Sandhill Cranes in the Meadows

                                 

    In the Meadows Community reside at present four, possibly six Sandhill Cranes. The "four" make up one family. Sandhill Cranes have lived in Florida 2.5 million years. The oldest known fossils of these Cranes were discovered by paleontologists in the 1980s at the Macasphalt Shell Pit. There were a number of shell pits in Sarasota and Manatee Counties that today have given way to Nathan Benderson Park, its lake and "world class rowing facility".* The Park is less than a mile west of my "villa" style condo in the Meadows. Sitting in the office  one can observe numerous bird species attracted to the Meadows wetlands; Ibis in groups of three to eight, blue and white herons, limpkins, ducks, anhingas, egrets, wood storks, and occasionally starlings by the hundred. There is the periodic flash across water of a bald eagle, an osprey or the angelic glide of a pelican. Small bird species and alligators are also in residence.
            

     Sandhill Cranes (Grus Canadensis) attain a height of 3 to 5 feet, weigh 6 to 14 pounds with a wing span of 5 to 6 feet. They mate for life and require a wetlands habitat with shrubs and trees. Their chicks walk from the nest within eight hours of hatching able to swim. After nine or ten months the juveniles will leave their parents. They begin to breed at age 7 and have a life expectancy of 20 years. These Cranes are omnivorous - they will eat almost anything; insects, snails, reptiles, amphibians, small birds and mammals, seeds and berries. *
    The presence of various bird species in the Meadows is the result of  some luck and good planning. The 1960s was the period of "urban renewal" in American cities. Much of the renewal resulted in apartment buildings that often became slums; old neighborhoods razed to construct four lane arterials to connect sprawling suburbs; the stores and services of the traditional "downtown" areas decayed or relocated. At about this time urban planners began to focus on "British New Town" designs. The objective of British planners was to enhance "livability" in new and refurbished urban spaces. A "new town" required the incorporation of certain features to whit; open spaces, (parks, nature preserves, a golf course) curving lines are more interesting than straight - so streets and sidewalks should be curved, twisting. "Livability" is enhanced by diversity in the population. Thus housing should be unique in design and mixed in value - single family houses, townhouses, condos and villas. Services (grocery stores, medical facilities) should be readily available and accessible by public transit as well as automobile and in a perfect world, bicycle and walking.
     In the early 1980s, Taylor Woodrow, a British developer began construction on 1,650 acres in northern Sarasota County - the Meadows. As of 2015 this development consists of 700 single family homes ranging from McMansions to the merely expensive. There are also  2,800 condos and villas - all organized into 50 different condo and homeowner associations. Meadows residents number around 7,500 for at least part of the year. There are 14 miles of sidewalks and 17 miles of roadway - all serpentine. Admittedly this has caused some confusion among delivery services and visitors - but then solved with the advent of GPS. The Meadows has 82 ponds. Our resident Sandhill Cranes spend some nights on an island in the middle of a pond next to a fairway. There is also a small nature preserve, a children's playground, and a butterfly garden. There is a "services" village with a bank, two restaurants, one deli, a dental office, travel agency,  masseuse - and a school bus runs through it. Yes, there is a country club with 3 golf courses, (two are now public) 17 tennis courts, a swimming pool, fitness facility and three additional restaurants.
    The British planners got it right - The Meadows is a most comfortable place to live and various bird species agree. On an April morning 2014, I had to dismount my bicycle at a small traffic jam - three cars on Marshfield Street.. A Sandhill Crane has just stepped off the curb and begun a cautious street crossing. A few feet behind another crane, most likely a female, moved slowly into the street. Next came two short, dun colored haystacks with beaks and stick legs. Once safely across the procession proceeded down a cart path and disappeared.. Traffic resumed passing the MCA sign "Caution-Sandhill Cranes".
                           

   
     During the succeeding nine months the two chicks became handsome juveniles. Many residents have seen the family in various locations - always on the move - always eating.  At dusk on occasion one can watch a Crane fly over - legs extended straight back, wings effortlessly propelling them forward, amid noisy honking by the leader of what might be precise directions - they are a splendid life form. When they parade by your window - stopping perhaps to devour a grub - they add immense beauty to life - 2.5 million years and they abide. As I type these words the four have just flown by my window - the leader squawking a blessing.

* "All About Birds" Cornell Lab of Ornithology - on line. International Crane Foundation - on line.
    Southeastern Geological Society; "SMR Aggregates Inc.- Sarasota, FL - on line
     Photos by Wikimedia.org and John Lindell
   
 

What Happened Next? - Incomplete stories

                                                           

   
                                                             Hartwick College

    Most educators would like to know how the lives of their former students (or at least most of them) proceeded. Former students are incomplete stories. It is of course  impossible over decades in education to remember then all but the names and images of a remarkable number do stick, I guess for life. Those in memory are associated with academic performance, some particular event or had a facet of personality that was engaging. I would like to know what came next - how did they play the hand life dealt them.
     There are many former students about whom I know what happened. Wit * for instance was a fine undergraduate - intelligent and conscientious. I remember him sitting in my office explaining how he would deal with a particular project and thinking, "My God but he is organized!" Wit was also an extremely nice guy. In our last meeting at Hartwick College he informed me he had been accepted into a training program with the Small Business Administration. I congratulated him and we parted company. After more than 30 years we reconnected for lunch. At SBA Wit had just retired from a position that gave him responsibility for a hunk of the north eastern seaboard. I met his wife, we reviewed the decades and it was fun. Wit was still the fine person I had known. For me it was most satisfying.
     There are many about whom I know nothing and am enormously interested in discovering - what happened? A few examples: Gerry sent me a note post marked Saudi Arabia during Operation Desert Shield. He informed me that after graduation he had joined the Army and was sent to language school to learn Arabic. Now armed with a liberal arts education and basic Arabic he was assigned to a 101st Airborne unit. There job was to establish roadblocks and Gerry's job was to be one of the first soldiers to board a stopped bus for inspection. Gerry wrote, (paraphrase) "Professor I want you to know that I am sometimes nervous, careful, but I treat EVERYONE on board with GREAT RESPECT!" Knowing Gerry I could not imagine him doing otherwise. But how did his tour end? What did he do next?
     Chris graduated and joined the Peace Corps. After training he was assigned to a nation in West Africa. One day he took time to write me a note, (paraphrase) "Dear Professor John O, - It is hot as hell. I am sitting on the ground in the shade of a hut writing. I have just completed an exhausting morning helping people make mud bricks. How did I get into this situation? I think I hold you partially responsible!"  But what did Chris and his friends do with those mud bricks? What did Chris do after Africa? Keith, another graduate also went to West Africa in the Peace Corps. A reserved young man he had a sense of humor similar to Chris, Keith was assigned to teach sex education. "Observea vous!  "La condom!" I do know that  Keith became a great public school teacher.
     I did not know Taylor well. He was a first year student I selected to participate in my New York City program. He came from a small community on Oneida Lake in central New York State. Taylor was a smart, quiet product of upstate. The program was ten weeks in duration and the twenty-five students were housed in a five story dorm on East 72nd Street owned by the about to be extinct Finch College. This was Taylor's first visit to "The City". It did not take him long to adjust. An afternoon four weeks after arrival I emerged from the Lexington Ave Subway station near our residence. There was Taylor leaning against a nearby wall - his new leathery look suggested the shops of East 8th Street in Greenwich Village and in his ear a silver loop. Taylor was involved in a discussion - providing lengthy subway directions to an upscale couple. I was momentarily shocked by his new found understanding of the NYC subway system and yes, his attire. We nodded as I passed. Clearly New York had launched a refurbished and confident Taylor. At the end of the term Taylor transferred from Hartwick to a college on the west coast with a visual arts program. Two years later a piece of his work was part of an exhibition at Hartwick's Anderson Center for the Arts. Where is Taylor today and what is he doing? Where are those tourists? Are they still trying to find a way out of the subway system?
     Deborah, a black student, intelligent, engaging personality and beautiful - Halle Berryish - she had it all. Shortly after graduation in May I was driving down Dietz Street in Oneonta, N.Y.. On the sidewalk to my right I saw the back of a GI walking along totting a duffel bag. As I drove by I heard "Professor Lindell! Professor Lindell! - Goodbye! Goodbye!" I glimpsed over and saw Deborah in camouflage fatigues, field cap and duffel bag.
     "She's in the ARMY!" I slammed the brakes to avoid a crash - then continued through an intersection. For the rest of my life I shall regret not turning that damn car around, going back and offering her a ride to the bus station. And what came next for Deborah?

* In my classes over the years I referred to students individually as "Mr. surname", "Mrs.", "Miss" and in later years "Ms".
I liked the formality and respect conveyed. Now in pieces that refer to former students I use only first names for privacy reasons. In addition I might use the wrong name. For over 30 years I kept a careful paper record of the performance of each student in every class; test scores, research grades, attendance. For off campus programs there were additional notes for each student - how each performed in the USSR, Japan, New York and a flood disaster research project  in New York State's southern tier. Around 1995, an administrative department at Hartwick College asked to borrow my student file. I agreed. The department took my files, used them and then had the files shredded. I had no duplicates. Some may cheer especially privacy advocates. But if in a past, present or future piece I use a wrong name I have no one to blame but my own naivety, lack of foresight or failing memory.
    

Greenwich Village Education

                   

                             

                                                     Washington Square - Wikimedia

                            I am always ready to learn although I do not always like being taught. Winston
                           Churchill *

    On a Wednesday in late August 1959, I moved from the darkness of the Broadway Central Hotel to a sunny room in Mrs Eller's fifth floor apartment on East Fourth Street. She had a son in 8th grade who would teach me to play chess - trashing me for three months before losing a game. Mrs Eller rented another room to Carl, a struggling NYU law student. Carl would provide me with information about alcoholism that will last a life time.
    The day after unpacking I enrolled in a Master's Degree program in the Department of Government at New York University. Returning to my room I stopped in a Second Ave drug store. On the way out the druggist asked me to give his regards to Mrs Eller, "a good woman". How did he know where I was staying? A most clever and intuitive individual I thought. Next stop was a small restaurant a half  block away.
    "I'd like a fish fry."
    "We don't have it. How about gefilte fish?"
    "Sure, sounds good." I had never heard of gefilte fish. "I'm new in town."
    "I know. You want horseradish with that?"
    Seeking a piece of deep fried haddock with fries drenched in ketchup and a side of slaw. I accepted an Ashkenazi appetizer - poached white fish with horseradish and ice tea.
    As he slid me the bill "Your Mrs Eller's new tenant - right?"
    "How did you know?"
    "Small town" he smiled.
    By November I was on occasion leading four or five foreign graduate students on tours of midtown Manhattan and the Village - Gerdes Folk City on East Fourth; The Five Spot for jazz; Cesare Borgia's and the Commons coffee houses; or the always popular - a bar with loose but expensive women. I would instruct my charges, "we buy one beer at the bar, meet the ladies, get our knees scratched and on my signal we all leave." Only once had I to gently remind a delighted Ethiopian army officer, "We are departing."  Occasionally  a Gray Tour bus would roll by windows full of faces. I would  feel sorry for those on board - they were missing much.
    During my last Master's interview with the Chairman of the Government Department (spring, 1960)  I was offered a graduate assistantship. I declined, returned upstate, married and we started a family. In 1964 I returned to NYU and had my first interview with the new Chairman of the renamed Department of Politics. He spent twenty minutes explaining everything I needed to accomplish in the PhD program or he promised to throw me out. For the next seven years of full and part time graduate work my status was technically a graduate student, but in reality I was mostly the enemy. I jumped through all the hoops; courses, French and Russian language exams, comprehensive written exams (3 of 17 passed), a comprehensive oral exam, ("He's too glib.") and finally the dissertation stage. My adviser Ellsworth Raymond, a Soviet specialist (currently experiencing I trust the eternal beatific vision) was always supportive. But another member of my dissertation committee at an advanced stage of my work demanded a three page abstract, "Exactly what are you doing?"
    I produced an exquisitely drafted three page statement and sent it off to the three committee members. Two members returned the document and gave me permission to proceed. Four weeks passed. I still had not heard from this nemesis. So I sent him another copy. By return mail I received my abstract. He felt that my project was "junk, meaningless, awful!"  I retired to my couch to decide whether hanging or self-immolation should be my next step.
    A few days later the second abstract arrived in the mail. "This looks OK" he wrote. It's improved. Proceed on." It was of course an exact copy of the first. I received my PhD in 1972. My formal education concluded - no sense of accomplishment but remarkable relief. The dissertation remains on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. To this day I cannot touch it without feeling a slight wave of revulsion.
    On a warm evening in the mid 1980s, Ray and I were strolling in the vicinity of  McDougal and Sullivan streets. Ray is a friend of many decades. At the time we were both divorced and courting. Joyce and Patti were walking and chatting in front of us. Ray was attracted by Patti's fine mind and I guess her lush great looks - think Claudia Cardinale or Penelope Cruz. On her shoulders rested a fur wrap. As we moved through the streets it occurred to me that wearing an animal skin in Greenwich Village could be problematic. So I planned - if there was a confrontation with an enraged animal lover Ray could defend her while I took Joyce and went for help.
    Joyce had a regal quality. She wore stylishly classic  fashion - hair long the color of sunlight (her hair dresser was at the Plaza Hotel). She was stunning but so was her model, actress daughter. Joyce also had a son who was Hollywood, leading man handsome. To be brutally frank when I was with the three of them I felt ugly.
    Ray had not made a dinner reservation while I was confident we could find something. The street in front of us became clogged with people and nearly impassable. "Where will we eat?" I did not notice the restaurant "Angelo's" that was attracting a mob. But I did see Joyce and Patti talking with a nattily dressed man. "Lotharios and mashers everywhere!" I  lamented, "Everywhere!" As Ray and I pushed to catch up, the ladies began following this individual - he led them through Angelo's front door and they disappeared. "What about us?" We were also nicely dressed. No one stopped us as we entered passing a fit praetorian type whose name had to be Vinnie. We joined the ladies at a brightly illuminated table with surprising space around us. There we enjoyed a pleasant if average dinner that was followed by an unforgettable bill. The lesson - always have a destination. A few weeks later it was reported that President Reagan dined there.

    * Brainy Quotes - online.

Great Educators

                                                                   

                                           

                                                                Hypatia  370 - 415 CE  - photo universogtp.com
                                                                

     

       
      The education process can be viewed as rather straight forward - individuals learn by doing. Reading, talking, writing, calculating and experimenting will usually lead to higher levels of performance and understanding. The educator's role is to push for increasingly informed activity - seeking most often to counteract the fabricated babble of secular and religious ideologies that range from the pedantic to the murderous. There were several excellent educators in my past, many who were average and a few horrific. But three individuals remain in vivid memory for there efforts in shaping this dolt and changing parts of his life.
     Waldo Chamberlain was in 1959, a Professor in the Department of Government at New York University. Chamberlain had been the Chief Documents Officer at the founding conference of the United Nations in San Francisco in 1945, then Director of Documents before moving to NYU.  I participated in two of his graduate seminars and he was my MA thesis adviser. Chamberlain was a shorter gentleman, who spoke with precision and brevity. He assigned tasks - then students did everything - the research, reporting and discussing. Chamberlain would sit in the seminar and when necessary identify unexamined issues. Personnel from the UN and other IGOs were swelling NYU's  Government Department classes - Egyptians, Nigerians, Ethiopians, Italians, South Koreans, Saudis, Israelis, Chinese (Taiwanese). On occasion we would have guests from UN delegations sit in to listen to research of particular concern to them. Chamberlain treated everyone with great respect. But he also enjoyed requiring students to consider the "other" side. He would assign an Ethiopian to represent Italian interests or an Israeli to research Egyptian problems. The first research paper I prepared for Professor Chamberlain was twenty-two pages plus bibliography. I worked hard on it - I wanted to impress him. One week after submission it was returned and I remember my shock - never had so much red ink been lavished on twenty-five pages. He nailed me for everything from contradictory and weak documentation ("Who's s/he?" - "No primary sources available?") to the use and  abuse of colons, semi colons, commas and periods. Never again would I use the word "interesting". Reworking the paper for resubmission I realized that no past professor or teacher had ever reviewed my work so intensively. Later I wrote Professor Chamberlain a short letter expressing this fact and thanked him. His writing and research lesson was applied by me (with less talent and less effect) to the work of my students over the next forty years.
     Jacob Oser was a Professor of Economics at Utica College of Syracuse University. Oser wrote several books but the title of one conveys the intensity of the man, Must Men Starve?  The book skewered Malthusian theory. Oser was an organized, humorous lecturer. "Hold your AT&T owned phone straight out in front of you. Drop it. Notice what happens. Nothing - they own it! Now hold your GE portable radio out in front of you. Drop it. Notice what happens - trash! What does this tell us?" As fine as Professor Oser was in the classroom, out on the street his influence helped change the direction of my life.
     1962 - The Freedom Riders project sought to desegregate public facilities in the south. Efforts were made up north to raise money and volunteers. I now had a Master's degree in Government and was selling business equipment for IBM. At the office I had a gray, steel desk with a small sign on it that said "Think". My socks were black and long - over the calves. After attending an IBM sales school somewhere in  New Jersey I was back in Utica and working. At 12:45 PM on a sunny day I was preoccupied - walking down Genesee Street carrying a canvas bag containing an IBM Selectric typewriter. My demonstration was scheduled for 1:00 PM. Then "JJJooohhhnnn! John! Over here!" There Professor Oser in a slightly baggy suit and a huge smile was holding a tin cup. "How are you?" Fifty feet away stood a shiny, yellow school bus and emblazoned on the side, "FREEDOM RIDERS". We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries.
     "What are you doing?" he asked. I was ashamed to tell him - but did. He seemed quite pleased. So while Jacob Oser in and out of the classroom was trying to make things better and earn a living, I was just attempting to earn a living. Within two months I had resigned from IBM and secured a teaching contract (for less pay) with the Utica School District. I wanted to be like Jacob Oser.
    Now the more mundane. A powerful learning experience can occur quite abruptly. At age 17, still in high school I joined the US Naval Reserve. A few months later in Brooklyn Navy Yard I boarded a ship for my first training cruise and was assigned to work on the mess deck. The ship was a Cannon Class destroyer escort, the Snyder, DE 745. It carried a crew of 15 officers and 200 enlisted men of which perhaps were 90 were reservists. So with three other sailors I began my training - sweeping crumbs around and smearing steel table tops - I even remember admiring the glossy sheen my rag left behind with every swipe. But someone became displeased, the noncom in charge disappeared and a thickset Second Class Gunner's Mate named Teachout took over. Teachout respected no one and was something of a bully. Rumor was that his demotions were running ahead of promotions and he much enjoyed drinking. His vocabulary was circumscribed but utilizing streams of obscenities Teachout was extremely funny.
     Four of us were standing with him in front of a deep sink. With a smile he said, "Now we are going to begin cleaning the mess deck. First we need hot water and soap!" We watched the mixture of steam and suds bubbling up. He then took my hands in his and plunged them into the cauldron. "Now this is hot!" I yelped and he thought that was hilarious. Next I was on my hands and knees in a corner scrubbing away filth with a tooth brush. The mess deck became a model of cleanliness - but three times a day hordes of sailors would descend those ladders to eat and occasionally vomit - we cleaned again and again. I have not forgotten what constitutes a "clean" mess deck, galley or kitchen. I learned how to clean - "First we need hot water and soap!"

Beginning Russian Literature

                                                 

                                                   
                                               Spasskaya Tower - Fotopedia

     During a tedious moment in a recent "closing" process my banker asked, "I have a son going to college and thinks he is interested in Russia. How should he start, what should he read?" I thought for a couple of minutes, scribbled down a couple of titles and pushed them over to her.
     The Greenwich Village drugstore on the corner of East 8th and 2nd Ave was crowded on a Friday night in 1959. A rotating wire rack was packed with books - I selected Mikhail Sholokhov's And Quiet Flows the Don. In my poorly lit room I began to read. The Cossack Pantaleimon Melekhov has awakened his son Gregor and told him they are going to do some early morning fishing. "But has mother boiled the bait?" - "Yes, go to the boat."
     "Here and there stars were still piercing through the ashen, early morning sky. A wind was blowing from under a bank of cloud. Over the Don a mist was rolling high, piling against the slope of a chalky hill, and crawling into the cliff like a grey, headless serpent. The left bank of the river, the sands, the back waters, stony shoals, the dewy weeds, quivered with the ecstatic, chilly dawn. Beyond the horizon the sun yawned and rose not."
    With that paragraph I joined the Melekhovs in the skiff trying to catch carp - then on to Cossack training encampments where I saddled my horse next to Gregor's  Later in 1914 I rode with the Don Cossacks slashing through Austrian army positions, then attacking reactionary "Whites", flirting with independence becoming "Greens" and finally overwhelmed by the Bolsheviks, the "Reds". Fishing on the Don I became hooked on Russian literature. Over succeeding years Sholokhov wrote two additional books as part of the The Quiet Don series: Harvest on the Don and The Don Flows Home to the Sea. These volumes may be ignored. Sholokhov won a Nobel Prize for Literature in 1965. But as Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev, a former Chairman of the Soviet Union's Politburo and in retirement a literary critic said (paraphrase) "All the drama around Comrade Sholokhov and he only wrote one damn good book!"
     Konstantin Simonov as a youth in Soviet Russia was trained to be a lathe operator. He worked his way through and up the Soviet system and by 1942 was a poet, novelist, war correspondent and senior battalion commissar in the Red Army. His rank meant that Simonov had the power if necessary to override the orders issued by his battalion commander. By 1959 his book The Living and the Dead ** was approved by multiple layers of Soviet censorship and published. The story begins in the Ukraine days before the German invasion of the Soviet Union. Simonov's protagonist, Vanya Sintsov is a company level commissar on leave with his wife at a family gathering. The festivities are interrupted by news of the Nazi invasion and reports of
mechanized units rapidly advancing across Belarus and the Ukraine. Sintsov departs to rejoin his unit last heard to be near the front line. In his search he and comrades are repeatedly encircled and battered by the Germans. In one fire fight Sintsov is knocked unconscious. Unable to remove him from the field of combat a comrade tears the commissar insignia off Sintsov's uniform. The Germans were summarily executing captured commissars. But Red Army regulations stated that any soldier without identification insignia was considered a traitor or coward and subject to immediate execution. For the next 300 pages our hero is desperately fighting the Germans and yet trying to stay away from Soviet NKVD personnel who will also shoot him. At its core The Living and the Dead is about Russian GIs trying to fight and survive The Great Patriotic War.
     I must digress - in 1948 Norman Mailer published The Naked and the Dead, a novel that focused on American GIs fighting the war in the Pacific. It made Mailer a star in the literary firmament. But compared to Simonov's effort, Mailer's book struck me as fatally flawed. Soldiers and sailors often use foul language. Still there is no crude language in either Sholokhov's or Simonov's book - Soviet censors would never permit it. But Mailer was determined to tell it the way it was - almost. His characters when upset or alarmed repeatedly cry "fug this" or perhaps "fug that". Mailer was at a New York cocktail party in the early 1950s and met Marlene Dietrich. Reportedly Ms. Dietrich smiled at him and said "So you are the young man that can't spell fuck."
     Sholokhov and Simonov captured my attention. From there I would slowly move into what the erudite Vladimir Nabokov has described as the ". . . resplendent orb of the nineteenth century." Here we find the heavyweights of Russian literature - Chekhov, Pushkin, Gogol, Dostoevski, Gorki and Tolstoy.
     A strong recommendation, nay a warning - do not start your reading with War and Peace. To read this magnificent work requires preparation (brush up on your French), maturity and time. Early in my college teaching career I was embarrassed that I had not read War and Peace. So I sought to rectify this by purchasing Edmund Fuller's "authoritative abridged" edition and rushed through it. This helped - I was now familiar with some of the characters. Through the years I would also see the short American movie version (Henry Fonda was much too thin to play Pierre Bezukhov, but Audrey Hepburn was Natasha Rostova); the BBC mini series (Anthony Hopkins was outstanding but perhaps a too gentle Bezukhov); and the three hour Soviet movie War and Peace with an advertised cast of 100,000. 
     Three years ago, now a gentle, old pensioner I went to my Barnes and Noble outlet and purchased Tolstoy's War and Peace and in a sun lit room began to read. First, it is hard to imagine that there could be a better translation than Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky's. Second, few things in life live up our expectations - but Tolstoy's tome exceeds them.**** One does not read War and Peace - one participates in a literary adventure. I expect that I shall read it again.

*Mikhail Sholokhov And Quiet Flows the Don (translated by Stephen Gerry) Vintage; 1966.
**Konstantin Simonov The Living and the Dead 1959.
***Vladimir Nabokov Lectures on Russian Literature Harvest Book; 1981.
****Leo Tolstoy War and Peace (translated by Pevear and Volokhonsky) Vintage; 2008.

The Highlands of the Verdant Forest, Costa Rica

                                 

                                               

                                T - White Throated Robin; L - Golden Hooded Tanager
                                                              photos by C. Lindell

    The hood of the CRV was pointed at blue sky as Cathy accelerated up two ruts of a path - pushing over the tall grass between them. After a half mile the road leveled and we bumped along stopping eventually at a barbed wire gate. Three inquisitive "short horn" cattle stood there staring at us. Beyond the gate - a clap board structure reminiscent of an Adirondack camp, with a steel roof and large open porch. We were here just to look - Cathy had decided after our last stay at the station that serious maintenance was required. On this research visit the Las Alturas manager had provided us (Cathy, my granddaughter Madeline and I) with a small guest house at the foot of Chal Mountain in Coton settlement. But the station was still our favorite place. I walked up the four steps - a dove was lying there - it had probably crashed into a window. Peering in I saw the work tables (one painted for table tennis), papers, benches, a couple of chairs. A doorway led to the cocina with its propane stove and refrigerator. The latter was dependent on the generator outside in a collapsing shed - it was run (when its malevolent spirit allowed it to start) from 5:00 to 7:00 PM for evening lighting. The refrigerator chilled for two hours was most useful for simply storing food. 
     Who needs lights when one has candles and flashlights? Standing on the porch at night one is under a spectacular starry dome. Alternately it might be almost perfectly black - on one such a night I stepped (fell) off the porch. Biologists also retire and rise early. They can read and make notes in day light.
    Another doorway led back to a bunk room that could sleep twenty. Two additional doorways led to rooms sleeping two or three guests - reserved for program leaders and/or individuals with children. The final doorway led to the flush toilet and cold water shower. Water arrived via gravity and a plastic pipe from a mountain spring a quarter mile away.
    I enjoyed my stays at the research station so much that I would fantasize about residing there for two or three month periods. Professor Lindell would lead her graduate students off at 5:30 AM and I would have this glorious station - Las Alturas del Bosques Verde - "the highlands of the verdant forest" all to myself. Mornings after fresh, strong coffee I would refurbish the station by undertaking complicated and grueling tasks requiring all the self taught skills I had amassed in carpentry, plumbing, mechanics. Pausing at noon I would prepare myself a huge plate of Gallo Pinto* to be washed down with lemonade. There are three lemon trees one hundred yards from the station producing the most pungent and delicious lemons. In the afternoon I would reread the writing of the great E.O. Wilson, or works focused on Costa Rica and Central America or perhaps start translating a Russian literary classic from the original. A sweet life.
     Las Alturas (www.LasAlturas.com) is a privately owned 25,000 acres on the Pacific slope of the Talamanica Mountains. It abuts a national park - Amistad International Biosphere. Las Alturas was acquired in 2000 by Addison Fischer, an information technology venture capitalist and absolutely determined conservationist. The World Wild Life Fund has designated Las Alturas as a member of the Global 200 - one of the (238) most valuable eco regions on earth for conserving the world's bio diversity.** Sixty per cent of the Las Alturas area remains virgin rain forest and Fischer has restricted the once thriving sawmill to noncommercial activity. It is located approximately 25 kilometers from San Vito in southern Costa Rica.  To get there one drives a 4WD vehicle approximately 10 kilometers to the northeast. The next 15 K follows a well maintained gravel road as it twists between and over hills, passes through three gates and finally arrives at the settlement of Las Alturas. Since it sits on the banks of the Coton River the village's 140 residents call their settlement Coton.
    The principal activities in the remaining 40% of the Las Alturas tract involve cattle and dairy ranching, maintenance of facilities, roads and equipment and going to school. (The population has 40 school age children.) This area includes abandoned coffee fields and secondary forest growth. Coton settlement contains a machinery shed (providing a roof for a pair of graders, a twelve wheeler and smaller vehicles) a repair shop, school, general store, a mess hall - La Fonda, soda bar, cinema hall, administration/counseling center and a comisariatto - militia. The settlement's generator runs every evening from 5:00 to 9:00 PM to power the amenities.
    There are three separate, rustic jail cells (somewhat larger than telephone booths) on the edge of the settlement. Here an inebriated  citizen will be allowed to dry out.  In addition to maintaining order in Coton militia patrols are sent out on trails throughout the area to combat an unrelenting problem - poaching of flora and fauna.  On a particular morning I observed a patrol leaving that consisted of five armed horsemen, two with assault rifles and two German Shepherds. But apprehending poachers does not solve the problem. Local courts penalize poachers lightly or not at all. So local legend suggests that to "hurt" poachers their dogs are shot. 
     Before leaving the station I made a quick incursion into the rain forest. Hiking a half mile on an overgrown trail I tried to find my tree - the first tree I ever hugged - a tropical mahogany (I think) perhaps 25 feet in diameter and well over 100 feet tall. Unsuccessful - it remained hidden from me amid other giants and dense growth. But it also remains safe from chainsaws.
    We piled into the CRV leaving a kind of desolate research station behind and started down the mountain. Rats had driven us out. They had found a way into the station and were a problem at night. (Now I am not talking about the Norwegian rats found in horror films. These were handsome little rodents with cute protruding ears.) One night Cathy sleeping in a family room snapped on her flashlight and saw a rat hanging by one paw from a rafter. The rat froze swinging in the light. Cathy, always the biologist, "My how athletic!" He then dropped on her bunk.

* Gallo Pinto: 3 cups rice, 2 cups black beans; to taste - chopped onion; garlic; coriander; red hot sauce; Worcester sauce; 
                    crumbled bacon optional.
** Olsen & Dinerstein 2002
See -  www.LasAlturas.com

The Critical Path

                                                           

   
                                 Critical Path en route to Isla Mujeres, Mexico
                                                                  2005


    Critical Path is a Beneteau Sailing Yacht, 50 feet in length and owned by Bill Dooley of Sarasota, Florida (see Dooley Mac Construction). Dooley frequently races the boat and in 2003, with a crew of nine competed in the Pineapple Cup Montego Bay Race. Roger Marquis my brother-in-law (and qualified to captain up to 100 tons) and I flew into Montego Bay on February 14th to meet the boat. We were part of the return crew of six taking the boat back to Sarasota. The Pineapple Cup winner that year was Zephyrus V, covering the course from Miami in 2 days, 23 hours, 5 minutes and 57 seconds. With sail troubles Critical Path required five days and a few hours. Dan Sagan, an architect and exceptionally talented sailor, was the navigator for the racing crew and now captain for the return. The cruise was to be a casual ten days with a stop in Cayo Largo, a wannabe socialist resort off southern Cuba.
     I would prepare the shipboard meals. Call me "Cookie".
     In a cramped Montego Bay grocery store I purchased some provisions for the cruise. Standing in front of a counter examining freshly slashed meat I heard someone say, "Those are the finest steaks in . . . " I never heard the last word - it could have been in the "universe" or "Jamaica" or "this meat box". But I thought the best and purchased six steaks.
     For cooking on boats I have three general rules: (1) Wash hands frequently - the crew likes to see that - find it reassuring. (2) Have an abundant supply of orange juice, lemons, limes and cabbage - I have read the Patrick O'Brian novels about the British Navy during the Napoleonic Wars. There will be no scurvy on boats in which I cook. (3) The mess deck should be spotlessly clean between meals.
    Breakfasts and lunches are simple to prepare. The race crew cook knew what he was doing - one food locker was full of left over, packaged muffins, rolls, doughnuts and crackers. The refrigerator contained a few pounds of cold cuts and eggs. So "breakfast" sandwiches were served in the AM, (Captain Sagan liked to make the coffee) and more sandwiches with chips and pickles at noon. The cocktail hour was a challenge - serving food with drinks is an absolute necessity - so having a variety of  hors d'oeuvres tests one's creativity. Still I did not serve my favorite appetizer - mushrooms stuffed with smoked oysters. A beautiful woman had given me the recipe for "Seduction Mushrooms" years ago. But I feared their destructive moral impact on six lonely men  slowly voyaging in the Caribbean. (Recipe below*) Dinner might be freshly prepared - on this and other cruises my favorites include baked turkey breast with stuffing and cranberries; sausage and peppers; sausage, chicken and peppers; pasta with anything; Cowboy beans and every one's default dish, chili. Other dinners come directly from the frozen food locker.
    The night before entering Cuban waters I strapped myself in front of the gimbaled stove and fried the steaks. I served them with a fresh pasta salad and Kaiser rolls. My steak was delicious if a tad chewy. But I mislead - in truth the steaks were tougher than Kevlar or even fillets of Superman. The crew however was forgiving and rumors of retaliatory punishment greatly exaggerated.
     We sailed into the harbor at Cayo Largo flying the flags of the Conch Republic (aka Key West) and the United States. Cuban authorities took no chances with this American crew - over our three day visit representatives of nine government agencies examined us, our papers and the boat. Unsatisfied with the efforts of one drug sniffing dog they came back the following morning with a different dog - same result, no illegal drugs. We ate ashore frequently. I remember a lobster the size and consistency of a small tractor tire. Dave, a member of our crew was mugged visiting a bar one evening. He escaped by jumping into an unattended minibus and driving away. Stopped by Cuban police he was returned to the Critical Path with facial cuts and lacerations. The next morning detectives came aboard, chatted amiably with our victim and then departed. Shortly there after we loosed our lines and our visit to this lovely vacation paradise near the bottom of Cuba - a hideaway for errant tourists, apparatchiks and commissars ended. Critical Path eased away from Cayo Largo and back into the Caribbean.
    Twenty miles off Boca Grande Florida, in darkness and a squall Critical Path was sliding through a choppy sea. Strapped in I had just checked a large pan of baked lasagna - now bubbling along the edges. At that instant Critical Path connected with a shoal and the hull struck bottom with a thud. This was followed by a cascade of seawater down the ladder from the cockpit. I was deeply troubled about the lasagna possibly spilling and messing the oven - potentially a miserable clean up job. I turned off and secured the stove. Another thud - the boat's engine was operating at maximum rpm and screaming. The fear was that the hull would crack open. Another thud - Sagan hollered down to Dave at the chart table, "Send out a Mayday!"  Dave fresh from service on a nuclear submarine asked him to repeat that and Sagan did. "Send out a Mayday!" Critical Path then transmitted a distress message that the Coast Guard and US Tow received. My first Mayday - it lead me to think less of lasagna and more about myself. I sized up an additional exit through a hatch above the salon. For about forty-five minutes in rain and darkness Critical Path crabbed about on a shoal seeking deep water - and finally the boat righted itself - maybe ascending to heaven feels like this - the problem was over. At about the same moment a boat from US Tow arrived. Having sustained damage to the rudder and props we were guided to a safe anchorage near Boca Grande. At 9:30 that night I served a dinner of baked lasagna, a loaf of seawater flavored bread and the last two bottles from the boat's wine locker - chardonnay. It was a superior meal enjoyed by all.

*Seduction Mushrooms: fresh mushrooms with stems removed; sauté in butter; stuff with smoked oysters; cover with sauce composed of horseradish, mayonnaise and Tabasco sauce; broil a couple of minutes at 400 degrees. Serve with iced vodka.