Stuff

I saw this in the maples behind the house today. I probably need to do something with it. Anyone want to play with a piñata? I know, maybe I could use it as a party game for I’m No Angel’s upcoming 40th birthday party on August 20th. I’m sure that if I hold such a party, it’d be like busting open a hornet’s nest.

Goodbye Ingmar Bergman

It was with sadness that I read about Ingmar Bergman’s death. The Seventh Seal is one of my all time favorite movies. The symbolism is rich as he attempts to figure out the meaning of life in the midst of tragedy. A knight returning from the crusades comes home to Sweden to find his country ravaged by the Black Plague. Stopping along the coast, he meets Death and tries to buy some time with a chess match as he continues his search. The knight is desperate to find meaning to life. He goes into a church, wanting to confess, but finds his heart cold. On another occasion, he asks to speak to a condemned witch, figuring if she can introduce him to the Devil, he’ll be able to ask about God. The condemned woman tells him to look into her eyes, for her accusers have testified that they’ve seen the Devil in them. He does, but replies, “I only see terror, nothing else.” Throughout the film, representatives of Mary and Joseph and a child are seen, first as troubadours. Toward the end of the movie, with the Knight stalling Death with his moves on the chess board, he allows Mary and Joseph and the child escape. The Knight finally makes it home, but all are dead. This is probably not the most uplifting movie you’ll see, but one rich with symbols.

My favorite line in the movie is by Jon, the Squire, who gets drunk when the knight is in the church and tells a townsman, “Our crusade was so stupid only an idealist could have thought it up.” Certainly the Knight was an idealist; the Squire was only looking out for himself. The film came out in 1957, a good year for movies (Bridge Over the River Kwai), for classic cars (’57 Chevy and Thunderbird) and for births (Me).

Don’t say you had a shitty day unless this happened to you…

I went out of town today for the funeral of the wife of a colleague. Coming back on the freeway (this tells you how far out of town I had to go for the county I live in doesn’t have a single mile of interstate), I got in a traffic jam due to an accident. They kept stopping traffic as they brought in dirt and tried to clean the road, sending us all to one side. When I passed the accident site, I was wondering if the asphalt had burned in the accident or if an asphalt truck had dropped part of its load for there was black stuff across the road. Then, as I got to the spot, the stench became unbearable. And on the side was a totally mashed up car and a truck hauling manure sludge. I thought being hit by a bus after a dentist appointment was bad, but that driver truly experienced a shitty day.

Sheepherder's Bathtub: A Sunday Scribbling

Today’s Sunday Scribbling prompt is “Phenomenon.” A phenomenon is something that can be observed—a meteor, a hot spring and the scent of sage falls into this category. But I don’t think the ways of a human heart is a phenomenon. We don’t know what goes on inside. This is the first of a series of posts I hope to get around to writing, featuring my favorite hot springs… This hot spring is called the Sheepherder’s Bathtub; however, I never saw any sheep in the area even though there are plenty of sheep in the hills and mountains around this valley, up where the grass grows in abundance. Although I have many slides from my time in Idaho, but don’t have any of them copied digitally. I took the picture of the sheep several weeks ago when I was in Utah.
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It was just a hole in the ground nestled within some aspen and pines on the edge of a broad valley covered mostly with sage. You couldn’t even tell where it was unless you were right on it. The only sign that there was something special about this place was a pull off from the highway, just large enough for a few cars to park, and a dirt path that ran through the sage to a place the locals called the Sheepherder’s Bathtub. As hot springs go it wasn’t much, twenty, maybe thirty feet in diameter and three or so feet deep, but filled with very warm water with just a hint of sulfur. I learned about it from a local, the first summer I directed a nearby camp. And for two summers, the spring served as my own private retreat. I never saw another soul there except for those I invited. Summer twilight last late into the night in Central Idaho and I’d often head to the tub around 10 PM, just as light began to fade in the valley. For an hour or so I’d lay in the 100 degree water, the back of my head resting on rocks, watching the summer stars emerge as I soaked my troubles away.

I visited the tub one last time the end of August 1990. It had been raining for nearly a week, which brought out the scent of sage. Rachel’s sister, with whom I’d enjoyed a whirlwind romance that summer, was with me. We soaked in nature’s own hot water and talked till midnight, observing the movement of the stars and watching for meteors. In the high mountains, far from city lights, meteors are more vivid. Each time one streaked across the sky, we’d make a wish. I don’t know what she wished for. You can’t tell what you wish for, or it won’t come true, or so some say. Looking back, it didn’t matter. I kept my wishes a secret and they still didn’t come true.

The next afternoon we hugged in the camp’s parking lot and then got into our cars and drove off. I stopped after crossing the plank bridge over a fork of the Wood River to walk back and lock the gate, my last responsibility for the summer. Leah kept going; we never saw each other again. I think it was C. S. Lewis who said we’ll spend a good part of eternity thanking God for prayers not answered. Maybe so, but at the moment you realize a dream is lost, you feel as chilled as I did in the breeze the evening before. Prune-liked and water-logged when we finally crawled out of the warm water, we were quickly cooled by the wind and the night air and held each other close for warmth as we walked through the sage and back to the car.

A Photo Journey (and the answer to yesterday's quiz)

The answer to yesterday’s quiz: (Ludington, MI)

A day was spent on the beach, which include a walk to the Big Sable Lighthouse.
And since it was open and you could climb it, up I went.
This is the view from the top of the lighthouse, looking north toward the Nordhouse Dunes Wilderness Area.
Another day was spent on the Pere Marquette River. This obstacle had to be portaged—it’s an electrical barrier that shocks fish to keep sea lamprey from spawning. These fish have come in through the Wellington Canal and have created problems for native species. The fishing wasn’t very good; this small brown trout was one of two fish I caught.
But the real treat was seeing three bald eagles including this one.

Coming home on a section of highway cleaned by the Michigan Paranormal Society, I couldn't help but wonder if they put a hex on litters...

Back home, again!

Okay, I've been gone a couple nights. I even left my laptop at home (only to find that the B&B had wireless...). Anyway, here are two shots. The lighthouse was taken yesterday. The river photo was taken today. Any ideas where?
By the way, just in case you're curious, I'll be gone another week in August.

Wicked Seductions: A Sunday Scribbling along with an update

Photo of Cedar Creek.

I know I’m two days late for Sunday Scribblings, but I have good excuses. I’ve been busy. This past week’s Sunday Scribbling prompt was “wicked,” and I’d had many ideas as it’s such a playful word and some folks say it’s a field I have experience in. I wrote this piece this morning, after my little adventure last night. My parents left yesterday morning and last night I fixed a Dutch oven dinner for a board that I sit on. We ate at the park down by the river and after everything was cleaned up, the water was just too enticing. I took out my flyrod and put on Tevas (sandals that can get wet—I was already wearing shorts) and heading into the water for a little relaxation. I caught five fish in about 15 minutes, three of them from the same hole, as I describe below.

Wicked Seductions

The sun had dropped out of the sky and darkness was descending upon the river when I spied a long parallel to the other bank. “One more hole,” I thought, “then I’ll pack it in.” As I moved into the middle of the channel, onto the sandbar covered with grass that waved in the current, I made a few casts to keep my line in front of me. The hole next to the log was protected by a number of low branches. I ruled out a direct onslaught. Keeping my pole parallel to the water, I made a sidearm cast. Feeding the line out, it unfurled under the branches, the leader dropping the fly just inches from the log. The water swirled and I yanked the rod to set the hook. The fish attempted to run under the log, then swam into the current. A smallmouth, she wasn’t even close to being legal, too small to give a good fight. I let her go and repeated the cast again, this time dropping the fly upstream a few feet above the point I’d hooked the first fish. As the fly drifted over the hole, the water again swirled and I gave a light yank. Three fish later, I called it a night and waded back upstream toward my truck. All three were too small and I let ‘em all go, but the thought of a perfectly wicked cast, enticing ‘em with a fatal dinner then granting a pardon was satisfaction enough.
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I should say a bit about fishing with my dad on Saturday night. We started late in the afternoon on at the lower end of Thornapple Lake, a spot known for Northern Pike. We didn’t find any Pike, but we continued on down the river to McKenow’s Bridge. At the confluence with Cedar Creek, we got out of the boat and fished with fly rods, each catching four or five bass in about 100 yards of river. In all, we caught a good mess of fish, but all the Smallmouths were too small. But we did get some large rock bass and it was fun watching my father having a good time fishing with a fly rod, something he seldom gets an opportunity to do.