one

This week’s article about Secretary of the Interior Walter Hickel, the man in charge of so much of our environment, is the work of Paul O’Neil, who has an abiding interest in the environment himself. Paul’s interest is specific: he is a fisherman. In a memorable story that he wrote for us six years ago, Paul made his position unequivocally clear: “I am against roads, I am against detergents, I am against insecticides, I am against logging. I am against flood control. I am not against golf, since I cannot but suspect it keeps armies of the unworthy from discovering trout, but I pity them for playing it when they could be putting a fly on the water.”

Paul found that he had something in common with nonangler Hickel. The Secretary had first gone to Alaska as a steerage passenger on the steamship Yukon, a vessel on which O’Neil once worked as a steerage steward during a college summer. “My job was carrying garbage cans of stew and boiled potatoes down impossible companionways,” he says. “When I asked Hickel how he had liked the steerage food, he admitted he used to sneak upstairs to eat in first class. I am happy to report that I also dined in first class, along with the rest of the crew, including one man who ate raw bacon all the time.”

During trout season, when he is not writing, Paul can generally be found on Esopus Creek, a Catskill stream which he knows with astonishing intimacy down to the last rock, pool and riffle. He is apt to greet a fellow angler with a hearty “Ah, Piscator!” He slinks along the stream like a cat so as not to scare the fish. His casting is infuriatingly impeccable. His streamside entomological lore is impressive. “This dry fly,” he will exclaim, holding up a tiny bit of steel and feathers, “imitates the adult stage of the mayfly Iron Fraudator, which appears on the streams during the last week of April almost always at 1 p.m. EST.”

On the hard-fished Esopus even Paul’s skill does not always guarantee victory, and he has evolved a philosophy to cope with the vicissitudes of the stream. “Fly fishing is an exercise in masochism anyway. I knew a man who fished a remote Canadian stream where the fish were so unwary he caught beautiful trout on a hook baited with a cigar butt. But that’s no fun. If you can’t be continuously defeated, the charm of the whole thing would evaporate.” He also has a formula for victory: “Roll in corn meal, sizzle for four or five minutes in bacon fat (better, for reasons I do not understand, than butter) and serve with a fresh green vegetable, a baked potato, or macaroni with a bland cheese sauce.”

RALPH GRAVES
Managing Editor

A Short Story By Camilo Marquez

I received this new work from Camilo a few days ago with this message.

"This is a story I wrote for the NPR three minute fiction contest inspired by the words "trick," 'button," "plant," and "fly." It just came to me in a couple flashes. I hope you enjoy it." - Camilo

Off Line
By Camilo Marquez

We worked side by side at the GM plant; he was real fly and knew how to touch all the right buttons, but I wasn’t about to let him trick me out. Roland Dupre was his real name: café-au-lait, honey-tongue, high-yella, pencil-mustache and natural waves. “Whooowee.” A woman didn’t need no moisturizer standing next to him. One evening after four hours of OT, he flashed his gold tooth smile and I made the mistake of taking a ride in “Dinah-Flo,” his Buick Roadmaster. The deep rumble sound you feel down in your stomach gripped me when we drove off.
- Where we goin’?
- Have a drink at Trey Deuces.
- Awright, Ro, just one, I am tired.
- Drink will pick you up, then lay you down easy.
- Yeah, I know you, Ro, an’ I like you, but…
- But nothin’, you deserve some relaxation after 12 hours on the line. Shoo, you deserve to relax all day long, at home, fine as you are!
I was screening him out the corner of my eye, watchin’ his hand with the diamond pinky ring glide around the steering wheel, the top half of his face, flat-staring at the road, while his mouth turned to me and folded a smile ‘roun his words. I sank down in the seat, closed my eyes and listened to Sam Cooke. Sweet. I felt myself about to float away, but sat bolt-upright as we pulled up to the Deuces. It was gonna be a fight – with myself.
“‘Mon baby,” Ro opening the door and taking my hand in his. Soft hands for a man who worked hard. I could feel them – on me. I gripped his tight, so he wouldn’t notice me trembling. Roland greeted the cats who called his name, avoiding the glances of the chicks as he danced me into a booth to the side of the bar, his hand, gentle, in the small of my back.
- Ease it down, Delia. Want some champagne?
- You gonna have whiskey and a bullet? Well, just have the whiskey and I’ll take a bullet for you.
Roland, smiled, not showing his gold, but with his eyes and reached for my hand, closing on it a milli-second before I could pull it away. The waitress came over, giving me a second chance. She wasn’t smiling.
- Three Feathers and a Champale for the lady.
Ro turned back and slid his hand across the table. I looked at him and steadied my voice.
- Ro, can I have a cigarette?
- Delia, you smoke?
- No, sometimes, just to ah…relax.
Now, we both had something to do with our hands and I did relax. The waitress arrived with our drinks. “You runnin’ a tab?”
Roland was about to reply and I touched his hand. “No, Ro just one round, I gotta get home and go to bed.” The waitress’ face softened, quickly returning to business as I caught her eye. I let my hand stay on top of Roland’s. He was looking at our hands when I turned my eyes back to his. We both were about to speak at the same time when we realized we still had an audience. As she turned away I understood she was watching this player make his moves. I decided, hearing myself almost say, “Okay, just one more,” that I was not going to be played upon.
- Ro, let’s go, now.

Ode to a Good Fred

This was sent to us by Paul Misko -

"This spring, up in the head of Woodland Valley, we lost my friend Fred. Or did I just imagine it????? Anyhow, here is a tribute to him."

Ode to a Good Fred

Here lies poor Fred, our outdoor friend.
We missed his birth, but caught his end.
While on our hike, up hills he'd dash,
but now he's just a pile of ash.
His morning was without a care,
but evening met him with a bear
A stick he wielded as a club,
defense against a former cub.
Paul tried to shoot the fuzzy bear,
but then just missed him by a hair.
I know that this excuse is lame,
but its all due to Paul's bad aim.
Exact details remain obscure,
but for Fred's wounds there was no cure.
Cremation seemed the cheapest route.
a few bucks saved, we'll all dine out.

- Paul Misko

A Sense of Place

The following piece was sent by Jean Druffner.

"This piece was written soon after Chet Gaede died. He grew up in Woodland Valley, loved and shared this most beautiful place with so many and most beautifully with me in long and often quite quiet hikes. We had marvelous times exploring the realm of Wittenberg, Cornell and Slide Mountains…. Some of his ashes have since been carried by me on a solo trek to a favorite place. The whole life experience is what friends do for one another, and Chet did do so much for so many.


A Sense of Place: My Center of the World
By Jean Druffner - February 13, 2008

Deep down in my heart of hearts is the place high on a Catskill Mountain where there is a sense of centeredness from which my heart beats in tune with all else. There is no trail to it; there is always a sense of surprise and gratefulness when I find it easily. So often I aim too high and miss it. The way to it goes through low, open woodland where even the stream rushing at one point disappears underground, and only if one puts one’s ear to the ground can one sense its continued flow under the glacial scree left by the last Ice Age.
From this lovely open woodland, one must gently climb until reaching a glacial depression, a vernal pond. It is not a deep pond and is sometimes dry, but it does catch the rain and snowmelt of periods of surplus moisture. It holds this precious water to which deer, bear, bobcats, coyotes among so many others come to drink. It holds the water and perhaps lessens the crashing force of flooding in the open forest below. It is a reassuring landmark that I am still traveling in the right direction.
From here there are traces of past travelers: loggers of over a century ago, hunters, and roamers like myself. Wild animal paths entice one to follow their direction in hopes of having an easier ascent up the very steep climb to a ridge. When one does follow these traces, one can then slip into a sense of ease. This is the point where I can lose my true way for there are no distinct markings, especially when the leaves are on the trees and the vantage point is a close circle of beech, birch, moosewood maple, wild cherry….
It is good to sit a while in mid-slope; look around at the nuts, ferns, spring beauties, shepherd’s purse, Dutchman’s britches, wild violets, trillium, false white hellebore, snakeroot, nettle, jewelweed, etc. depending upon the season. To close one’s eyes, to breathe deeply to inhale the rich smells of the earth helps the imagination to then place the next direction to turn. An acute angle towards the southwest will take one to a place of ledges. Now, it is a simple matter of pulling oneself up and over a few. I like best to keep looking ahead and not sneak a preview of what is behind and below me. One must maintain a delight of not rushing the reward! One must get well onto the flat. One must again close one’s eyes, take a deep breath, smell the openness of this space, listen to what the wind, trees, rocks, soil are whispering--- for I am the new arrival to their habitat. It is then that I turn around and open my eyes. And behold! I see what takes my breath away; I breathe what colors my mind; I hear what jingles my soul.
In this, my center of my universe, I know my being. My being in its totality smiles and cries with the beauty of the life I have found in my Catskill Mountains.
It is here that my dear friend who died just 13 days ago at the age of 86 brought me 32 years ago. It is here where my dog and I often came to camp overnight until the last time when, on our trek down the steep sloops, she could no longer walk. I tied her loosely to a tree and went to get help. My dear friend and another borrowed the brand new litter from our ambulance squad and we carried my collie home. She recovered but never climbed to our flat again.
It is here that we had picnic feasts, told stories, sung songs. It is to this sanctuary that I could dash on a Christmas morning the first year after my mother had died and so I did not go home. It is here that my heart finds its haven of memories and dreams.
This spring, I will carry my friend’s ashes to spread on the flats so that the wind and rain and sun and all the living beings might engage with what had carried a most beautiful soul. Now, my soul carries this fuller reverence with a conscious love for the on-going regeneration of life nurtured by the beauty deep in my heart of hearts, in my place of places, the Catskills.

Up a Lazy River

Here is another wonderful piece of writing by the late great Paul O'Neil, Woodland Valley resident and avid fisherman. Even though we don't have the photo he described, I think this is the perfect piece for the spring start to fishing season.

"Man would not be man if, somewhere in his heart, he was not a bum—, if he did not nurse a recurring dream of indolence and irresponsibility, and did not yearn to stretch out on a tropic beach or under a western watering tank and let his whiskers grow and occasionally have a shot of something rousing from a bottle. It is a dream which has a way of growing stronger in summer, but in most strata of society a fellow just can't hustle off to hunt for Tom Sawyer's island, or for pearl oysters, —he can't, indeed, even doze off on the courthouse steps at noon —without causing a raise of eyebrows and a wag of tongues. Fish, however, are a bum's best friend. Not the lusty salmon, nor the leaping trout, nor any fish which must be pursued, but the flounder and the catfish—, fish which inhabit the tide flats and the back eddies of slow rivers, fish which may be lured to the bait from a recumbent position. Millions of men annually escape that constricting maze erected over the centuries by their women with no more equipment than is reflected in the still life to the left. They escape in every country under the sun—, the photograph was made by W. Eugene Smith in a Portuguese tidal inlet off the Gulf of Cadiz—and, though the red wine in the jug might be white mule, or cider, or muscatel or rye in other parts of the world, it is a picture which reflects a universal aspect of the masculine soul. A man need not row a weather-beaten boat such as this Portuguese fisherman's craft more than a dozen strokes to achieve Purpose and, hence, a suspect but unassailable license for bumhood. After that languid series of motions he is free to drop an anchor (a tin can full of cement), bait his hook, float his bobber upon the softly gurgling flood, pull out the cork, tilt his jug, lower his hat over his eyes and sink back into that comatose and reflective state in which man reaches true nobility of character. In the process, although the odds are against it, there is a chance that he might even catch a fish."

-Paul O'Neil Sports Illustrated 1956

Opening Day, or Who's An April Fool?

To celebrate the opening day of fishing season here is a piece by our local Troutmeister Mike O'Neil -

Whan that Aprille, Piscator

In his definitive work Catskill Rivers, Mac Francis writes of the Catskill angling “mystique”, convincingly making the point that (a) there is such a thing in the first place and that (b) “lying in the heart of the mystique are the emotions of the angler, none of them stronger than his anticipation of spring.” Poets, natural philosophers, anglers and fools have always been drawn out by the approach of April. It wasn’'t by chance that Geoff Chaucer started his pilgrims on their Canterbury jaunt “whan that Aprille,” for the longing to be up and about stirs in us then. Izaak Walton, the sainted seventeenth century de n of fishing, that “compleat” angler, would hardly have you fish for trout until April approached, “till which time a man should not in honesty catch a trout.” Our own bard of the Catskill’s, John Burroughs wrote at length about the month, part of which I am compelled to quote, for how often do you see the word “hibernaculum” these days? Old Uncle whitebeard Burroughs wrote, “ "In April all nature starts with you. You have not come out of your hibernaculum too early or too late; the time is ripe, and if you do not keep pace with the rest, why, the fault is not in the season.”"
New York State’'s trout fishing season begins on April first, to be precise. Even the vaguely astute observer will recognize that it is also April Fool’s Day. If there is a connection, it is lost to antiquity. In point of fact, when measured against its neighbors’ opening dates, New York'’s is particularly early. Pennsylvania, for instance does not allow the hoards to descend until the first Saturday after April 11th.
In Connecticut, anglers must wait even longer to assault river, stream, pond and lake--the opener is the third Saturday of April. Wayne Elliot, New York State Department of Environmental Conservation’s District 3 manager (the territory covering the Catskills, as well as more southerly counties to include Westchester) points out that this was not always the case. In the mid forties, at least, New York’s season began the third Saturday in April. A careful reading of Ed Van Put’s recently published, magnificent book on the Beaverkill, titled--aptly--The Beaverkill , shows that from the early 1870’s until the 1920’s there was a relatively short season on Catskill waters that began May first and lasted only 106 days. Ed also dug out this tantalizing quote from Dr. E.A. Bates, from the Sullivan County Democrat, circa June 14, 1933 commenting on the season employed by native Americans long before the white man fished in the Catskills: "In the olden moons, at such a time, the boys of the village cut a long pole of sinewy willow, and at the end of a tough line made of the inner bark of the elm, they tied the sharp pointed fish hook made of bone. With a juicy piece of bear fat, they fooled the trout. Then one trout-fishing moon came when few trout were caught. The next spring this happened again. Finally a wise old fisherman opened one of the trout with his sharp stone knife and found it was full of eggs.& amp; nbsp; So the council drew from the wisdom of old fishermen, and a careful watch was made, and then it was found that the trout always swam over their spawning beds just before the wild apple bloomed. From that moon on, and even today, the redman stays far from the home of the trout until the apple trees are in full bloom, for he dreams of a trout-fishing moon for his grandchildren."
To an extent, the DEC’s trout stocking schedule is dictated by actual stream conditions, much as the Indians of prehistory paid attention to nature. On average the water in the Catskills is too cold to stock in March. Trout are not put into Catskill streams and rivers until after opening day--until the water reaches at least a temperature of 45 degrees F. It is axiomatic--the colder the water, the less active the trout. And while they never actually stop feeding, when it’s colder they eat less often. Heresy though it may be, I have to state the obvious--for all the hoopla and frenetic anticipation that surrounds it, Opening Day is not, usually, a very good time to fish for trout in the Catskills.
Fishing clubs and church groups climb over themselves in putting on opening day dinners, raffles, and monumental opening morning pancake feeds--all of which are fun in their own way. Others fortify themselves the way the early American angling author Thaddeus Norris described when he and friends prepared to fish the Willowemoc and Beaverkill rivers a century ago:

"There were three of us: baggage as follows:
Item: one bottle of gin, two shirts: Item: one bottle of schnapps, two pair stockings: Item, one bottle Schiedam, one pair fishing pants:
Item, one bottle genuine aromatic, by Udolpho Wolfe, name on the wrapper, without which the article is fictitious, one pair extra boots:
Item, one bottle extract of juniper-berry; one bottle brandy, long and wide, prescribed by scientific skill for medicinal purposes.
Also, rods, flies, tackle in abundance, and a supply of gin; in addition, each of us had a quart-flask in our pockets, containing gin. We also had some gin inside when we started."

This is not to say that no trout are caught on April 1. My friend Ed Ostapczuk of Shokan, a licensed New York State fishing guide and perhaps the most skilled Catskill fly fisherman I know, described an incredible opening day he and his son had on the Rondout, catching scores of wonderful native brookies on deftly sinkered nymphs. Karen Graham from Rosendale and her business partner Bert Darrow (she an escapee from the world of high fashion modeling, he a former NYNEX exec) fish so often and so well, as they instruct novices in the arcane art of angling (their business is called “Fly Fishing with Bert and Karen”), that I have no doubt they will catch trout, nice trout, if they choose to go out for the opener. But most of us will not do as well April 1 (in France,by the way, an April Fool’s Day hoax or mishap is known as a poisson d’avril--an April Fish!). Perhaps we are April Fools as we eagerly anticipate Opening Day in Ulster, or Sullivan, or Greene County. I think at the bottom of it all, having flailed away on one or another Catskill stream for over forty years, I subscribe to Sparse Grey Hackle’s fishing philosophy (aka Arthur Miller). While he preferred catching them to not catching them (one is not completely mad, after all), Sparse Grey had this to say, ... he who is content to no t-catch fish in the most skillful and refined manner, utilizing the best equipment and technique, will have his time and attention free for the accumulation of a thousand experiences, the memory of which will remain for his enjoyment long after any recollection of fish would have faded.”

- Mike O’Neil

Happy St. Patrick's Day!!

To celebrate St. Patrick's Day here are some new limericks by Mike O'Neil -

THE HARSH GRIP OF WINTER

The harsh grip of winter is dreary,
It oppresses Miss Hobson in Erie,
She yearns for the beach,
But it’s just out of reach,
Should’ve saved up vacation—quite clearly.


TO STRIKE OR NOT TO STRIKE

William Shakespeare missed out on the bling,
Had no GUILD upon which to cling,
Just an inky old pen,
And a fierce writing yen,
For Bill, the play was the thing.


A FINE KETTLE OF FISH

There’s bluefish, salmon, and trout,
Mahi mahi, tench, pickerel, pout,
With your rod and line hook em’,
And in the pan cook ‘em,
They’ll cure the ague and the gout.


CALORIC CONSEQUENCES

There was a new bride from New Haven,
Milk chocolates and sweets were her cravin’,
And try as she might her,
Trousseau got tighter,
That expanding young girl from New Haven.


OH IMPONDERABLE PIGSKIN

A football might wobble or bounce,
It’s the victim of pummel and pounce,
At the end of the day,
Did it fly straight or stray?
Is it luck or the spiral that counts?


THE NOSE KNOWS

I would sing thee an ode to the nose,
Without which we'd be dead, I suppose,
We need to breathe air,
To remain fresh and fair,
And where else would our glasses repose?


BEAUTIFUL BIVALVES

The medal for unbridled bravery,
Goes to he who first ate and found savory,
A slimy raw oyster,
(There is nothing moister),
And the nice thing—it doesn’t need gravery.


STOP THE PRESSES—NOT

A hopeful reporter named Nate,
Had just joined the fourth estate.
His spelling was horrible,
His verb choice deplorable,
But his gerunds were really first rate.


THE LIMERICK FORM

In order to be a sure hit,
It must feature a quick turn of wit,
Contain five lines, not one,
Project impudent fun,
And be metrically perfect when writ.


ELEGANT STICK

Me shillelagh and me,
We’re both from South Cork,
The land of O’Neil,
And Finbar, O’Rourke.

It’s an elegant stick,
Sure it cannot be beat,
It helps me to keep,
Meself on me feet.

And if I’m beset,
By man, wolf, or bear,
It’s a bonny braw club,
And I brandish it fair.

But I’m a calm man,
And tranquil enough,
Let’s keep it that way,
I don’t need to get rough.

Let’s sit for a while,
Let’s sing the old songs,
Take a sip of potcheen,
And right the old wrongs.

J. Michael O’Neil

Happy Birthday to Robby Burns and Boreegard!

Here is a poem sent to us by Mike O'Neil aka Boreegard on the occasion of his 66th Birthday.
Happy Birthday Bo!!

Tempus Trucks Along

I took two heavy gold timepieces out of the bank crypt today,
So that the jeweler could eyeball their current value,
For the personal articles rider.
‘Mother to Jim, April 19, 1890’ says one of them,
And the other says nothing, but proclaims silently,
“You were in the chips when I came into the family.”
Each has elaborate calligraphy carved on its golden front,
—O’N for the Old kings of Ireland and my people,
Who found their way to California back in ’49,
Enduring God only knows what terrible things.
Uncle Jim died at 59 in 1923 with no spawn.
I didn'’t know him, nor he me.

Slouching into the cusp of my 66th,
I think about my progenitors,
About where their dust might be,
What their lives must have been—, did they blush
Did they dance, did they sing?
Did they think of their future progeny?
And what might they think about
The cheapo throw-away TIMEX that I insisted be
my birthday present today?
There'’ll be no safe steel box holding it,
For the Grands to marvel over.
Tempus fuget indeed.

Boreegard

Enduring a snotty head cold
upon his natal date
January 25, 2008

Mi Vacacion de Verano

By Mike O’Neil

We flew down to Puerto Vallarta this past summer. It is a small Mexican town on the west coast of Jalisco, situated on the Bahia de Banderas (the Bay of Banderas) with well- founded contentions of grandeur. It has always been known for its beaches, which run for many miles, and its forest iguanas—of which there are fewer and fewer.

Jeanne and I have taken occasional day trips to Mexican border towns over the years, but this was a full week. We lived in a mountainside villa (Villa Las Palmeras) within walking distance of the town center, in the company of our son Dan, his partner Rick, and about 25 other hard-playing, hard-drinking 30-somethings—their pals. And though it was sub-tropically hot, and in the middle of the August rainy season, since Dan had offered to fund the whole thing, who could turn down such an adventure?

Several rivers run through the town, and in the rainy season uncountable side streams and freshets tumble down through the hills and mountains that form the sheer backdrop along the coast. Intense greens and browns are the landscape colors that strike the eye. Tropical jungle foliage clings to the sides of the nearly vertical mountains. Rockslides are not uncommon—driving along its twisting main road up through the countryside is a jarring, tooth-grinding venture. Most everyone speeds, giving little care for safety. It can be fatal. Several weeks ago, a sight seeing van, much like the one we piled into occasionally, plunged over a steep embankment and crashed on the rocks seventy feet below. All eleven occupants died.

The town, viewed from the elevated vantage point of the Villa, was quite beautiful. When it was not raining, the sunsets were an orange-pink magnificence, and fireworks often lit up the night sky. To me its crowning glory is the main church in the center of town—Our Lady of Guadalupe—whose tower is in fact topped with a huge facsimile of Empress Carlota’s crown. This struck me as odd because, as you will no doubt recall, Carlota’s husband, the Emperor Maximillian, Arch-Duke of Austria, and she were installed as rulers of Mexico by Napoleon the third—all backed up by his French army. The Mexicans themselves for the most part didn’t take kindly to this colonialist incursion. Eventually, in 1867, a few years after our civil war, we told the Frenchies to withdraw their forces. Their army left, but through a misguided mixture of hubris and noblis oblige, Maximillian stayed—only to be shot full of holes by the Republican minions of Benito Juarez. My question—why would the Mexican Catholic establishment in Puerto Vallarta chose to venerate the crown of an oppressor? Life is full of mysteries. The crown is mighty pretty though.

The town itself is generally driven by a tourist economy. It is clean and cheerful. You find many jewelry stores selling a great deal of silver, restaurants of all sorts (HOOTERS and HARDROCK CAFÉ are oddly prominent), and in every third store it seemed, large signs boast genuine Cuban cigars. I bought two.

But for the glitzy storefronts, there is an ever-present patina of knife-edge poverty slipping out at the edges. The cadaverous, cleanly dressed woman sitting mutely on the steps of Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, holding an empty plastic cup just a bit forward of her knee; the ever-present street venders politely but insistently plying their wares. There was no begging, but there was a definite need to sell one’s box of goods, in a town where skilled construction workers make four dollars a day—and it’s a very long day, indeed.

Speaking of the jungle habitat, Jeanne and I had good reason to know the particulars of its flora and fauna. Along with the rest of the young friends of Dan and Rick, and Rick’s parents Jessie and Merla (two people closer to our age than the rest) we went on a southbound rattly open-air camion and drove well into the single-lane dirt road raw countryside. It’s not that we didn’t know what we were getting into. The brochure for LOS VERANOS CANOPY TOUR pictures people smiling, and eventually most of us did too, after it was over. The abomination is called zip-lining.

Steel cables had been strung high in the jungle canopy upon the stronger trees. They lead to a number of platforms from top to bottom. One is fitted out with various hooks and harnesses. Eventually, one is hooked onto a handheld device that rings onto the cable, pushed off the platform with the admonition “Hold your legs straight, Senor,” as you go “zipping” down and across a 500 foot forested abyss on your way to the next way station (there were fourteen such things in all). At one really dicey point of descent I screamed, not intentionally meaning to take the entity’s name in vain—JESUS H. CHRIST!!!

By the way, the young Mexicanos in charge of this operation didn’t call me Senor—there was a certain sense of errant fun and competence in all this. They took to calling me Santa Claus—for my girth and snow white beard, I suppose. And when mis amigos Pablo y Carlos would call me that as they advised me to lift my leg and hold onto the damn rubber handles, as they hooked me up to the cable for the next terrifying descent, I would say to them, “ Que deseas par la Navidad, Chicos? (What do you want for Christmas, little boys?).” They ignored the humor of this bit of Spanish. Just as well—that was not the time to distract them.

Zipping over the terrible chasms I never looked down—always looked straight ahead, but Jeanne told me she did once. Once was enough for her.

We survived and made it to the bottom, where cold beer and DVD’s of our adventure awaited us. Paisanos offered to place a large tarantula on your neck or face, for photo ops. I didn’t bite, so neither did the spider.

More of the Villa Las Palmeras. It was an obscure, private place run by an ever attentive staff who fed us, cleaned, and otherwise saw to our needs. There was air conditioning of a sort in our rooms; mi amigo Jorge saw to the place settings and the delivery of meals, assisted by a dour-faced Jesus. .Oh! For the guacamole y frijoles de Anna Rosa—our cook. Las Palmeras translates literally to “the palm trees” and water coconut palms ringed the villa, with green coconuts ready to fall.

There was one Mexican delicacy that I had looked forward to, which I eventually discovered was not to be had in Jalisco—grilled goat (en Espanol se llama cabrita asada). Some years ago, my friends Bob and Margie Lyons told me about it, and described it as akin to a delicate lamb. Jesse and I were both interested in the thought of tasting it, but to no avail. After an interrogation of Anna Rosa and her kitchen staff en Espanol, we were given the name of Restaurante de O’Reguan situated on the corner of Collonia y Vovadilla. But before Jesse and I made the mistake of going there, we were told that the place didn’t serve grilled young goat at all. They served mutton stew. Have you ever eaten mutton (i.e. fatty old sheep)? Not my favorite. I daresay, not yours either. We were advised eventually, that we’d have to travel to Monterrey, to find it, and that it was certainly not to be found in Jalisco. Chiwawah!

22 Augusto ‘07

Chile Allam's View of the Valley

A word about C.C. (Chile) Allam—Chile was an editor at New York’s Daily News. He lived in our valley for many years and died at the Kingston Hospital in the early ‘90’s. The cabin he writes about here is a small one in Roxmor that is still standing (knock wood). He eventually moved down to the old white school house, where Bill and Susan Thompson now live. This feisty and beautiful piece of writing is my favorite winter sketch of our valley.

Mike O’Neil
Dec. 2, 2007

All Outdoors
With Hi Wright

(While Hi Wright is undergoing minor repairs, his column is conducted by friends. This one is written by a man who lives in two worlds—a metropolitan newspaper office and a Catskill mountain trout stream).

By C. C. Allam

MOST OF YOU WHO READ THIS COLUMN PROBABLY LIVE IN YEAR-ROUND HOUSES, HOUSES THAT ARE WELL EQUIPPED TO MEET THE RIGORS OF A MOUNTAIN WINTER. By and large, your winter probably brings little more actual discomfort than does the winter of a New York City dweller. Certainly, on that basis, there is no reason why you should have your head examined because you choose to live and work in a land where the snows are frequent and deep and the cold often is prolonged and biting. But…
Suppose you chose to live two and a half days a week in a house intended to be only a summer dwelling, without water in the winter and at the top of a climbing, unplowed road usually impassable to a car when there is more than six or seven inches of snow? Case for Bellevue? Well, that is what I often ask myself.
I have this camp in the Woodland Valley of Ulster County, near Slide, highest peak in the Catskills, and I go there from my job in New York two and a half days every week, summer and winter. I’m not asking for sympathy, but, let’s face it, from the end of October until the end of March, there is a lot of plain, physical discomfort. So why do I do it? I dunno, and yet I would be absolutely lost if some week I could not make it.
Forget the drive up the Thruway to Kingston, the 25 westward miles on Route 28 and the final three miles up the Woodland Valley road. They can be murder in a heavy snow in the middle of the night when I drive up. But forget that and concentrate on my arrival at the foot of the private road going up into the colony in which my camp is situated. There are a couple of feet of old snow and a good hard new one is swirling all around me and the wind is cold enough to freeze your blood. So I park just off the road knowing that in the morning the gallant Shandaken township plowboys will bury the car so snugly that I’ll have to shovel out.

I LOCK THE CAR AND START UP THE ROAD, WHICH COILS A THIRD OF A MILE UP A SHOULDER OF PANTHER MOUNTAIN. I’ve done it hundreds of times, but the old snow and the new combine to obliterate the track so that every now and then I have to hunt around to get back on course. I am puffing when I get to the top of the first long rise. There I get a level stretch for a breather and I think how different it looked last August when I wore only a thin shirt, shorts, socks and shoes. Then comes the second steep climb, and I’m home. That third of a mile that I can do in five or six minutes in summer may have taken me 40 minutes, and I’m puffing again while I get out my key.
Once inside, with the lights on, I look at the thermometer. Since I can have no heat there while I am away in the city, the INSIDE temperature may be as low as 10 above. I turn on the kerosene space heater and start building a fire in the fireplace. If I was prudent the week before, there will be a basketful of small, starting wood beside the fireplace and a pile of larger wood on the porch table. But sometimes I am in too much of a hurry to be prudent, so now I may have to wallow out into the snow to the woodpile.
I pick up the Big Ben I keep on the mantle, but my fingers are too numb to turn the winding key. I take a pair of pliers out of the drawer and wind it with that. The clock gives a few hearty ticks and then stops; it is so cold that the oil is congealed, so for about 15 minutes I have to shake it frequently, letting it sit on top of the space heater between shakes, and finally it ticks away without a break. More than once I have had to turn the radio knobs with pliers too. I never before realized how necessary fingers are.
Meanwhile the inside temperature goes up quite nicely until it hits the upper 30’s, and I feel elated. Then there is some kind of slowdown which I suppose a heating engineer could explain but which baffles me. From that point on the thermometer seems only to creep.
But I still have on my thermo boots and heavy hunting coat, and as soon as it gets up to 40 I sit down in my chair before the fire and read until it reaches the middle 50’s, the point at which I think it is warm enough to get ready for bed. I reached the house at 1 a.m.; by this time it is almost 4.

I FILL THE HOT WATER BAG FROM THE TEAKETTLE THAT HAS BEEN ON TOP OF THE SPACE HEATER (SURE THERE IS AN ELECTRIC RANGE, BUT WHY USE THE JUICE?). I shove the hot water bottle into the down sleeping bag on top of my bed, I climb into pajamas in front of the fire, lower the kerosene heater, put up the fire screen open the bedroom windows, slide into the bag and zip it up. My face is cold in a pleasant sort of way, but the rest of me is snug. But, brother, when you sleep in a bag, you don’t want to top off your evening with a couple of bottles of beers!
Of course the next two days and nights are more comfortable because the space heater never goes out. But there is constant carrying—groceries, wood, kerosene and water from a spring not too far away. For a week or two after the inside water system has been turned off, I feel sort of lost, but then I get into the winter stride and find I can do very well for a day with a tenth part of the water you would use for your morning shower.
There would have to be rewards for all this or I really should have my head examined. One of them is the complete freedom and satisfaction I feel the minute I get through the front door. Another is the real comfort of my old outdoor clothes. One of the biggest is the couple of hours I spend over breakfast about noon in front of the window that looks on my busy bird-feeder. Another is sitting there looking through the bare poles of the winter forest at Mt. Wittenberg, landmark of my part of the valley.

BUT LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THE OTHER NIGHT TO GIVE YOU A REAL CLUE TO THE FASCINATION. It was the second night of the year’s first snow—only a baby snow of about four inches, but there was a full moon turning it whiter than snow ever was before. About 11:30 I went out for a walk through the colony. The sky was full of big scurrying clouds, as though through a hole in the ice. I took a flashlight with me but never used it. I could even read name-boards at the various camps without it.
The roofs were brilliant squares and rectangles of snow supported by sidewalls that were only masses of inky black. Finally I got down to that flat stretch where I get a breather when I’m climbing up to the house, and there, though it was the second day of the hunting season, I surprise eight to ten deer. After they smelled me and high-tailed, I looked toward Wittenberg. I am sure I never will forget that night and that sight.
Before me was a snow-covered field and beyond that was the Craig barn with its roof sloping upward away from me, shining under the moon with the pure radiance of the first Christmas. My delighted eyes followed the roof to the peak and on upward to where the long snow-sprinkled mass of Terrace Mountain crouched under the cold tower of Wittenberg.
I often have regretted that there is not a full moon every week, but standing there surrounded by the moonlit mountains I realized that men could not endure the beauty of the full moon more than once a month.
What do you think? Should I have my head examined?