Gonna Move Up to the Country #1

Both Eberle & I like cats—wait, tho, we do know that’s not a cat in the pic to the right. But we have cats, nonetheless—of the exclusively outdoor variety, because poor Eberle is deathly allergic to the little furry bundles of joy, claws, teeth, & dander. Our two current cats are Weenie & Manxine. They’re both manxes, a breed that’s rampant in Indian Valley, & sad to say, they can’t stand each other. But they’re both spayed! Anyhoo, the pic illustrates one of the pitfalls of feeding your outdoor cats on the porch, especially if you forget to bring the food in about twilight. We’ve decided that cat food should be sold simply as “food,” because so many animals like it—cats (including “other,” & more feral, cats), dogs, racoons, skunks, magpies, ducks, etc.

One of the many joys of country living!

Pic is by Eberle Umbach

Western Legends #2

There probably won’t be many more days this year to drive up Warren Wagon Road from McCall to Burgdorf hot springs. Snow comes early above 6,000 feet, & the road to Burgdorf can be treacherous with snow & ice when autumn’s just beginning to settle down on Indian Valley. Of course, for intrepid folks, there are ways into Burgdorf year round—snow cat, snowmobile, cross country skis; & some folks do winter up there—but more on that later….

Either in spite of the fact or because of the fact that I haven’t spent a lot of time there, Burgdorf occupies a significant place for me in the Idaho landscape—my mental or imaginary Idaho landscape that is. It’s the first trip Eberle & I took together when I was visiting her in Indian Valley from Baghdad by the Bay way back last century—(the picture of Eberle in the pool at Burgdorf was taken on that trip); the stories I hear about it take me back to the Idaho hippie & hipster days, before I ever set foot here; & of course, it’s the first place I ever played the uke….Burgdorf was developed as a resort by a Frank Burgdorf back around 1870—it’s not far in terms of miles from the mining town of Warren (though if you drive from Burgdorf to Warren on the washboard road, you may find it’s a lot longer than the mileage leads you to believe). In fact, the original name for the hotel & collection of cabins was “Resort”—kinda generic if you ask me. The Denver chanteuse Jeanette Foronsard (who was also coincidentally Mrs. Burgdorf) convinced Frank to give his own name to the place back around the turn of the 20th century. You can see the hotel in the pic below, with Eberle & our Cambridge, MA pal Margot Kimball. This pic was taken back in 01, in either late September or possibly very early October—as you can see, winter was on its way, & as a matter of fact, we had quite a time coming up the road that day, even briefly high-centering our Subaru on a patch of icy snow.
& speaking of winter, our Oregon pals & also bona fide old hippies JD Smith & Doug & Toby Gunesch spent at least one winter at Burgdorf back in the 70’s. Now, I’m thinking it’d be hard enough on a person’s psyche to undergo a winter lasting from sometime in September to sometime in May even if they were living in a town with some distractions. The idea of spending it in that kind of isolation is mind-boggling to me—no matter how much woodworking you can do with your drawknife, or how many dips you take in the pool, etc., time has to hang kinda heavy at a certain point. But the best story I’ve heard about that winter is as follows (at least as I got it)—some time that winter the Idaho County sheriff came in by some sort of conveyance suitable to the conditions with a “care package” of booze & lettuce. Now this was a hard-partying bunch at the time, I think I’m safe in saying—so it’s testimony to the situation that everyone was far more interested in lettuce than whisky. Sadly, someone (none of the people I mentioned, I hasten to add) snuck off with the lettuce & ate it all himself. Needless to say, there was great consternation about this, though I’m assured that frontier justice was not carried out; whether some form of karmic retribution kicked in (this being the 70’s & all), I can’t say….

The other story involves whisky, too, but not lettuce. At some point in the past, Eberle & our pal Audrey Bilger were spending a weekend up at Burgdorf, & they ran into a group Eberle always describes as “the wild women of Riggins.” Now, for those who don’t know, Riggins, ID is a small Idaho County town on the Salmon River, particularly known as a white water rafting locale & steelhead fishing spot. It’s also a town where the locals are apt to party pretty hard, so calling this crowd the “wild women of Riggins” makes me think they were a serious bunch. Anyhoo, whisky taking its usual effects, the wild women of Riggins began telling Eberle & Audrey some very detailed & graphic stories about the rigors of the childbearing process, something all these gals had experience with, but which neither Eberle nor Audrey knew firsthand. These stories went on well into the night up there amongst the pines as the Jack Daniels or Old Crow or whatever the particular brand of poison was made the rounds. Eberle points out that these stories definitely had an impact, as neither Eberle nor Audrey have firsthand experience of said process to this day (happily so, I believe, in both cases)….

It seems Burgdorf is a bit more peaceful these days. We were up there last month with our Portland pals Sue & Jay, & other than a rather resplendent turkey who was having a stand-off with a rooster about who was in charge of a flock of hens, everything seemed pretty calm. It was a Saturday, & the pool was more full than I’ve ever seen it—probably a sign of the times as the greater McCall area becomes more & more a “destination.”

But Burgdorf is still a lovely spot—“half a ghost town,” to steal a phrase from Utah Phillips—& as such still quite different from what your mental picture of a commercial hot springs might be. The large meadow across the dirt road is still home to elk cows & their calves in season (& as such, off limits to human beans), the rental cabins all seem in good repair & the old abandoned structures are still picturesquely abandoned. If you want to learn a bit more about Burgdorf, check out the site here (the fact that Burgdorf has its own website is also a sign of the times….)

I got historical background on Burgdorf from Cort Conley’s wild & wonderful “Idaho for the Curious,” Backeddy Books 1982

Thrift-Tee

There’s something about thrift store shopping that carries the thrill of a treasure hunt—no really, I’m not the only one who thinks this! Of course, most of us who frequent thrift stores (& I don’t include either vintage clothing stores or antique stores in this) first did so as bohemian college students; some of us have stayed bohemians for various reasons, while others just can’t kick the habit. Anyhoo, I’m happy to say I’ve frequented thrift stores from Burlington, VT to Pasadena, CA, & lots of places in between.

There are so many reasons to shop at thrift stores, & the fact the stuff is cheap is only one of them. In fact, one could make the argument that these days the evil corporate big box stores may be cheaper in some ways, because theoretically, at least, new clothing should last longer than old clothing. But there are two arguments against this—first, the reason the evil corporate big box stores can sell their clothes so cheaply has to do with heinous stuff like child labor & other atrocious labor conditions in third world countries; second, none of those mega retailers ever carries stuff as cool as the apparel (& other goodies) you can find at thrift stores.

I’ve had lots of fun & satisfying thrift store experiences over the years; this is one time I wish I’d kept some journal of these more mundane events over the years, because my memory on many of the details (store names, etc.) is fuzzy at best. Obviously, two great stores from my days living in Baghdad by the Bay were Thrift Town on Mission Street (pictured above) & the Goodwill Store on Haight. I got everything at these stores from vacuum cleaners & kitchen tables to ashtrays to flower vases to t-shirts & sport coats. Thrift Town in particular was great for folks furnishing an apartment on the cheap—it even had (& may still have, for all I know) an appliance testing room. It was a hassle sometimes hauling the big stuff home on BART, however….

Anyway, I could (& probably will, at some point) write about all sorts of items I’ve picked at various thrift stores along the way—but today my focus is on t shirts, & I’ll show off a few of our favorite finds.

I always liked the Buffalo Books t-shirt in the pic below (Eberle & I—yours truly with a weird Council, ID barbershop haircut—in Portland—pic taken by Portland pal Sue Rubin). Sadly, I used to wear it playing baseball & later softball, so it’s gone the way of old t-shirts. This was from Thrift Town.
One “sleeper” locale for great thrift stores is Walla Walla, WA. Why this would be true is a great universal mystery, but trust me—it is. We used to spend Thanksgivings with a whole bunch of great folks at our good pals JD Smith, Caty Clifton & Clifford Smith’s house in the Blue Mountains near Westin, OR, & then later in Athena, OR; & one staple of those visits was the day after trip to Walla Walla for thrift stores & ice skating. Eberle & I bought matching Lay-Rite Masonry t-shirts, complete with walking “brick-man” logo (I know, “too cute” couple stuff); she’s modeling hers in the pic below. Don’t know why I was so taken with these, but I still like them.Back at the turn of the century (takes a minute to think about that, doesn’t it?) we went to visit our Pasadena pals Audrey Bilger & Cheryl Pawelski. Audrey took Eberle & I to a fantastic thrift store—sorry, I can’t recall the name (anyone out there recall?)—where Eberle found the Green Eggs & Ham t-shirt she’s wearing in the pic below (that’s Cheryl, Audrey, Eberle & yours truly, l-r). I think Eberle’s always been abashed at the good fortune involved in scoring this one….Finally, in addition to my obsessions that have already come up on the blog, I’m pretty much obsessed with Mr Potato Head. I’ll write more about this some other time, but I got the great t shirt I’m wearing in the pic below (taken by Dani Leone during “The Grub Stake” recording sessions in 06) at the Idaho Youth Ranch in Payette, ID. This place runs hot & cold, but if you catch it at the right time, it can be great.

Update: Our good pal Audrey sent an email to say that Eberle found the Dr Seuss t-shirt at the Goodwill Store in Pasadena. She also notes that store is "still one of my main sources of clothing." I'm guessing it's Goodwill Store on North Altadena Dr.

“You Say Tomato…”

Late August & earlyish September are such great times to be married to a good gardener; & especially with all the trouble with store-bought tomatoes this year—yikes! The photo shows some of the heirloom tomatoes Eberle grew this year. Sadly, the names of the varieties were written on tags in felt pen, so the ink got washed away with watering. But these tomatoes (& her other heirlooms) would taste superb by any name; & they’re as gorgeous as they taste, looking like peaches or a knockout sunrise.


Photo by Eberle Umbach

“Not Waving But Drowning”

I feel I should apologize a bit for posting “Not Waving But Drowning”; not that this isn’t (in my opinion) a fantastic poem, & well worth everyone’s time, but because I feel a bit abashed to post such a well known Stevie Smith poem when so many of hers are (very sad to say) not so familiar. I’ll be sure & rectify this somewhere down the line.

For those of you who don’t know, Stevie Smith was a British poet & novelist who flourished mid-Twentieth century. She was born in 1902 & died in 1971; her publications range from 1936-1971 (as well as some posthumous collections). Smith was a formal poet, but not in any strict sense—she used form for her own ends, rather than following it slavishly. Her poems often displayed a dark humor, & she didn’t shy away from “big subjects”—God, death, & metaphysical conundrums. Critic Hermione Lee said, "Stevie Smith often uses the word 'peculiar' and it is the best word to describe her effects."

There’s a 1965 recording of Stevie Smith reading “Not Waving But Drowning” on a BBC broadcast here (requires Real Player). Actually, the availability of this recording was a big incentive for me to post this particular poem rather than another work by Smith. Although Smith stumbles at one point in the reading, I think it’s always worthwhile to hear a poem in the poet’s own voice when possible. At one time, there was a Caedmon recording of Smith reading her poetry (on vinyl), but this hasn’t been released digitally.

On the off-beat side, there’s an odd but haunting musical setting by singer-songwriter Vic Chesnutt on his album “Little,” complete with banjo, violin & back-up “angel voices.” “Little” was released in 1990 & reissued in 2004. Chesnutt also set Smith’s poem “One of Many” to music; this was released on his 1993 album, “Drunk.”

Update: Eberle reminds me that Stevie Smith sometimes would sing her poems to the tune of old Anglican hymns. Sadly, I don't believe this was ever recorded. I'll be writing more about poetry & music somewhere down the line....


Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.


Stevie Smith (1953)

Cloudland

They’re moving & shifting weightlessly & elephantine above the horizon—like a Debussy piece played just by an oboe & double bass in a dream duet—silver tinges, & off to the east, a yellow sun—mellowed as summer dissipates in a breeze that whistles & rustles downhill thru the osier & dead grass—

Ice crystals coalescing in thin, thin air where nothing breathes—thousands of feet above the wind that swirls thru the willow & cottonwood—

A daydream sweetly dissonant as a major seven chord swelling in a room—a memory jarring & chilling as a minor sixth—

Last Sunday morning, the rain tapping percussive on the metal roof—a real rain, a change of seasons, when you don’t know whether to look in the rearview mirror toward what’s slipping away, or down the highway toward what might be—

Some of the pears are scattered around the tree after the storm—Eberle gathers them in a cardboard box to store— but a tinge of frost has touched the zucchini leaves by mid week, like an augmented arpeggio played in the high register on a piano— but the tomatoes still hang red & orange & green in their plot north of the honeysuckles—old songs about summer time strummed on a uke & sung in a smoky baritone—

I’m in a moment of time without access to the past except through memory, or access to the future except through expectation & dread & the clouds are roiling gray waves—& white waves & black waves rolling against the flat sky-blue backdrop—& then I’m in Lincoln City, OR watching the Pacific roll darkly & massively in from China; or I’m on the causeway going to South Hero, VT & watching the white caps scudding south from Canada across Lake Champlain—

Is poetry living in memory or is it fetching memory into a present moment? Is it making a moment where past & present & future coalesce? Eliot writes about “memory & desire—” however, for all the shazam & immanence & renewal & so forth at the end of “The Wasteland,” it’s just more memory & desire in a different key—

The north wind is shaking the willow boughs—the clouds are making their circumnavigation around the purple horizon. Some days you can see infinitely from Indian Valley—some days the fog & smoke cut off everything but your immediate surroundings— in this sense, it’s like everywhere I’ve lived—

Eberle looks up at cirrocumulus clouds & thinks of paddling a canoe across them—

It’s difficult to sit in the present without going out to any blinding stainless steel diner for breakfast with the past, & without sitting down to dinner in any North Beach Italian restaurant with the future. At any given moment, I’m living in so many times & places, while the willow boughs nod & rustle, & the clouds move on—

So: a change of season—yes, we do ask the landscape, & the calendar even, “to repeat us.” Something new, something lost, something augmented, something diminished—chords on a Harmony archtop plucked in a thoughtful or desultory manner while the wind whistles a tune you heard in a dream & the clouds shift places high above where nothing breathes—

Things I’ve Seen While Doing the Dishes

Our contractor Bob George (also our bandmate in the Alice in Wonder Band—good clarinetist, guitar player & mandolin picker) also designed our house. Among the many wonderful features Bob figured into the design I’d have to include the pair of windows looking out to the east (or east-southeast, more likely) right behind our kitchen sink. In the pic you can see all the cool stuff Eberle has on the windowsill—which I also see—potted cacti, a green glass chicken candy holder, a St. Martin De Porres candle, an elephant teapot, etc. Out the window, I’ve seen the following:

• The sky & clouds (all sorts)
• Rainstorms, hailstorms, snowstorms, electrical storms
• A plume of smoke from a wildfire
• Rainbows rising from back of the eastern ridge
• Helicopters & planes (see “a plume of smoke”)
• A willow with three bird feeders (two tube thistle feeders & a seasonal hummingbird feeder)
• Various birds, including: goldfinches, cassin’s finches, purple finches, chickadees, juncos, red-winged blackbirds, yellow-headed blackbirds, pine siskins, cowbirds, spotted towhees, black-headed grosbeaks, lazuli buntings, mallard ducks, Canadian geese, egrets, great-blue herons, robins, magpies, several species of sparrows, hummingbirds, an American kestrel, our Amazon parrot Pablo (in his cage)
• Several dogs
• Our cats Weenie & Manxine
• Our cat Bob, r.i.p.
• Feral cats
• Foxes, raccoons, skunks
• An old gray horse
• Our neighbors’ bull
• Our neighbors’ cows & their calves in February & March
• Our neighbors, & our neighbors doing various rancherly things, such as harvesting hay, hauling hay, driving cattle, driving their red pick-up, feeding cattle from an atv
• A brown & cream two-tone horse trailer
• An old orange tractor
• A new red barn & an old red barn
• Big cattle drives with atv’s, horses, cow dogs & cowboys
• Various pick-ups in addition to our neighbors, including Bob George’s with a blue & yellow fiberglass ladder in the truck bed
• The cars & pick-ups of various piano & guitar students
• Various piano & guitar students with various spouses, parents & dogs
• Backhoes
• Dump Trucks
• Road graders
• A catalpa tree
• A pussywillow
• Poppies
• A potted geranium
• A round thermometer
• Wasps & hornets
• A dark blue Subaru Legacy, then later an off-white Subaru Outback
• The hedge Eberle planted to line the driveway, including poplars & hawthorns
• Other trees, including a poplar, a cottonwood, our neighbors’ stunted pines, & a stand of aspens in the distance
• An apple tree where North Grays Creek Rd & Whiteman Lane intersect
• The shop
• Eberle shoveling snow (which she claims to enjoy)
• Eberle mowing the lawn (which she also claims to enjoy)
• Our Mesa hill neighbor Craig Sova mowing & weedwhacking the lawn
• A neighbor from down the road riding his moped to the mailbox
• A neighbor from further down the road riding his atv to the mailbox
• The neighbor girls from up the road riding their horses (with dogs)
• Indian Mountain, both snowy in winter & dark gray in summer
• Sage Hill, a weird tumescence sprouting to the east
• Our neighbors’ pond, & our neighbors’ pond reflecting the clouds
• The horizon past even more distant mountains