Dulce's Visit

                                                       -   Dulce's Flower and Chloe

                                                           Dulce's Home

                                          

                                                        Top - Ana;  Dulce, Swede

       Our duplex has a horseshoe shaped driveway with two drives that connect with the county road. A power pole occupies a small area where the left drive ends. The space around the pole was Dulce's. Every morning around 8:30 our neighbor Ruth an accomplished person and retired florist, would open her door  to allow Dulce out for her morning relief walk. Dulce a brownish, Cocker/Springer Spaniel was resolute, looking neither left nor right would quick-step up the right driveway to the road. There she made a sharp turn right and traversed the remaining 40 yards carefully staying along the road's edge. Arriving at the pole she would sniff about, quickly wiz, move her bowels, then sniff again. Refreshed, her toilet complete Dulce resumed a kennel club posture and proceeded down the drive's left side, around the "U" and up the walk to Ruth's open front door. 

Dulce was always cool towards me - but she loved my dog Swede, a Great Pyrenees/Husky mix. If Swede was in the front yard Dulce would charge at him, stop and then jog away expecting him to follow. (Honesty forces me to note that she was something of a tart.) If he did not she repeated the exercise. Swede usually followed after the second display. Together they would happily run off toward the pond, into the trees and abandoned pastures. They would return within an hour occasionally muddy, stinking or both. Once they proudly jogged toward the house with Swede's jaws clutching a deceased woodchuck. He saw me dropped the corpse and came running. Dulce stopped, clamped on to the woodchuck and brought it home to a surprised Ruth. "DULCE - GET OUT!!!  Dulce died in 2005 from complications  associated with 13 years of age.. Ruth a wonderful person died at age 92 in 2009. 

Late in August 2020 I walked out the driveway and passing the power pole noticed that a yellow flower had blossomed. It appeared to be some variety of a Daylilly but my research was inconclusive and incompetent. Wind, rain, a bird, a human or an auto had deposited a seed in Dulce's special place and a flower blossomed. So What? As my 6th grade daughter Liz once said after I tried explaining to her about life, death and quantum mechanics, "Well, that's not very satisfying". 

So I wish to believe that Ruth recently opened a cosmic portal and out marched sweet Dulce determined to check on her former home. She arrived and looked for Swede (but he would be waiting for me at the Elysian Ridge). Dulce walked the property, drank from the pond, sniffed among the trees, ran and played predator in the fields. Two grazing rabbits ignored her. Before returning to Ruth she proceeded back to the power pole area. Now at some earlier point Dulce playing in Ruth's celestial garden had ingested some seeds. The stuff Dulce now deposited at the pole was of course ethereal matter dissipating before even touching down.  But one seed survived the process and plunked down on warm, moist earth. The result was a perfect yellow flower and warm memories for me. (For further explanation consult a physicist).

An Obit for Ray

                                             

                                                    Delaware River
      Pushing between bodies, amid smoke and loud chatter I eased into the kitchen. There wife Annette, her friend Hedy and the priest were pressed together in intense conversation, their twitching hands grasping glasses of Ray's punch.  Across the room he was charging another batch.
     "Do you have a recipe for this" I almost yelled.
     Ray, a bottle in each hand was pouring vodka and brandy into a brindled ceramic punch bowl. Four empty liquor bottles stood nearby. From the freezer he extracted a half gallon of ice cream and dumped it into the brew. "A recipe? Not exactly." But Ray was always an excellent host. It was October 1966.
     Ray Schillmoeller became a national sales representative for TRW and did well. He had an office in Manhattan provided by one of his clients, J.C. Penny and a house in Closter, N.J. Ray's wife Roberta Griffith, was a Professor at Hartwick College and creative artist specializing in ceramics. She had a house in Otego, N.Y. Together they raised two intelligent, handsome sons, David and Mark. For almost two decades Ray worked out of Manhattan and spent weekends in Otego.
     In the mid 1970s he introduced me to jogging. Our first race was around a block in Closter. He wore state of the art running shoes - I ran in black wingtips. For the next fifteen years we frequently jogged on weekends in the hills along the Susquehanna River or occasionally on the Palisades overlooking the Hudson. We gossiped about careers, acquaintances, women, politics and recipes. There were two heated discussions I remember over the proper preparation and presentation of "steak au poivre" and Chicken Tetrazzini. During these years Ray would also compete in two New York City Marathons.
     Schillmoeller was raised in Detroit (he once made a zip gun for his self-defense) and now labored in a tremendously competitive industry. At one extreme he was abrasive, sarcastic, tough - at the other engaging, empathetic and very funny. In 1975 I had 25 Hartwick students in New York City for a ten week term. I invited Ray over one evening to lead a seminar session. His opening remarks were provocative, humorous and sexist. Three women in the group were offended and glared at him. Aware that he had lost three of his audience he jumped up and moved in their direction dragging a folding chair. Ignoring the other 23 of us he sat down face to face with the offended three. Quietly he began to talk to them - we could not hear what was said. But I watched as the faces of three strong, young women softened, smiled and finally laughing. Ray then popped up, returned to his former location and proceeded to inform and entertain the group for two hours. Ray had a talent.
     Years later we were both divorced and occasionally "double dated". For a brief period we were involved socially with two lovely psychiatrists - or perhaps we were simply unwitting research subjects in a study of errant, narcissistic, middle aged men.
     Ray would leave high tech sales, semi-retire and then reemerge as a "chef". One of his first jobs was in an assisted living facility in New Jersey. He promptly began the practice of circulating among the residents asking "Charlie, what do you want for breakfast?" "Ruth, what would you like for lunch?" Within the limits of time and resources he would then prepare as many "to order" meals as possible.  Ray was summoned to the Director's Office and told to stop the practice. "What the hell do you think this place is - a restaurant?" Some years later when told he should consider entering an assisted living facility he less than politely declined.
     During the fourth week of July, 2018, Ray died in his house located on a wooded bank about 100 yards above the Delaware River. I wish to believe that Ray then immediately hooked up with his two long-gone dogs, Tuffi, a gentle German Shepard and a dark colored, sofa loving Akita. At this moment the dogs are happily sitting close to Ray waiting as he meticulously prepares for them gourmet dinners.

Cartographic Thoughts

 
                                                           

                                         

   The cartography section of Professor Sydney MacFarland's undergraduate course required the creation of a map. After instruction each student was given access to rudimentary instruments, a tall, portable table and a folded sheet of paper.  Our assignment was to map a single square block of Utica's Oneida Square. By the time I turned a second corner my projection was "off the chart". Oh well - I pushed on, taping additional pages to the original sheet. My final submission resembled a large, lumpy tarp - it was not a success. But I did retain a long-term interest in maps.
    My collection is small (75 or so pieces) and unpretentious. It includes for instance the 12 maps of the Royal Commission on Local Government in Greater London 1957-1960. If you Google "London Metro area maps" - with a single click access is acquired to over 100 representations. In addition to maps of metro areas; Baku, Berlin, Moscow, Vienna, others, I have subway maps - Boston, Moscow, Tokyo and of course London. The most influential was the London Tube Underground map created in 1931 by Harry Beck. Examine a Paris subway map - on one side the system utilizing Beck's model - turn over and there is a more distance and curve accurate representation. Beck's provides the user with "elegance, simplicity, order". * It has been emulated by subway maps around the world. But ultimately my map collection is just "stuff"- but for me it is "thought provoking stuff".
    Paris, a magnificent city and state of mind. Looking at a map I see the Av des Champs-Elysees. Walking west on a sunny afternoon I glanced into a shop and saw a rather striking, black-haired woman attired in silver slacks, dark belt and loose, white blouse. I continued walking - for 100 feet then abruptly reversed direction to have another glimpse. There she was - curious she lifted her head, embarrassed my head sank - I turned and walked away, but she remains etched in memory.
    Near the Metro Station Luxembourg.  A busy Friday evening, hotels full - but I secure a challenging room. The door was plywood cut to almost fit the opening, no door knob but a lock, the dull glow of a single light bulb. I slept there one night awakening occasionally to the sounds of inebriated citizens mumbling and whizzing outside my window.
    Cathedral Notre Dame. Two British ladies stop me and speaking "Frenclish" asked for directions. I responded in English. One shouted, "Oh thank God! He's an American!"
    London, legendary for courage, finance and friendliness. Near the Imperial War Museum a gentleman in suit and tie took my picture. Smiling he then approached and offered to develop the photo and mail it to me for $10.00. I thought he was joking. After 15 minutes of stimulating conversation he convinced me that he was wonderfully articulate and extremely interesting. I did not pay him - but I wanted to.
    Victoria Station. Waiting for a train I sat down at a table with a beer and sandwich. A man in a sports jacket, tie came over and uninvited sat down. With a broad grin he commenced a conversation. "What's your name?" A pause, "what do you do?"
    "Joe" I replied. "I am a welder from St. Louis. What's yours?"
    "Winston" he responded.  This introduction was followed by a solid half hour of deeply informed and absorbing conversation none of which I remember. At no time did talk of any possible "business" opportunity intrude. I had to depart and rising broke the spell. I wanted to ask my new friend, "Winston, what the hell was this all about - what were you after?" But I did not and shall never know.
    There are more maps of other cities and . . .

    *Daily Mail online 5/8/2010.
 

Go Maribor !

                                                     

                                            Maribor - Mother of Mercy Basilica

    Tuesday, August 22nd, 2017. Slovenia's finest soccer team, NK Maribor played Hapoel Beer-Sheva (Israel) in a UEFA Champion's League event. The winner would advance to Group Play against some of the world's greatest teams. Maribor (not to be confused with Marienbad, the Czech resort town) has a population of 95,000 and is at the heart and core of the nation's soccer. The Republic of Slovenia's total population is 2,000,000 (and should not to be confused with the Slovak Republic).

    The first "leg" of the series was won by Beer-Sheva 1 - 0.  In the second game Maribor scored first, Beer-Sheva matched it, and Maribor scored again - the aggregate score in the second half was 2 - 2. Play was furious. Beer-Sheva players were a red blur swarming the Maribor blue defense and goalie. Then a "header" streaking toward the far post - the frantic goalie is air born, horizontal to earth, stretching left . . . 

     Saturday in November, 1977. Annette and I rented a car and proceeded south on the three hour drive from Vienna to Yugoslavia. Early afternoon we crossed the Yugoslav border (that ceased to exist in 1991) into the province of Slovenia and arrived in Maribor. The city appeared tired, used, medieval and swathed in various hues of Soviet brown. We checked into the central hotel  and went for a stroll - finally ending at the hotel bar waiting for a dinner table. The bar filled with soldiers, smoke and chatter - the hot spot on a Saturday night. To my right two young Army noncoms, seriously discussing life, drinking draft beer, dining on a mountain of French fries and well-done meat. As we left I bought them a couple of beers. No smile but a "Thannnk youuu."

     We drifted into a nearby park. The evening was dark, the temperature mild, the air scented by grilled chestnuts. The occasional street light cast a yellowish "I am about to burn out" glow. Family groups squeezed around individual soldiers on park benches. Soldiers and girls sat close together sometimes holding hands. Families meandered over cobbled walks and cracked cement with children dangling from many hands.

    The next morning we went to church. I rarely attend church but when I do I prefer a church being harassed by state authorities. To my complete surprise the church we attended was wall to wall with worshipers all inhaling clouds of incense. Happily there were also souvenir tables available in the back where I purchased for my devout mother a pair of rosaries.

     . . .  his fingers scratching the side of the ball enough to slightly alter its flight away from the net to out of bounds. Beer-Sheva's corner kick fails to produce a goal - time expires - part of the crowd becomes euphoric - aggregate score is 2 - 2, which means of course that on the basis of "away goals scored" Maribor wins !  NK Maribor will next face Sparta Moskva (Russia), Sevilla (Spain) and Liverpool (England).

Bazilike - Matere Usmiljinja - Wikimedia.

    

Seafaring Moods

                                                 

                                       

                                                   

                                       

     "Queasy" is the best word to describe it - the emotion experienced when thinking about Ensign Kevin Burns, a grandson in a submarine underway and engaged in servicing a nuclear system. The Oklahoma City, SNN 723, has been in south Pacific seas training with ships of the Australian Navy - now as the predator, then the prey. Mentally, emotionally I am with that "boat" much of the time.
     Soothing the angst I remember a visit to another Los Angeles class submarine, the Newport News around 2000. Of the select spaces we were permitted to inspect was of course the galley. There four civilians chatted with four sailors amidst the aroma of  cookies fresh from an oven. These submarine sailors (and three others I met aboard) were articulate, smart and professional. They are the kind of people that Kevin is working with now. The memory of these conversations and the cookies reassure. Moods follow food.
     Hand shaking my shoulder - "Watch in 30 minutes! Go to the mess deck." A training cruise, I was 18. Dressing quickly - I passed through a dim, red lit passageway and dropped down a ladder into a dimly lit Destroyer Escort mess deck. There galley crew were passing out to those on midnight watch a sandwich - fresh, warm bread enclosing thick slices of Spam, slathered with yellow mustard and a cup of steaming, black coffee. That snack rushed me up to an edge - from midnight till 4:00 AM that DE had the most alert, far sighted, stern lookout in US naval history. Today, when thinking about that splendid sandwich and coffee I spring to a heightened vigilance and scan the Florida horizon for alien vessels.
     On the other hand - another cruise - another DE - having just completed a 4:00 to 8:00 AM  watch and exhausted, I dropped down the ladder into a noisy, crowded mess deck. On a steel tray I collected breakfast; beans, franks and two hard boiled eggs. In the ship's vernacular, "rat turds, dog turds and a pair of knockers". Finding a place to sit I glanced up just in time to watch a sailor with a tear in his jeans ascend the ladder - his ass crack flashed back and forth with every step up. My gaze returned to my tray and spoon. Words suddenly began pounding on the back of my head.
     "Get UP! Get your ass out of here! Now! Are you deaf?"
     I turned my head and considered an angry petty officer's face just inches away. He continued hollering as I was rising to address him. Then I was screaming at him - using "fuck" as noun, verb and direct object - threatening phrases, "your teeth in your hands" and "your nuts in a knot". He backed away to a bulkhead and slumped down into a semi-crouch. I paused, sensed a silence, then returned to my tray. The buzz on the mess deck revived back up. The sailor across from me looked sad, "you can't do that" and scooped up some beans.
     More screaming. "Stand up sailor!" I kind of jumped up and faced a Chief - almost - he was half my height. Again the mess deck was quiet.
    "You looking for a fight boy?"  -  "No Chief."
    "You pretty good with your hands?"  -  "No Chief."
    "You want to fight me?"  -  "No Chief."
    Disgusted he looked me over, up and down, turned and stormed out a hatch, almost without ducking, Again the mess chatter revived.
    As I sat down the sailor on the left, "Probably means a Captain's Mast." My sad eyed friend nodded in agreement and kept on eating. I skipped breakfast that morning. My flirtation with a mutiny did not result in a disciplinary hearing. Three decades would pass before my next meal of beans and franks. But now I have a deep affection for the sight, smell and taste of sugar cookies.
     US Navy photo: SNN 723 Breaching - by Fabio Pena.
     US Navy photo: SNN 723 - Chris Oxley.

The "Town" of Oneonta

                                          Susquehanna Valley, Oneonta from Hartwick College
      Oneonta, New York, with 14,000 residents is much larger that Thornton Wilder's "Grover's Corners", Vermont. But it has a river coursing through reminiscent of Meredith Wilson's "River City", Iowa and William Inge's Kansas town, the setting for "Picnic". The "town" has two distinguished colleges;  Hartwick and SUNY Oneonta. It also has two descriptive appellations; "The City of the Hills" and a terminal sounding epithet, "Life Enjoyed". It remains a "town" because the resident population has not increased since 1950, and the fictions, myths needed to bind together vast populations in cities, nations are deluded in smaller population centers. Living in a "town" we see individuals more clearly, relate to them better (or perhaps worse) but with less distortion created by the patinas of myth. Clips of life in Oneonta over nearly four decades illustrates the point, perhaps.
      Raised 50 miles north of Oneonta I still had no idea of its location. For a job interview in 1966, I followed a map from Utica to Cooperstown and then into Oneonta. Soon on a hill in front of Hartwick's Bresee Hall I absorbed for the first time the wonderful view of the Susquehanna River Valley.
     My introduction to the people of Oneonta occurred on a crisp Halloween night that same year. My wife Annette, two daughters and I had been living in town for just two months. We went downtown where half the population was parading in the center of Main Street, the other half lining the sidewalks watching. Happy, noisy, costumed children everywhere. I had felt that I knew no one. But going home my face muscles ached, stressed from constant smiling, grinning and chatting.
     We bought our first home - a large 1912 house that bordered six other properties. The day after closing I walked up the shared driveway to greet one of my neighbors, an elderly woman. 
     "Hi, I'm John, the new owner". She looked at me, then at the house and back at me. "So the Bards were finally able to get rid of that place". She turned and walked away. 
     Our third daughter Jennifer, was born the following year.
     Ox Johnson was the proprietor of the neighborhood Deli. Ox was a business man first, politically conservative, a bespectacled, suspender wearing Elk member, with a sense of humor so dry that one could rationally challenge its very existence. He considered me a lefty college professor who might mature, maybe, someday. Once he asked me if I could help him move some produce. He had hurt his back. Sure, I said. Three days later we were in his truck driving to my surprise, to New Jersey, his source for fresh vegetables. Soon I was loading bushels of tomatoes, melons, cucumbers into the truck. Ox bought lunch. We would also serve together for several years, along with banker Henry Bunn, on the City of Oneonta Tax Assessment Review Board. Later I helped carry Ox to his grave. 
     The officer issued the ticket to me for violation of the leash law - in Wilber Park I had let Swede run loose. I appeared in City Court before Judge Walter Terry who happened to be a fellow poker player. Judge Terry seemed to be suppressing a smile as I stood before him. I was reprimanded, first offense, fine suspended, then admonished, "and let this be a lesson to you".
     I was on my way to Washington. The radio reported that Harry and Cathy's 23-year old son John, had been killed in a plane crash. I doubled over with anguish. Two days later I returned to Oneonta and now stood poised to knock on Harry's front door. It popped open, Harry pasted me, "Let's go!" We walked down Roosevelt Ave, crossed Main Street, then down Grande Ave to Neawha Park. Passing through the Park, we headed west on River Street, A couple of miles later we were on Oneida Street heading north to Chestnut, then east to Main and finally back to Roosevelt Ave. Neither of us had uttered a word - words had no meaning - Johnny was gone. Slowly I followed Harry through his front door.
     Steve, his wife and two daughters lived across the street. Bob, his wife and two sons lived next door. Both were police officers. Joe Pigeon, wife and four children lived on the next block up. Joe was the Oneonta Fire Chief and his son Patrick would join OFD and become a future Chief. Patrick's cousin Jeff also became a firefighter. Whenever sirens wailed in Oneonta it became a moment to pause and think about our neighbors.
     Real "towns" are like that.

My New York Times

                                                   

                                                        September 12, 2001
     There are great print-news sources in the United States: the Washington Post, LA Times, Chicago Tribune, Miami Herald, Boston Globe, the Wall Street Journal (minus its occasionally obnoxious editorial page) and several others. The Sarasota Herald Tribune is a very good paper. But all things considered the New York Times is the finest source of print-news and analysis on the planet. I like my "news" straight - a professionally written who, what, where, when and why. For analysis I seek columnists and  op-ed writers from across the intellectual spectrum. In the Times, Brooks, Douthat, Dowd, Cohen, Collins, Krugman and Blow satisfy my requirements. Thus, at a celebratory family dinner I grimaced when a perfect grandson referred to the Times as a "left wing media outlet". This idea had never occurred to me.
     The Times is not just a life-long, major source of my information but also a means to satisfy righteous outrage. Over the years I have dashed off numerous letters to the Times editors, several were published - one resulting in retaliatory efforts to have my employment at Hartwick College terminated. The Times also published a travel piece I authored identifying great Atlantic coast campsites.*
     A poor educator I would have been had I not tried to use the Times as an educational tool. The objective was to get the undergraduate student to touch, glance at, or read anything from the Times and then show up in class better informed. My efforts frequently bordered on the desperate. I would advise students to always carry a copy of the Times under their arm. Then when relaxing in the library, dining hall, wherever, conspicuously display the newspaper while doing something else. The bait set I promised that an exceptionally attractive member of the opposite sex would "bite", using the Times as an excuse to strike up a conversation. This could most certainly result in a relationship with an extraordinary individual (in a Darwinian sense) - a good provider, then much successful breeding. Should the student wish to "dial up", then instead of the Times, s/he could substitute anything by Einstein, Gibbons or Thucydides. Seek to dial down? Comic books or a novel with a "bodice busting" cover would work nicely. Unhappily the digital era, cell phones and tablets have rendered this excellent strategy moot.
     I have used the Times in Russia as a cudgel.  Traveling in the old USSR accompanied by undergraduates gave rise to the occasional issue. One blustery night my group of 25 arrived in a vast hotel lobby in Yalta. We were joined by a large group from Argentina and were informed by a surly Administrator that our luggage - not more than 90 pieces - was unfortunately missing. The Argentine tour guide went ballistic protesting incompetence and threatening to call their ambassador in Moscow. The Administrator was unflappable, armored - the threat bounced off. I was irritated. But one missing bag is theft, 90 missing is a "muck up". I had to register my displeasure.
     "I have a friend at the "New York Times" and smiled.
     Behind his eyeballs there was a flash of panic. But before my bluff could be exposed an Aeroflot truck with 90 pieces of luggage and a besotted driver was discovered parked off a nearby road. But I would use that line with excellent effect again - twice. Now I do have a friend at the Times, Michael McIntire, a Pulitzer Prize winning investigative reporter and Hartwick graduate.
     The Times also publishes on occasion something that becomes an instant "classic". In October, 2016, a Trump lawyer demanded that the Times retract and apologize for a libelous article featuring two women who accused Mr. Trump of inappropriate touching. Part of the reply (paragraph 2) by Times lawyer David E. McCraw;
     "The essence of a libel claim of course is the protection of one's reputation. Mr. Trump has bragged about his non-consensual sexual touching of women. He has bragged about intruding on beauty pageant contestants in their dressing rooms. He acquiesced to a radio host's request to discuss Mr. Trump's own daughter as a 'piece of ass'. Multiple women not mentioned in our article have publicly come forward to report on Mr. Trump's unwanted advances. Nothing in our article has had the slightest effect on the reputation that Mr. Trump, through his own words and actions, has already created for himself." **
     Mark Twain, H.L. Menken and Oscar Wilde are still smiling.

*John O. Lindell "In Search of the Perfect Beach Campsite" NYT Travel Section; June 26, 1977.
**New York Times October 13, 2016

DNA Travels

                 
                                               
                                                                    Neanderthal                Homo sapiens                 

     

 "The earth of a hundred millennia ago was walked by at least six different species of man . . . Homo erectus, 'Upright Man' who survived . . . for close to 2 million years (was) the most durable human species ever. It is doubtful whether Homo sapiens will still be around a thousand years from now, so 2 million years is really out of our league." [Anatomically correct Homo sapiens, "Thinking Man" has been around 2 hundred thousand years.]*
                                                                                                           Homo erectus     At my local 7/11 I picked up a Sunday newspaper and handed it to the associate for checkout and payment. She was a tall, black woman with long eyelashes. We had occasionally chatted over the past couple of months. "May I ask you a question?"
   "Sure" I mumbled.
   "Are you part African-American?"                                                                
   Totally alert - "Why do you ask?"                                                                                          
   "Well - you have kind of an African nose."
   "We are all out of Africa."                                                                                
   "Some people don't like that idea."
   "Oh well" I relaxed, shrugged. "But I do wish you had thought my shoulders were off LeBron James or my physique, wit Muhammad Ali."
   "No" she smiled, lashes dipped.
   Fortuitously Dr. Erik Lindell, my brother has done some investigation of this matter. He swabbed his mouth and rushed the cotton ball with spittle attached off to the National Geographic Genographic project. The NGG than analyzed the DNA markers to determine the source of his ancestry (and much of mine though there still can be considerable differences) and the migratory route traveled by the paternal DNA.
    But first a "shout out" for a man who lived 30 to 70,000 years past in East Africa known to scientists as M168. Mr. M168 is the common ancestor of every non-African alive today. 
    Dr. Lindell reports that his Y chromosome identifies our family as members of the Haplogroup N that migrated out of East Africa 50-60 thousand years ago. The group crossed Arabia, Central Asia, arriving in Siberia and halting for many millennia south of the Altai Mountains. DNA markers indicate that we are descendants of a man who lived in Siberia 10,000 years ago.
Scientists suggest that Haplogroup N was "stuck" in Siberia for 20 to 30,000 years unable to figure out (perhaps incompetent, dull witted, lost) a route over the formidable Altai's. Eventually they moved north and then west skirting the mountains, moving across Russia and into northern Finland. N's provide the demographic base for the reindeer-herding Saami people and most Scandinavians. Dr. Lindell robustly rejects the pessimistic possibilities that Ns were "stuck". He argues that they probably enjoyed life in Siberia confronting the towering snowy mountains, lush valleys and were "simply taking their time". But we digress.
   Elements of the N group then proceeded south through Scandinavia and crossed the Doggerbank - a geographic feature now submerged beneath the North Sea - to arrive in the British Isles.  Lindell reports that our family is a more complex cocktail than originally thought. The American wing of the Lindell family had adjusted to the idea of being 50% Swedish and 50% Irish. DNA stats indicate that we are: 42% Irish/British; 20% Scandinavian; 3% Finnish; 35% Broadly European; 2.9% Neanderthal.
    The Irish/British 42% is something of a surprise while the "Broadly European 35%" is disappointing - a category that defies more specificity. We are also closer to residents of Siberia than to those of Sweden. But the presence in our genes of remnants of another Homo species "Neanderthals" leads me to intense speculation. There are hundreds of variants Neanderthals have contributed to Sapiens. Most Lindells enjoy tenting with nights illuminated by stars and bright hot campfires. Perhaps this is an echo of that other distant, extinct species.

*Yuval Noah Harari Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind 2015.  Dr. Erik Lindell writes frequently on international trade issues for online publications. See also Arizona State University Institute of Human Origins. Online. Photos Wikimedia.
 

An Errant Connoisseur

                                               

                                                Kagoshima, Japan, 2015  Wikimedia
    My best lobster so far was consumed at the original Palm Restaurant on 2nd Ave in New York City - the late 1960s. I was dining with Ray Schillmoeller, a hotshot, national sales rep for TRW. I was a poor pedagogue - he picked up the tap. Our waiter was surly, the table covered with newspaper and the lobster so large it should have been returned to the sea to breed. But it was delicious, ingested with copious amounts of butter and draft beer. The worst lobster was a slightly smaller crustacean served up at a restaurant on Cayo Largo, Cuba in 2006. What it lacked in flavor it made up for in tensile strength - try chewing on Teflon body armor.
    The finest pasta dinner ever occurred in the late 1950s, on a sunny Sunday afternoon at the Nicotera family camp near Hinckley Lake, N.Y. I had been courting Annette, my future wife. As was then the tradition all the men - uncles, cousins, Annette's father Louie and guests were seated on two benches on each side of a twelve foot table. The table, benches and extra chairs filled the spacious screened-in porch. The women - aunts, cousins, Annette, sister Madeline, their mother Josephine, began serving the meal - rigatoni with a perfect marinara sauce, spicy sausage, plump garlic meatballs slightly crisp in one spot, beef marinated in sauce, herbs and rolled up and crusty Nicotera Italian bread. To drink a satisfying red wine and Genesee Cream Ale. The pasta course was followed by a magnificent anti-pasta. Finally, coffee and Nicotera Bakery cookies - almond nut were my favorite. Sexist as it may sound now I remember thinking, "Boy! This is great!" In addition to wonderful food what made this dinner for me exquisite - three aunts, Agnes, Petrina and Tina and two uncles, Frankie and Arthur - each went out of their way to call me "John" for the very first time. I then understood that I was under serious scrutiny as a possible match for their beautiful niece. 
    Best fish dinner - a Chinese restaurant on Massachusetts Ave in Cambridge - a short walking distance from the Harvard campus - late 1970s. Accompanied by daughter Cathy, I ordered a Hunan Crispy fish. What arrived was a whole carp. I know the joke, "Bake carp on an oak board for 8 hours at 500 degrees. Remove from oven, throw away the carp, eat the board." But this carp as prepared was beyond delicious. To this day I scan every menu looking for a comparable dish - which leads naturally to a recollection of a fish dinner nightmare.
    On Longboat Key, Florida there is a respected restaurant the (something) House. In 2013, Carol Hanlon and I were dining there for the first time. The menu offered "a whole fish" prepared with a sales pitch of ingredients. My memory flashed with that crispy fish of long ago - I bit. The fish that arrived was indeed lips to tail but had been deep fried so long that the fish was literally gone - what remained was brownish skin stretched over bones. Respectfully I pointed out to the waitperson that I could indeed tell the difference between a fine dinner and garbage, strongly suggesting I was in the presence of the latter.. The trash was removed, the financial charge quashed, apologizes received and I skipped the main course. But my quest continues for that now mythical carp dinner of yore.
    Kagoshima, Japan 1970, dinner with eight Japanese businessmen and one American, David Mosher. We sat on tatami mats in a "L" formation. A geisha clad waitress (five in total) sat directly in front of two men and was charged with keeping our Saki cups full. There was much laughing, toasting while exotic dishes kept appearing before us. I was drinking and eating everything in reach. I gingerly picked up a hot ceramic bowl and with my sticks pulled the contents up and partially into my mouth. I tried to bite through the contents but failed. And the portion between my teeth was connected ropey-like to everything below in the bowl. So moving my lower jaw back and forth I tried sawing through - unsuccessfully - then my first wave of panic. The contents were slippery, greenish and sinewy as hell. I thought of kelp rotting on a Maine beach. Sawing! Tiny beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. Dave was watching my anguish with a perfectly straight face. "Well I think I am going to pass on that dish" and then he smiled and reached for his Saki cup.
 

Memorials - Volgograd

                                                       

                                            Mamayev Mount - "Rodina" - Volgograd
                                       

                                                  August 23, 1942
      Methodically I stepped along the water line trying to keep my boots dry, while stooped over looking for something, anything, that might be metallic and "connect" me with this place and history. Connections must be found - they cannot be purchased in a gift shop. The Volga was calm, dappled by sunlight and flowing with power south. A hundred yards off shore a reddish hydrofoil
sliced a course north.
     Ahead was a quarter mile of uninterrupted shoreline. To the right the river stretched away a mile or so to the eastern shore. On my left the bank rose up and away over two hundred feet. On top was a squat, granite platform supporting the turret of a Russian T-34 tank. A four inch hole in the turret created by an armor piercing projectile killed the crew. The tank's 76.2 mm gun slightly elevated, was pointed west and even in death seemed to be acquiring targets. A series of similar tank memorials are spaced along the west shore of the Volga and indicate the "high water mark" of the German assault on Stalingrad. For five months, one week and three days - August 1942 to February 1943 - the battle raged. The city was reduced to gutted structures and rubble. Amid winter temperatures of -20 to -30 degrees (F) surviving inhabitants had neither heat nor light. One million were killed and another million were wounded or captured in the most horrific combat since Verdun - 1916. The German 6th Army - 350,000 men - was encircled and destroyed. The Wehrmacht would never recover from the losses incurred at Stalingrad and thereafter would be fighting a "defensive" war. In the 1960's, surviving German POWs - a total of 10,000 men - were repatriated to Germany from the Soviet Gulag. In the post Stalin USSR the city's name reverted back to Volgograd. *
     I continued my walk seeking a connection to this history. Once as a callow faced lad, I was stumbling along near a rampart at Fort William Henry in Lake George, NY. One of my large shoes kicked up what first appeared to be a stone but upon examination was a 50 caliber "mini ball". I was now "connected" with life two hundred years earlier, with men and women who used muzzle loading weapons, lived, loved and died around the fort. The mini ball remains a prized possession.
     Now along the shore of the Volga I reached down and picked up a metal fragment, two inches long and a half inch wide. One side was encrusted with tiny stones and sediment. The other smooth and slightly rounded like a piece of a small barrel or shell casing. In the 1980's it was still possible to walk the streets of Volgograd and see the facade of an occasional building pockmarked by small arms fire and shrapnel. But maybe this fragment had absolutely nothing to do with the battle on the Volga.
     The sun was dipping and the T-34 relic above was beginning to cast a shadow down towards the river. I put the fragment in my pocket and began the walk back to city center. On the way I passed a department store with a bronze plaque affixed to the wall next to a bright window display. It stated that Field Marshall Friedrich Paulus had used this building as the Headquarters of the 6th Army - from here its surrender order had been issued.
     *See - Lt. Gen. Vasili Chuikov The Battle for Stalingrad NY: Holt Rinehart and Winston; 1964.
       Also - Wikipedia; Wikimedia for photos and Robswebster.com.

Libraries With Posthumous Voices

                                         

                                             Harvard - Widener Library
                                       

                                             Utica N.Y. Public Library
     The Argentine, Canadian scholar Alberto Manguel has a personal library of 30,000 volumes. Manguel ". . . conveys a sense that posthumous voices and literary characters converse among themselves under his roof." He is also the author of Library at Night. *
     From a sitting position on the floor I reached up, seized and pulled a book toward me - half a dozen others fell with it. A memory from the Dunham Public Library in Whitesboro, N.Y. Regularly my parents took my brother and I there on Saturdays to refresh our reading supply. "Remember" my mother would harp, "never go any where without a book."
     My grammar school had no library and the high school had a large room with a few books - The Lives of the Saints - many trophies and two office desks. I was not a quality or even an adequate student. In the third year of high school my mother contemplated sending me off to barber school. Toward the end of my sophomore year in college I found myself in the Utica Public Library, a neo Greco-Roman construct from 1903. My reason for being there is lost but on the second floor rear were stacks. There I happened upon Samuel Eliot Morison's History of US Naval Operations World War II, or at least 12 of the 15 volumes. I read them all with pleasure sitting in those stacks over the next few months. Then following a surprising surge in study habits I received a BA from Utica College of Syracuse University.
     1959 - I arrived at New York University. The NYU library was quite user friendly for graduate students. But the New York City Public Library was overwhelming - its immense card catalog required concentration and saintly patience - on every subject there was always more ! Home eventually became the sub-basement of the NYU Law School Library. There below the street, in a silent, sealed, artificial environment I reviewed the transcripts of the World War II war crimes Tribunals, IMT Far East and Nuremberg. My happy view of the value of the species homo sapien was scorched and human activities since then have reinforced the pessimism.
     I would utilize the Hartwick College Library for 34 years. Because of earlier efforts by Professors Boris Schzockov and Dan Allen, Hartwick had a fine, modest, yet intense Russian/Slavic collection. (It had much Russian Orthodox material but then the splendid RO Holy Trinity Monastery was just 25 miles north in Jordanville, N.Y.) I tried to enhance the collection and remember being quite pleased in the early 1990s, that as the USSR imploded Russian students were already studying at Hartwick. I could also go into the Library and right next to the New York Times and Times of London, peruse the latest copy of Izvestia. This was a time of hope.
     During this period I spent a summer at Harvard researching Soviet nationalities. My first visit to Widener Library - I followed a bright line on the floor through different rooms, floors until I arrived at the "Slavic Section". It was quiet, cool, with the aroma of leather and musty paper. I wandered among the stacks - every volume touched required reading. Few things in life satisfy anticipation. Widener Library exceeded mine - and I had yet to visit the Russian Research Center.
      2016 - It is the future - now and then I visit the Fruitville Branch of the Sarasota Public Library. It is a bright, spacious, multi-purpose place (meetings, lectures, books for sale) with much technology as well as stacks with CDs and books. It has a children's section where youngsters can sit on the floor and pull down books.
     *See Robert Harrison, NYRB  October 22, 2015.
   

Loss, Destruction and Idiocy - Excerpts

                                                 

                                                          

     The Death of Winnie the Pooh's Friend Christopher Robin, age 75, April 1996.
     ". . . Owl says that immediately beyond our garden TIME begins, and that it is an awfully deep well. If you fall in you go down and down very quickly and no one knows what happens to you next. I was a bit worried about Christopher Robin falling in but he came back and then I asked him about the well. 'Old bear' - he answered - 'I was in it and I was falling and I was changing as I fell. My legs became long. I  was a big person. I wore trousers down to the ground, I had a grey beard, then I grew old, hunched, and I walked with a cane, then I died. It was probably just a dream, it was quite unreal. The only real thing was you, old bear and our shared fun. Now I won't  go anywhere, even if I am called for an afternoon snack."  
     Czeslaw Milosz  NYRB 2/6/1997.  PX - Winnie and friends at New York City Public Library. _____________

"Almighty Father, Strong to Save,
  Whose arm has bound the restless wave,
  Who bidd'st the mighty Ocean deep
  Its own appointed limits keep,
  Oh hear us when we cry to thee,
  For those in peril on the sea."
      U.S. Episcopal Church - 1940 - (Wikipedia) PX  USS Newport News ____________________

"Day is done. Gone the sun. From the lakes, From the hills, From the sky.
  Rest in peace, Sol jer brave. God is nigh."
      From Horace Lorenzo Trim.  (Wikipedia)___________________________________________

" ' The destruction of the natural world is not the result of global capitalism, industrialization, Western Civilization, or any
   flaw in human institutions. It is a consequence of the evolutionary success of an exceptionally rapacious primate. ' "
       John Gray  The Soul of the Marionette . . .  David Bromwich, NYRB  11/5/2015 ______________

  "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a   tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
     William Shakespeare  Macbeth - Act V; Scene V. __________________________________________

  "I know more about ISIS than the generals do, believe me."
  "I'm really good with war. I love war in a certain way."
     Donald Trump - See The Hill June 19, 2016. _______________________________________________
   

Utica, N.Y. - the old "Sin City"

                                                   

                                          "The Cardsharps" Caravaggio  - 1594
   
      Utica's branding by a New York city newspaper with the epithet "Sin City" in the 1950's made many youthful residents quite proud. In 1957, roughly a hundred men, America's Mafia elite met to discuss the nation's criminal business in Apalachin, New York. The site was a well appointed stone house owned by Joseph Barbara - a local soft drink distributor. During a late afternoon barbecue the conference was abruptly terminated by raiding New York State Troopers. The Applachin Gangland Conference with hindsight seems an act of remarkable Mafiosi hubris remembered today mostly as comedy. Nevertheless, three participants, the brothers Salvatore and Joseph Falcone and Rosario Mancuso attended representing the Utica region and thus solidified Utica's bona fides as a "Sin City" - at least in our memories.
     "Sin" at that time included all forms of gambling, (games, slots, ponies, lottery) prostitution, loansharking, and bribery. Illegal drug sales and extortion were still deeper underground. But gambling was ubiquitous. The first barber shop I was allowed to visit by myself - "Paul's" across the street from the massive Bossert plant - had a back room with a round table, five chairs and three slot machines.
     Most summer days for several years in the 1950's, Addison Miller playground unofficially hosted
a pitch game in the shade of enormous elms. It was cutthroat pitch, seven hands dealt with pots beginning at $3.00 in early afternoon and rising to $40 - $50 by dusk. The patrons were of high school and college age with some individuals from the neighborhood. Pete Pazik, a proprietor of the Downtown Billiards pool room was a player of note for a few memorable evenings.
     More serious gambling opportunities were always available. My former father-in-law Louie Nicotera, as good a man as I'll ever know, had in youth run his own "joint" and was the dealer - at least until he lost two fingers on one hand in a shotgun accident. A friend of his "Joe the Turk" reported once of a singular experience he had at a game in the 1960's. Twenty plus players were seriously engaged in games of chance at a Bleecker Street location, when three armed individuals - one with a Thompson - swept up the doorkeeper and broke into the room. Players were ordered to line up against the wall and lower their pants. As they did their cash, wallets, belts (some with secret compartments), and a few watches were collected. In spite of the great stress a few began laughing -
one of the players, somewhat obese, was wearing a woman's silk bloomers. The laughter spread throughout the room, including the gangster with the now shaking machine gun. He pointed the muzzle at the nose of the humiliated victim. "I ought a blast you!" and then broke out laughing again. The stickup was rapidly concluded without injury. Three months later the body of one of the alleged thieves was found deceased - drifting in the Mohawk River. The other two gunmen were never seen again - most probably escaping gangland retribution and living to enjoy and squander their ill-gotten swag - perhaps.
     In the 1980's I wrote a piece about Utica that mentioned the widespread illegal gambling of it's past. Days later I was stopped on Main Street in Oneonta, N.Y. by one of that town's leading citizens and proprietor of a downtown restaurant. His face radiated a complete smile - "John, you'll never know how much I miss those games up in Utica."

Sex Education - 1950s - Utica, NY

                                         

     My parents hoped the Sisters of St. Joseph at Sacred Heart Grammar School would educate me in the mysteries of life - especially sex and procreation. It did not happen.  Simultaneously Holy Mother the Church seemed to believe that parents had the responsibility for enlightening children in these matters so fraught with potential mortal sin. (I also feel the need to note that I was never sexually abused.) Whatever sex education I was exposed to registered somewhat imperfectly on my dense psyche. Still by 8th grade I had things pretty much figured out. Life was a perpetual struggle against sexual, carnal  lust. When a man and woman married the struggle intensified. They could sleep together, preferably in twin beds, but never have sex. It was God's test. When God was satisfied with their purity He would allow the wife to become "with child" - a kind of modified immaculate conception for the masses.
     In high school - Utica Catholic Academy - the Sisters of Charity adhered relentlessly to the purity message and occasionally brought in hooded Passionist Priests to stoke up our focus on hell's tortures. After a session with the Priests many of us didn't want to touch a girl for two, maybe three days. When faced with difficult questions the good Sisters also fudged some. A serious sophomore, Jack K. standing next to me asked the Principal, Sister Margaret -  "What does 'masturbation' mean?" Her hands clasped while the sea gulf headgear fluttered. "Well how was it used in the sentence?"
     At noon the school bell would ring and boys with brown bags would rush out the doors, run west on Bleecker Street two and a half blocks, up one flight of stairs and enter the Downtown Billiards pool room. There for twenty minutes we would shoot pool and eat lunch before the dash back. Along with my home and school this eight table pool hall was for four years a critically important educational resource. For instance at some point there was a heated discussion of procreation. My friend Charlie expounded before some fellows a most convincing explanation I thought, of modified immaculate conception. The proprietor of the establishment, Pete P. had even stopped to listen. Charlie concluded with an impassioned question, "IF not with God's direction how could people possibly get here?" Pete, quite incredulous responded, "They fuck!" and walked away. For me an alternative possibility - from an unimpeachable source! This was my "Eureka" moment.
     Around 11:00 PM on a Friday night, Jim, Ronnie and I, after hours of financially unsuccessful labor on the billiard table (unusual in its self) decided to conclude the evening while each of us still had $5.00 remaining (plus 20 cents for bus fare). We left via the backdoor and descended the exterior, wooden staircase, crossed the street under a dim streetlight and knocked on the front door of the brothel. Coke let us in and we began to survey the ladies in the parlor. Then Jimmy surprised us. "Coke, I am a little short of $5.00. Lend me 34 cents - Please!"  Coke's eyes crossed. "Geezzz, now I'm lending them money!" and he reached into his pocket.
     Ten to fourteen minutes later, after making a selection, being examined for STD, then a sexual event, we were out the door and on the corner waiting for the late bus to take us to the west side - home.

A Utica Democrat

                                                     

                                                                       Utica, N.Y
     There was as much chance I would grow up a Republican as there was I would morph into a Klingon. In a household with an Irish, Roman Catholic, Democrat mother and a liberal, Swedish immigrant father - my path was set. Utica was a city of 100,000 citizens, blue collar, with blocks of two family houses on streets shaded by towering elms. We resided on the west side, a neighborhood dominated by Polish, Irish and German ethnics. My very first friend was a blond, blue eyed Polish kid, "Stosch". The NYS Education Department in the 1950s complained that youngsters were graduating from Holy Trinity Grammar School speaking English with a Polish accent. East Utica was Italian, RC and Democrat. (I played basketball briefly for the East Utica Democrats.) WASPs and Jews lived in south Utica, New Hartford and the rural communities of Oneida County - bastions of Republican  power- and almost alien. African Americans had a small enclave in north Utica and voted mostly Democrat. I rarely saw a black face during my first 18 years - mostly at downtown movie theaters - they sat in the balcony.
     America's great presidents; Washington, Jefferson, Jackson had to be Democrats - there were no Republicans yet. In the 1860s, the Democrats lost their way and President Lincoln freed the slaves, saved the Union and unhappily nurtured the Republican Party. T.R. Roosevelt should have been a Democrat, Woodrow Wilson was - but we had to wait through years of mediocrity before the next great Democrat presidents - Franklin Roosevelt and Harry Truman.
     Utica's mayors were usually WASP or Irish with names like Boyd Golder and Frank Dulan. But the city was led from the east side. Rufus Elefante (1903-1994) political boss and regional legend managed Utica for perhaps 20 years - from Marino's Restaurant - going booth to booth to consult with politicians, bureaucrats and citizens. In the late 1960s I would bring Hartwick College students to Rufie Ventura's Restaurant on the east side to meet and talk politics with the mostly retired Mr. Elefante. He was perhaps 5'4" in a dark, perfectly cut, pin stripe suit. "We would select someone to run for mayor - kind of attractive but not too smart - like your professor there." Students loved him.
     Yes, there was corruption, gambling and brothels - Utica was the "Sin City". Rumor had it that the mobster Lucky Luciano had been scheduled to be "whacked" during a visit to Utica. But the city also had a sense of stability - there were jobs, wonderful parks, a fine zoo and a belief that things could get done - might need Rufie's assistance and a "deal" but good constituent relations mattered - call your councilman and the City at no charge would remove your dying elm tree. 
     At the national level among the pluses (and yes, there were also minuses) Democrats brought about Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and Obamacare. I cannot imagine life in the United States without these programs - so I remain a Democrat.

Photo - Jmancuso of EnglishWikipedia

Lt. Col. Donald Marsh, US Air Force and . . .

                                                         

 
      Hartwick College Registrar was Don's title when I knew him four and a half decades ago. A remarkably good man he managed the registrar's office as one moving through a confetti storm of issues and problems at the core of an educational institution; class schedules, registration, class changes, disgruntled faculty, mid-term grades, final grades, disgruntled students, late grades, incompletes, summer courses. Almost always his face showed the contented smile of an innocent
and would occasionally dissolve into laughter when the swirling issues appeared most confounding.
     From afar I would witness and contribute to the flow of minutia and dilemmas wondering how Don handled it. How many times had he heard an anguished student or faculty member announce "I have a problem!" Even I approached Don at least once and uttered that trite phrase.
     "Listen John" he said grinning. "When you can see landing boats on the horizon filled with Japanese soldiers approaching your island intent upon killing you - that's a problem!"
     I understood and still try to never use those four words in that precise order.
     Paradise must certainly be divided into special interest zones. To find Don and wonderful wife Mimi, one would need to visit the US Air Force clouds where they would be found consorting with old comrades. He might also be discovered at a heavenly conference of educational administrators musing about the digital tools now available to manage mind numbing collections of data - but I think not. Don is much more likely to be found tinkering in the celestial auto machine region, an intergalactic space with a limitless but perfectly organized system of replacement parts, a steady, unrestricted supply of acetylene gas - restoring to glory an ancient automobile.

Caribbean Islands

   

     The finest moments of a cruise occur in darkness, standing by a ship's rail watching as a hulled hotel churns forward - the bow creating florescent waves and swirls. Bonuses include stars and a sea breeze. The Caribbean Sea spreads south from the arching Greater and Lesser Antilles, the Bahamas, covering a million square miles before reaching the shores of Venezuela, Columbia, Central America and Mexico. It's average depth is 7,200 feet. At the Cayman Trench the depth collapses down 4.7 miles (25,200 feet). A properly weighted body falling, jumping or shoved over the rail would descend to the silken, muddy bottom in about two hours.
     The Caribbean has islands - 7,000 or so including: 13 independent island nations that of course have their own islands. Cuba possesses 19; Jamaica 26; Martinique, a French dependency 50; and the USA's territory, the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico 142 islands.* To visit many of these islands is simple (sometimes expensive) - to know them far more difficult requiring time (and expense). Through the years I have had the pleasure of visiting perhaps 25 islands and 7 mainland ports of call. As a fact I can unequivocally state that I know abysmally little about these same islands, their people or the Caribbean Sea.
     In January 2016, Carol and I motored in a fine, sea going hotel, the m/s Oosterdam approximately 3,000 nautical miles. The Oosterdam accommodates 2,000 guests. After four island visits the ship tied up at a pier in St. Thomas, USVI. Thereafter another hotel, the something Oasis secured along side. This ship contained a reported 5,000 guests. We joined humanity disgorging from the ships seeking adventure, learning, frivolity and walked the cement pier. At the end a mini mall - diamonds, alcohol, tanzanite, tee shirts - and a center where tourists mustered for their prepaid,onshore excursions. Not inclined to climb into a mini bus packed with other tourists, we hired a minivan and driver. "Vincent" made the good effort - a local fish market, pirate stuff, this and that. We drove up into the hills for the panoramic view. Approaching the peak the inevitable tourist shoppe sign shouted "Home of the World Famous Banana Daiquiri". Thunderstruck! - or simply jolted I remembered being here previously off a different cruise ship. Was this simply inattention? Too much tourism? Too many cruises?  Losing it in the golden years?
     The Caribbean offers splendid experiences: with snorkel and mask I have watched a Jamaican diver entice nurse sharks up off a coral reef with "treats"; from the stern of a Destroyer observed multiple rain storms amid a glorious dawn; on a sailboat in a roiling sea retched into a garbage bag before preparing the crew a delicious breakfast; repeatedly watched the sun sink into a flat sea determined to see the "green flash". No luck yet.
     If you like to shop, eat,  the slots, soak in a crowded pool, fill up a deck chair, see stage entertainment, visit a spa -  take a cruise. If experiencing an island's people and culture is your wish - then arrive on a boat with sails or in an aircraft and plan to stay awhile.
     * See Wikipedia

Hickey's Fishing Lesson

                   

                                                          Flume Falls - AuSable River (flickr.com)

     The AuSable River's two branches originate in the high peaks region of the Adirondack Mountains. Then cutting through sandstone and granite the branches join at AuSable Forks. The unified river flows northeast churning through its creation, the mile long AuSable Chasm and then into Lake Champlain. Its total length is about 95 miles. The AuSable "has been" or "is" one of the finest trout fishing rivers in the nation. It is home to Brown, Brook and Rainbow trout stocked and native.
The West Branch about two miles from Wilmington, NY includes Flume Falls, a brilliant demonstration of nature utilizing rushing water to shape rock. Below the Falls Tom Hickey led me to a stretch of stone ledge above the flume and suggested I try my luck here. He move further down stream.
     Tom is a fisherman - for the AuSable he was always equipped with waders, a couple of fly rods and the tan, multi-pocketed vest containing flies, nymphs, tools, and little things so esoteric only a trout or real fisherman would understand there function. His friends Terby and Tom M. both now deceased - Bruno, Jerry, Luke, Roger, all possessed such vests. Bill L. did not, nor did I.
     As Tom departed I sat down with my back firmly against the granite wall and prepared my spinning rod for action. My belly pack contained sinkers, extra lures and a package of peanut-butter crackers. I decided to begin with live bait. Out of respect for Tom and trout fishing I did not have the worms in a coffee can. The worm, hook and sinkers hit the white foam - I relaxed, a warm sun was heating the ledge - I napped lulled off by the roar of the flume. Tom reappeared - had I caught anything? I reeled up my line - the worm had disappeared. "No" I replied. Well neither had he - just some small stuff that he returned to the deep.
     Fast forward. Another time and place on the West Branch near the Whiteface Mountain Ski Area. Tom and I are on the bank of the river about 50 feet apart. He has equipped me with one of his fly rods, baited with a duplicate of the nymph he was using. For the uninitiated this kind of nymph (as I understand it) was designed to encourage trout action at a depth of 12 inches. Now I am casting with determination, accuracy, then waiting and retrieving. Tom seemed busy - casting, waiting and then pulling in a small trout. He checks the "brookie" and then gently returns it to the stream. A few minutes later he has another, then another that he keeps. Tom and friends eat their catch. He reels in his line and walks over. "How you doing?"
     "No bites, hits or strikes." And I cast again. Tom leads me back to the place where he has been fishing and has me stand in his footprints. "Try it here" and he returns to my previous location and casts out.
     Over the next thirty minutes Tom continues to catch small brook trout. They seem to jump on his hook. To my surprise and some embarrassment I continue my life long record of never knowingly had a bite, hit or strike by a trout. My conclusion - trout specifically, fish generally and people just admire and like Hickey.
     The Scene - a rustic, dark brown, two story camp on a bank of the Schroon River in North Hudson, It is the first night of perhaps the last fishing trip Tom will organize. He is also in charge of the week's menu. Tonight's features steamed clams, Brook's barbecued chicken, Brook's macaroni salad and cold slaw with Foti's Italian bread. Stuffed in around a rectangular table are seven men. Slowly I scan the scene - each has a drink or beer - there are no listeners - all are talking and laughing simultaneously.