http://www.nytimes.com/2011/04/04/opinion/04mon4.html?_r=1&ref=opinion
April 3, 2011
Gains and Losses
By VERLYN KLINKENBORG
After a long, scentless winter, apart from the tang of woodsmoke in the air, you could suddenly smell the earth again early one morning last week. It seems odd to call the scent fresh — it was darker and mustier than that — but fresh is how it felt, hovering like a ground fog above the last banks of snow. A whole field of clover could grow in that smell alone.
When the snow slid back at last, the grass looked as if it were waking from a long, sodden nap, and all but the stoutest plants, even the yuccas, had been bulldozed. Vole trails are still visible on what looks like a lawn of crushed velvet, and the ground isn’t quite soft underfoot yet, except where the gophers have been digging, and there it is spongy and accepting. The only ice left is under the scattered hay where the horses fed in the middle pasture. Every time I walk across it I think of 19th-century icehouses packed with the winter’s pond ice and insulated with sawdust and straw.
This was a winter with casualties. The snow undid the bottom row of insulators on the electric fence, one by one. I’ve lost track of the mice that wandered into my traps. Two losses above all leave me disheartened. One is the beehive. There was nothing stirring there on a 60-degree day a couple of weeks ago, no bees on the aconites or snowdrops. There will be a mournful spring harvest of honey as I clean out the hive and prepare it for a new colony next spring
What worries me most is the barn cat, whom I haven’t seen since the harshest days of early February. He had been coming up to the house to eat on the deck, but I usually saw him up in the hayloft, watching warily as I tossed down bales, or basking in a wedge of sunlight in the run-in shed. In the heaviest snow, he waited on a low dogwood branch until he saw me coming, and then hid until I set out his food. I believe he’s gone. But there’s just a chance that one warm day I’ll see him sitting — black and tailless — on a fence rail, looking at me as if to ask where I’ve been.
Showing posts with label a rural life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label a rural life. Show all posts
Monday, April 4, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
This explains why I forward jokes.
A man and his dog were walking along a road.
The man was enjoying the scenery,
when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead.
He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years.
He wondered where the road was leading them.
After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road.
It looked like fine marble..
At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.
When he was standing before it, he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold.
He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side.
When he was close enough, he called out, 'Excuse me, where are we?'
'This is Heaven, sir,' the man answered.
'Wow! Would you happen to have some water?' the man asked.
'Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up.'
The man gestured, and the gate began to open. 'Can my friend,' gesturing toward his dog, 'come in, too?' the traveler asked.
'I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets.'
The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog.
After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed.
There was no fence.
As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book....
'Excuse me!' he called to the man. 'Do you have any water?'
'Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in.'
'How about my friend here?' the traveler gestured to the dog.
'There should be a bowl by the pump,' said the man.
They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it.
The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog.
When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree.
'What do you call this place?' the traveler asked.
'This is Heaven,' he answered.
'Well, that's confusing,' the traveler said.
'The man down the road said that was Heaven, too.'
'Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That's hell.'
'Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?'
'No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind.'
Soooo. Now you see, sometimes, we wonder why friends keep forwarding stuff to us without writing a word. Maybe this will explain it.
When you are very busy, but still want to keep in touch, guess what you do? You forward emails.
When you have nothing to say, but still want to keep contact, you forward jokes.
A 'forward' lets you know that you are still remembered,you are still important, you are still loved, you are still cared for.
So, next time if you get a 'forward', don't think that you've been sent just another forwarded joke, but that you've been thought of today and your friendon the other end of your computer wanted to send you a smile.
You are welcome at my water bowl anytime !!
A man and his dog were walking along a road.
The man was enjoying the scenery,
when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead.
He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years.
He wondered where the road was leading them.
After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road.
It looked like fine marble..
At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.
When he was standing before it, he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold.
He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side.
When he was close enough, he called out, 'Excuse me, where are we?'
'This is Heaven, sir,' the man answered.
'Wow! Would you happen to have some water?' the man asked.
'Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up.'
The man gestured, and the gate began to open. 'Can my friend,' gesturing toward his dog, 'come in, too?' the traveler asked.
'I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets.'
The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog.
After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed.
There was no fence.
As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book....
'Excuse me!' he called to the man. 'Do you have any water?'
'Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in.'
'How about my friend here?' the traveler gestured to the dog.
'There should be a bowl by the pump,' said the man.
They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it.
The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog.
When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree.
'What do you call this place?' the traveler asked.
'This is Heaven,' he answered.
'Well, that's confusing,' the traveler said.
'The man down the road said that was Heaven, too.'
'Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That's hell.'
'Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?'
'No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind.'
Soooo. Now you see, sometimes, we wonder why friends keep forwarding stuff to us without writing a word. Maybe this will explain it.
When you are very busy, but still want to keep in touch, guess what you do? You forward emails.
When you have nothing to say, but still want to keep contact, you forward jokes.
A 'forward' lets you know that you are still remembered,you are still important, you are still loved, you are still cared for.
So, next time if you get a 'forward', don't think that you've been sent just another forwarded joke, but that you've been thought of today and your friendon the other end of your computer wanted to send you a smile.
You are welcome at my water bowl anytime !!
Monday, February 7, 2011
Verlyn's Latest Op-Ed is a GEM!!
I can't wait to find the books written by Milton Rogovin...
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/06/opinion/06sun4.html?scp=1&sq=verlyn%20klinkenborg&st=Search
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/06/opinion/06sun4.html?scp=1&sq=verlyn%20klinkenborg&st=Search
February 5, 2011
Milton Rogovin
By VERLYN KLINKENBORG
In 1994, I was asked to interview the photographer Milton Rogovin because I’d written a book about the old Polish East Side of Buffalo. Rogovin, who recently died at 101, had spent years photographing Buffalo’s downtrodden Lower West Side. In a way, it was like a visitor to Portland, Ore., talking to a resident of Portland, Me., because they both knew something about Portland.
Rogovin’s photography was all portraiture, mainly of working people and poor street folk. You learn a lot about him by the way his subjects look at the lens. He found an openness in their faces, a directness, that says a great deal about his candor and empathy.
“I like to photograph people with problems,” he told me, and he had an important one in his own life. Rogovin was an optometrist, and committed leftist, who only took up photography in his 40s. In 1957, when he refused to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee, he was vilified in Buffalo, his business nearly destroyed. Suddenly he had time to explore the storefront churches and streets of Buffalo’s Lower West Side.
When I heard that Rogovin had died, I looked again through his two books. “The Forgotten Ones” has a remarkable series called “Working People,” from the late 1970s. He shot black and white portraits of individuals at work and at home — as the job defined them and as they defined themselves. There is something heroic in the difference, in the ability of these people to step away from their labors and become truer versions of themselves.
In “Triptychs,” the subject is time. Rogovin shot three portraits of Lower West Side residents, each taken roughly a decade apart. One by one, his subjects age, their clothes and surroundings alter, but their identities persist. Not everyone he photographed in 1973 was still alive in 1992. It is astonishing how much loss you feel when the third picture in these triptychs is missing. The pathos of that absence says everything about how Rogovin saw the world around him and how clearly he revealed it to us.
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