I recall that my oldest sister had a school project that involved putting together a family tree.

1. Conveyor bringing withers dropped frowning over side tumble.

I also recall, but she put a lot of energy into it. It also seemed to me that my mother took a great deal of interest in my sister’s genealogy project.

1. The day will come when all the gathering harbors delete the farthest known glasses of grain.
2. Holding onto: the very essence of moisture.

What I remember most was how my mother’s side of the family seemed to get the most attention. When it came to my father’s side of the family, it seemed as if nobody got real excited about it. Information about dads family of origin seemed to be kind of thin. The little bit of knowledge that I gained as a child growing up about my grandfather consisted mainly of the fact that he died when he was 48 and that the cause of death was the wrong blood type given to him at the hospital when he was there for some surgery.

1. We had gravel but more. We needed fourteen mirrored chameleons changing.
2. As an adult, there were times that I would ask my dad about his dad.
3. He just didn’t really want to talk about it I guess.

Anything that he did say was sort of passive and lacking passion. Greatness lies within several knots tied and dyed: really interesting design. Eventually, I learned that grandpa was something of a hothead. Secure the tents before the wind picks up. There was a story that was told about how my dad finally stood up to his dad one day when grandpa was about to haul off and get grandma. Evening was cloaked in darkness and their legs were useless. About the only other thing that I knew about my grandfather was that he liked cigars a lot.

1. Little of the sky actually fell but we were concerned.

For some reason or another my dad would speak fondly about how grandpa would get his cigars from a Cuban gentleman that rolled them by hand in a shop not far from where they lived in Chicago.

• Laugh-in rowing raft of time lost awash and frozen.

It’s funny how something like that would solicit a nostalgic twinge in my father. I can only speculate that dad and grandpa probably bonded around those cigars. Finally, among the incomplete rises garden slugs to render higher resolution. Only then will the survey be complete and rest be assured to those that measure. Dad himself, never to my knowledge smoked cigars.

Most of my involvement with grandma came during the holidays. A lot of the time we would go to her house for Christmas dinners and Easter dinners. By the time that I started paying attention to things grandfather had already been dead for 20 years. The straps complete the cycle for which they’ve been pulling. This we know. Since these holiday events seem to drag on for hours and hours it didn’t take long until my cousins and I would become restless. Inevitably, we would start goofing around and that invariably meant that we were going to wind up in the basement. My dad never really talked too much about his dad.

There were a lot of things about my father’s family of origin that remained an enigma.

I never really clearly understood that my grandfather had been in the Navy during world war one.

Then what you smart people ride? Praise to liver and the following dusk of covered wagons.

So it would make sense to me that my mother could have much of an opinion about grandpa.

I recall that my oldest sister had a school project that involved putting together a family tree.

Somewhat another way of remarking not fully transference – lack of better stones.

• A haiku or two – Tea bagger birther yo fool – Afraid of shadows
• Nobility bad – The thirteenth Thirteenther spoke – Our country so sad
• I lied there are more? – Excellent subject matter – Could do this all day
• G O P freaked out – Didn’t say no to drugs right? – Have to be real high
• Orange skin party fraught – In home schooling they are taught – History left out
• What could be up next? – The apocalypse I guess – Get back to work now

In conclusion I would like to assert that my familiarity and experience with capitol machinery and the supporting equipment and process controls inherent in the manufacturing environment will allow me to comfortably and effectively operate and maintain equipment employed in the membrane manufacturing process.

On Saturday, Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and spoke to tens of thousands of blindingly white, patriotically obese, special needs Walmart shoppers, claiming to speak for God and urging a return to the halcyon days of religious domination of our democracy which brought America such historic hits as morally justifiable slavery, the slaughter of “heathen” Native Americans, Manifest Destiny, women as second class citizens without the right to vote, prohibition and its resulting in the explosion of organized crime and teens having lots of oral and anal sex in order to honor their Promise Rings.

As a result, as Monty Python once sang, God got quite irate. So, as He is nowadays accustomed to venting his wrath, He blogged the following and asked me to post it for Him:

GOD’S BLOG – 8-31-2010

Let me begin by saying that neither Glenn Beck nor Sarah Palin speak for me. The tip offs are, I never use chalkboards, I don’t drop the last letter of “ing” words to be folksy and lastly, I usually make sense.

Being omnipresent, I couldn’t help but watch these two and their colleagues give their speeches on Saturday at the site and on the day of my dear friend’s “I Have a Dream” speech. Though I don’t see anything wrong with the way I’ve made male dogs mark territory as their own, it is a bit off putting when people use dogs as role models for that trait (wish they copied the unconditional love and loyalty stuff instead).

What can be a little frustrating about being all-knowing is that you never get to say, “What the hell is wrong with that guy?!”, you already know. I do see all living things as my children but some days, your kids can really drive you nuts, you know what I’m talking about?

Glenn claimed that his rally was about returning honor, going back to Me and less overtly, returning power in America to White Christians. That’s like urging people to come together to build and paint a majestic cross just so you can set fire to it.

Believe me, I don’t have an inferiority complex. I’m not stomping around Heaven, upset that people aren’t ruling more countries in my name. In fact, that’s exactly what would get me upset, have you seen what happens in most countries when people declare I chose them to be the leader (my lawyers did send George Bush a Cease and Desist).

Earth is for you folks to take care of and figure out how to run. I’ve totally delegated all executive decisions to all of you, I just want to be invited to the company picnics.

Glenn Beck also urged people to sublimate themselves to me, to get on their knees and make sure their children saw them doing so. I guess the best way to do that would be to get in front of the tv and pray…though I’d guess the kids would just crane their heads around to keep killing people in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2.

I think this could send the wrong message. First, kids may think that their parents are praying to the tv, that I am in the tv or that Tivo is God (which it is in some households).

Second, I think kids should see that strong moral beliefs are what make their parents stand up and become leaders in their own lives. Impressing subservience is like wiring a weakness into oneself or one’s kids that less principled folks than yours truly can then use to manipulate them to further unprincipled greed and lusts.

Which brings me back to Glenn Beck. He spoke of restoring honor…and did so by dishonoring one of the most honored Americans, Martin Luther King and the Civil Rights movement he did so much for. Next time, I assume that Glenn will want to campaign on protecting endangered species by hunting them.

So, we can put aside this clearly illegitimate claim as the purpose of this rally, along with a reverence for me because love and respect and power for all races and religions is my thing. Also, despite the claims in their prospectuses and press releases, I am not a wholly owned subsidiary of FreedomWorks, Fox News or the GOP.

I just wish such wolves wouldn’t use me as their sheep’s clothing. The ironic thing is that in order to be so comfortable in using me to promote a self-serving agenda, such people would have to not believe in me (they clearly have no fear that they’ll ever have to face me for their transgressions).

So my suggestion is, the more you hear someone use me or their love of me to justify their actions and schemes that benefit themselves personally, the more of an atheist they probably are.

And BTW, some of my best friends are Atheists (I tell them that whether or not they believe in me, I believe in them and they’ll usually buy me a drink anyway, nice folks) so that’s not a bad thing but it does lend a bit of perspective to these situations.

Satan plays the same game as Glenn but as a practical joke, after a while, he always blurts out, “Just joking! I’m not really speaking for God and there is no barbecue tonight!”

Too bad Glenn doesn’t even display the decency of Satan. Still, it will be hilarious in a number of years, when Satan gets the chance to pull that on Glenn! Man, will he freak!

My trip in April had initially been planned as a D.C. trip, and a predominant amount of time was spent in our nation’s capital and traditionally defined Mid-Atlantic states. In a loop around these states I did make a jaunt through the Commonwealth of Virginia. When I started this series, I had not yet decided if I would do the whole thing, so if there be any lingering criticism of my title, know the following. I could have gone straight from Charlottesville to the Historic Triangle. But, I was looking for an overall Southern experience. Indeed, when I first visited Arlington National Cemetery, though it be in the Beltway, I got a little thrill to be setting foot on Southern soil and seeing Lee’s mansion (silly did I feel when it registered that Reagan airport is in Virginia).

The following may indeed be controversial in its own right and some images deemed offensive. It is not out of romanticization, but a fascination with history, and even the culturally taboo, as well as the burden of my own partial Southern Identity (to borrow from the title of C. Vann Woodward’s book) that took me to Richmond -- particularly those sites most connected with the Confederacy.

Upon entering Richmond, I must say that it has probably seen better days. The virtual segregation was also very apparent. Of course, having been through D.C. and Baltimore, this is not only a Southern legacy, nor is it limited to the East Coast. Nevertheless, for whatever reason, being in the South, there was just a different, palpable feel to driving through the black neighborhoods. Maybe it was because of my own preconceived prejudices towards images of the South (much has changed dramatically, after all), but I wondered just how much has really changed. Indeed, race and socioeconomics are not just a Southern problem. But, in a black majority city such as Richmond, I can’t help but wonder why it took until 1993 to change the city flag from this.

My first stop was Hollywood Cemetery. One of my favorite sites in the whole trip. It was like it was taken right out of a Gothic novel.

There was a distinct Southern character to it.

I could think of few more peaceful scenes to spend my eternal repose.

While some may rightfully see mausolea as the height of human vanity and cemeteries as a waste of space, I view cemeteries as parks of a sort, and mausoleums, like this, can even be cute.

This was my favorite. I especially liked the touch of purple ribbons on the wreaths.

They can also be more dramatic.

Or Art Deco.

President John Tyler’s grave.

Possibly the coolest presidential final resting place ever. President James Monroe, I like your style.

Both presidents were interred near each other, as this shot shows.

This is how epitaphs were meant to be written. “I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.”

The whole section was striking.

Turning around from this view, towards James River. As a kid, every school morning I passed over this bridge showing what was then the James River paper mill. Though part of (Koch brother owned) Georgia-Pacific now, I will always think of that slough as James River, stubbornly lodged in my head from foggy childhood memories.

This one of Lewis Ginter, had its own sundial in front, with manicured hedges and even a little bench and pathway under a shade tree to its left.

The stained glass window was a nice touch, too.

I mean, c’mon, how is this not totally awesome?! (by now it being firmly established I am totally weird)

I saw a lot of family names in this cemetery. More so than in any other I’ve ever been to. Not actual relations, but owing to the concentration of Scots-Irish and English in the South, lots of familiar surnames. My paternal grandmother’s and mother’s maiden names I saw numerous times dotting the cemetery. And, let’s just say they aren’t Smith or Johnson. Unfortunately, I never saw them etched into stone as extravagant as these:

The last picture is on Davis Avenue, so whose grave do you suppose we’ll see next?

Yup, that’s right.

On the front of the pedestal is “Jefferson Davis./At Rest./An American Soldier./And Defender of the Constitution.” This goes on to list his congressional, cabinet level and military career in the US government. Here is what is on the reverse. Gotta love that verse about being persecuted, right?

A view of Richmond.

And not far from this spot, turning around. The flag in the foreground marks Jabez Lamar Monroe Curry, I presume. In the background, the Davis family section.

Margaret Howell Davis Hayes. She is the only one to have children (or at least marry) and thus heirs to Jefferson Davis, I think. Also, another really damn cool monument, æsthetically speaking. To the rear, on the book’s spine, reads PAX.

You know, I just hate people. Can’t stand ‘em. Groups especially. And, in this case, a stupid church group in a local Baptist van. Being local, and likely Southern Baptist, made me wonder as to the intent of their visit to this fine location, but my bigger immediate concern was that they totally ruined my shot. I kept biding time, but they just wouldn’t leave. No, they had to have a picnic and run in and out of my shots. I mean, they showed up right after I did, and there was no one else there. It was as if they were sent just to bug me. And furthermore. I can understand people’s lack of concern for others, but they too had cameras. There was no designated parking. There was nobody else parked there and plenty of space. I parked down a bit and *gasp* walked (God bless our drive-thru culture). Why the hell couldn’t you move your damn van 15 feet out of your own shot, and mine as well? Fer chrissakes. God, I hate people.

So, the only full-ish shot of this section I have looks like this.

A side view. Oh, and thanks for the bumper in my shot.

Varina “Winnie” Anne Davis. The Daughter of the Confederacy. So called as she was born in 1864 (also the same year that they lost their son, Joseph, whom fell to his death at the age of five and is buried feet away).

I’m not quite sure where to put this on my cute<-->creepy continuüm.

This was definitely gratuitous, though. It’s because of this kind of crap that I’ll never join you guys, you know. Preserve what there is, fine, but let it go.

The Blood Stained Banner enhanced for visual effect.

Confederate Officer’s Section.

Jewish Confederate memorial. If this seems odd, remember Judah P. Benjamin, for one.

The Confederate Memorial Pyramid, dedicated to the 18,000 confederate dead buried in the Confederate section of Hollywood in 1869. In Latin was written “numini et patriæ asto” ([they] stood for God and Country). I never checked the back of the pyramid. Somehow, though, I imagine in Latin is surreptitiously written “meridies iterum orietur.”

A view from the distance.

I regret missing J.E.B. Stuart, who was by himself in the middle of the cemetery, but here’s Pickett.

To the left, a shot with the Bonnie Blue (Listen to the Bonnie Blue song). Unlike the Bonnie Blue, another flag which took some researching to identify was ubiquitous, save for the more numerous Virginia flags. I’d guessed what it was based on its pattern. Ironically, it is its post-war form, which like the Lone Star Flag of Texas, incorporates the Bonnie Blue (remember that the Bonnie Blue is the secession flag). Another irony. The limited government which it represents bears resemblance to the flag of modern Libertarian Paradise, Somalia.

A scene of the Confederate section.

It took me a while to figure this out until I read the gravestone. He was the color bearer.

The flying in City Parks, even Lee Squares, and especially state Capitols I disagree with. But, I will defend the Confederate battle flag in this context. One might ask if it is akin to flying the Nazi flag in German WWII cemeteries (which I have debated in my own mind), but I think when it comes to the Confederate battle flag, this is acceptable. I may not agree with the cause they fought for, but this was the country they died for. I’m not passionate about this. I just think this form is understandable.

The Lost Cause mentality can make me roll my eyes though. This typifies it.

The White House of the Confederacy, fittingly, actually gray.

From the front.

And the back. The tour starts where you see the light, under the porch to the right. The slave quarters. The rest of the house is restored to the period impressively. The right side is where Joesph fell to his death. On the tour, and since, I’ve also found Varina Davis to be an interesting, almost redemptive character. The tour guide, though, laid it on thick about how great Jefferson Davis was. (She struck me as UDC socialite material, though I have the UDC pin of my grandma’s, who was by no means someone who put on airs.) What I did find interesting about him was how nearly anorexic Davis was during the war. If he looks gaunt in photos, it is because he was. With tragic deaths of children, and personal health, the war took a toll on Davis as it did with Lincoln.

Right next to the White House of the Confederacy is the Museum of the Confederacy. I must say I hung my head in awkward shame as I entered and saw black families walk past down the street. But, if you can handle being uncomfortable at times, I recommend it. Think of it like the Nazi exhibition in the Holocaust Museum (though as the Spike Lee mockumentary on the CSA grimly points out, the CSA would have thought it a waste to mass murder possible human chattel). It is a modest entrance fee, and for a little extra includes a tour of the Confederate White House. Inside are artifacts of all sorts. I walked in expecting far more glorification than I found. Mind, you, they still tried to show the Confederacy in a positive-ish light, but did touch on uncomfortable truths (again, I’m merely saying it was more evenhanded than I expected. I never did expect dispassionate objectivity). What was more creepy were some of the visitors trying to “correct” such things (how many times can one hear that the South would have eventually abolished slavery on its own? --Never mind the CSA Constitution expressly prohibited that from happening). Like, a father with his teen daughter, her pen and pad out and he regaling her with the feats of the generals and campaigns. They were visiting from Alabama, I overheard. Others, like me,  were there more out of curiosity than zeal. Of personal interest to me was the display of the New Mexico and Arizona campaign. Often forgotten is that southern Arizona and New Mexico were briefly part of the CSA, and were represented until the dissolution of the Confederate Congress at the end of the war. A minor skirmish of the Civil War was even fought north of Tucson. So, to say I’d never stepped on Southern soil wasn’t technically true! [Fun fact time: the official date of statehood for Arizona on February 14, 1912 was chosen to commemorate the the fiftieth anniversary of its admission to the Confederacy on February 14, 1862. Is Arizona, MLK and SB 1070 starting to make more sense now?]

My visit also happened to coincide with Confederate History Month. Oh joy. But, like I said, they made an attempt to address the controversy and present both sides.

Wartime effects of J.E.B. Stuart. Also, there was the frock of Hood, etc. If it was Confederate, they had it.

Frock and ceremonial sword of General Lee worn at Appomattox.

This was what Jefferson Davis was wearing when captured.

This was the flag draped over Jefferson Davis’ casket.

The ceiling had all flags associated with the Confederacy hanging, including one or two I still can’t identify. In the background here, fourth from the left, one can make out the Vand Dorn flag. Also, another good chance to compare the Stars and Bars proper with the current flag of Georgia.

The Great Seal of the CSA. Engraved in London, it finally reached Richmond shortly before the city had to be evacuated in 1865.

Two blocks away is where the Confederate Congress met, the Virginia State Capitol (minus the wings).

What didn’t Thomas Jefferson help design in Virginia? I’ve seen a few state capitols. This was the most striking to walk up to. It really did seem just as fitting a national capitol, as a state capitol.

Behind the capitol, some statues of Virginians. Washington.

Stonewall Jackson.

In this statuary time line of Virginian history, hope for the future.

My biggest regret, as I was not staying the night and had to move on, was not having time to find Monument Avenue, but at least I left on a good note.

Speaking of notes; two songs, contradictory as they might be, apropos to this photo essay (can I call it that?).

Rebel Son -- Bury Me in Southern Ground

But then again, when it comes to making a big deal about Confederate History Month, honoring Davis’ 200th Birthday, sneaky state flag changes, continued whining about the NAACP, and petty neo-Confederate crap…

Oh, and don’t think that song just applies to the War of Northern Aggression. A few of you need to get over having a black president, as well.

P.S. Do look over the CS Constitution and tell me if you see any striking similarities to a certain movement today. With these folks, I don’t even think they’re being cynical. I really don’t think most of them have made the connection that they carry on a Confederate undercurrent; one which has been reborn under a yellow banner.

P.P.S. Uploading images to the photo sharing site and then inserting them into the post one by one, and then formatting them, and then reformatting them, can make the author grumpy. You’ve been forewarned.

Had the cutest and strangest experience this morning on the way home from our walk.
It was another miserable sweaty walk this morning and there are these tiny little gnats out that we’ve never seen before.
They’re teensie-tiny black flies and they bite!
And for being so amazingly small, their bite actually causes pain!
Not bad pain, but you can feel it and it feels like a pin-prick.
Very odd.

Anyway, while on the way home we saw an elderly couple that we haven’t seen for awhile on our walks.
We’ve been walking earlier, besides being gone, except today we got a late start so saw them again and they stopped to talk.

We ran into them at the local grocer the other day, and not sure they remembered us, but I smiled and said hello and asked them if they recognized us.
I told them about us always walking our little dog in the mornings and we always wave to them.

The wife said she thought she knew who we were but her husband couldn’t remember.

He’s a real talker, and explained that he has very early onset of Alzheimer so he’s accepted that he can’t remember things very well.

He was so funny in telling us his name – Irvine with an I not an E – and it was his mother’s maiden name and it’s not an uncommon name because there’s an Irvine, California, and that has an I and not an E, too.
Very cute.

His wife is a skinny little thing and perhaps a bit younger than her husband but not by much.
She’s very animated friendly and clapped her hands and smiled broadly while thanking me for stopping to say hello in the grocery store.

So, this morning on the way home from our walk, we saw them and they were so happy to see us with our little dog and yes, now they both recognized us.
Here’s just the cutest thing and funniest part.

They pulled to the side of the road and asked if we were registered voters and we said yes, and then they asked if we would sign a petition.
They got out and while sweating our butts off and swatting at them biting teensie-tiny flies, they explained that they are working to recall one of the Pinal County councilmen for breaking all his campaign promises.

Now, if we could recall politicians for breaking their campaign promises, we’d have to recall them all, wouldn’t we?

My husband asked Irvine if the guy was a Republican and he said yes and he wants to replace him with another Republican – a Tea Party Republican because that guy lives up here and he will keep his promises.
Irvine said they need 10,000 signatures and what the hell, we signed the petition because he only had 7 signatures!

My husband made it a point that he’s all for recalling Republicans!
But they sort of ignored that, even though they did say that “they’re all crooks!”
“And if they’re not crooks when they get elected, they turn into crooks soon after”.

Irvine does talk a lot and he rambles, so you have to pay close attention but he’s a very affable person, as is his wife.
I think they are Tea Partiers, but so unlike the Tea Partiers we see on the TV or read about.
They’re not angry old white people, but they are fearful.

I think their definition of the Tea Party is not the actual Tea Party people we all know and love.

Through one of Irvine’s ramblings – and I cannot remember his wife’s name but will never forget his – but he asked us if we knew who Sylvia Brown is.

Do you know who Sylvia Brown is?

She’s a famous psychic and the only reason we know who she is is because we used to watch the Montel Williams show a few years ago and she was one of his regular guests every Wednesday and Friday, which ended up being his highest rated shows every week.

FOX yanked Montel’s show when he started his mission of seeing Bush get out of office and that’s why we watched him because he did a fairly good job of getting the truth out.

As for Sylvia Brown, well, she was fun to listen to and entertaining and I actually liked her a lot, until she went totally nuts with talking about space aliens and that there were aliens even in Montel’s audience.

She predicted that we are near the “end of times” and that the world would end in 100 years, which is a pretty safe prediction because who’ll be around to say if she was right or not about that.

She would talk crazy about some sort of second or third level creatures from deep in the earth that come out and if you’re attuned you can catch them and even see faeries that sit on flowers.
She’s really out there about things.

But I really liked her and thought her harmless because most people who seek her out were in search of solace from the grief of losing a loved one.
She always provided comfort for distraught people that were deep in grief by telling them that the person is with God and in the light of Christ and that no one ever dies alone.
People come into the world alone, but guardian angels and keepers from the other-side help people cross over upon death.

She does not believe in hell, but said hell is on earth and that the dead walk amongst us always.

She’s harmless and comforting and she always spoke about God, Christ and the Holy Spirit and said there is no such thing as the devil, but that evil lives in man and makes earth hell for the living.

I would never buy any of her books or go see her because she does tour and I would never do that as I am a skeptic, plus she charges outrages prices to see her speak.

But, she is an uplifting, spiritual person and she may very well be a scam artist, but then so are Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin and people pay good money to see them and Sylvia Brown brings people up and does good, whereby Palin and Beck are just plain EVIL, in my very humble opinion.

So, Irvine and his wife told us that they went to see Sylvia Brown when she was here in the valley and our first thought on that that we kept to ourselves was – these people are nuts.

Now, I have to share the story about another neighbor- the woman owns a horse named Bonita and just got divorced from her abusive, cheating husband – and she had contacted an animal psychic back east when she was struggling with the decision of whether or not to give her smaller horse, Sadie, away and whether or not Sadie wanted to leave and if Bonita wanted Sadie to leave.
She ended up giving Sadie to a friend who lives nearby due to that phone call.

And then there’s other neighbors who believe that Glenn Beck is some sort of truth-speaker and they buy his books and watch him religiously.

And then there’s yet another, who is a Democrat, but he listens to a right-wing religious radio station and he is against the SB1070 law and thinks Brewer will go to hell for it, but he can quote the bible and believes we are in the “end of times” and he likes Obama, but thinks that Obama is confused when it comes to religion, because he’s not sure if he’s a Christian or not.

Okay, so Irvine and his wife went to see Sylvia Brown and they said that if you paid more for admission that you could ask Sylvia a question.
They said that a woman asked Sylvia if Obama would win a second term.

Here’s where it gets strange.

Sylvia Brown, according to this elderly couple, said that no, Obama would not win a second term, because he will not even make it through his first term.

They said that she said that he will get a bit way through the second half of his first term, but then he would die.

The couple said that people gasped audibly throughout the auditorium and mayhem ensued with people wanting to know if he was going to suffer the same fate as JFK.

Sylvia Brown, according to this couple, said that the cause of his demise would be due to food poisoning and that would be the official reason for his death, but according to the couple, Sylvia implied that it wouldn’t be an accident.

Isn’t that strange?

It is strange, because if that’s true that Sylvia Brown predicted such a thing is that it’s not like the “end of times” prediction of 100 years, but something that she will be proven right on or wrong on within less than 2 years.

I’m stunned that she would dare to predict such a thing, since she has so very many loyal followers and she’s placing her reputation on the line with such a prediction.

And I pray that she is wrong.

And another thing, is that this is an elderly couple – grandparent-like – and first off, I could never imagine my mom or dad ever believing in Sylvia Brown – and secondly, wouldn’t you think that older people would be wiser?

I get it now that I just wrote that, as older people do seem to love FOX and all their pundits.

An elderly woman from my working days just loves Bill O’Reilly and the thing that really gets me about her, is that she continuously sends me these right-wing emails about Obama being a Muslim and about ignorant, anti-American Democrats and liberals, and I swear that I am so tempted to begin bombarding her email with emails from the left about the crazy right-wingers!

I just can’t bring myself to do that though, as it would be a waste of time and really, whenever I get her emails, I just delete them unless she writes me an actual email.
The thing about that though, is that she will write letters in her right-wing emails, so I miss out on a lot of her writings to me.

Does anyone else deal with these type of people?

Or do we really live in the Twilight Zone?

From Gettysburg, I went on down thorough the pan-handle of West Virginia, which was actually one of the finest manicured highway stretches I’ve ever seen. Enchanting, actually. Across the Mason-Dixon Line, I headed in to Shenandoah. In the powers invested upon me by me, I re-dub the Appalachian Mountains the “Adorable Appalachian Foothills” (I feel the same about Southwestern “rivers”). Hey, it’s all relative, I suppose.

I can only imagine how beautiful the Autumn colors would be.

This is about the highest the Appalachians get, at around 4,000 feet above sea level. The highest point of the Appalachian range is 6,684 ft. At the lodge near the peak I heard my first southern accent. Hardly over the Mason-Dixon Line. She did explain the lack of pine trees. It had to do with seasonal factors. And, she in turn was fascinated by saguaro cacti. She was also hospitable enough to pack me a coffee to go. Good thing, as it got a little chilly.

Shortly hereafter a deer was munching away. My attention was divided between the scenery and the Prime Ministerial debates on the radio, though.

Apologies if there are copyright issues here, but this postcard was too good. After some giggling, I promptly purchased it.

In Charlottesville coming onto the University of Virginia campus, this was odd to me at first. Coming from the Pacific Northwest, dotted with reminders of the Lewis & Clark Trail (Meriwether wrote that my hometown was the site west of the Rockies most worthy of settlement), I always thought of these two as quintessentially Northwestern. But, they were, after all, Virginians. Both had roots in Abermarle County in central Virginia.

It is only a short drive up to Monticello, but my oh my, back in Jefferson’s time, this must have been quite a trip up the hill. I’ll get back to this picture at the end. Take your guesses now.

If only I could have taken photos inside. If I had had any doubts Jefferson would have nothing to do with the Tea Party before…

From the side. Unfortunately, it slipped my mind to photograph the East front.

Full lawn. Jefferson later regretted deforesting this expanse, in the summer heat.

If you noticed in the side view, there was a tree cut down. This is now the last witness tree. All the flowers on the grounds are those which Jefferson planted. As with everything else intellectual, Jefferson experimented with horticulture.

Down the hill across the lawn, Jefferson created a walking path. It started out with three concentric circles, this being one of them, descending in size. Not much to look at in the photo, but I longed to go further and walk the same peaceful walk as Jefferson is said to have done to clear his mind and reflect. Oh, the thoughts he must have thought…

You don’t want to know how long I had to wait to get this shot.

This is Mulberry lane on the East side. In Jefferson’s time this would have been bustling, like a mini main street.

Of course, most of its denizens would have lived in dwellings this size. They were slaves.

This was the where the blacksmith made all sorts of things, from nails to gardening implements, horseshoes, etc. Among slaves, this was a more prized and better paying duty (Jefferson did give supplemental income depending on job).

Grave of Rachel Levy. Monticello is in the shape it is today thanks to Uriah Levy, whom bought it in the 1830s. As a Jew, he admired Jefferson’s commitment to Religious Freedom. Something which 70% of us are really forgetting today as a nation.

Vegetable garden.

Jefferson grave. Notice what he was most proud of, after the Declaration of Independence. Upon learning how many so-called “patriotic” Americans believe Muslims shouldn’t be able to run for president, he turned over yet again, I’m sure.

Thom. Not to scale at all. He should be about 1-2 inches taller than me.

In the middle of the parking lot was this. The African American graveyard. There are no lasting markers.

Right next door was Ash Lawn-Highland. James Monroe’s residence.

The front of Monroe’s simple house.

Back porch with later addition (in yellow).

He actually had relatively nice slave quarters. It should also be remembered that Monroe was what might be later called a Separatist. This is why he helped found Liberia and why its capital is called Monrovia.

The two very different personalities of the two Founding Fathers, set apart by a little hill, were very apparent.

At the University of Virginia. I’m not quite sure what this is, but it was very photogenic.

The rotunda at the University of Virginia, designed by Thomas Jefferson. Scroll back up to my first Monticello picture. This is what is seen through the (carefully tended) foliage. And you know, some days cloudy days can be great, but what I would have given for a blue sky to break up the dome here.

Also, I had to get creative, as there was scaffolding for renovations on the lower half of the building.

Final question. What on earth is Zeta ‘IMP’ about?

I wish I had of gotten some pics of the Downtown Mall. They shut down main street and made it into a very European feeling shopping, eating and cultural heart of the city. There was a very vibrant feel to the city, even when driving around the more mundane parts, that I could see myself living in Charlottesville. I enjoyed it very much.

I also, in a sense, like Lewis and Clark before me, felt part of me had come home that first night in Virginia. There was a sense of contentment to it all; a magic in the air when I stepped outside to be alone before bed.

Just don’t ever ask me to get lacrosse mania…

In my various meanderings around the whole of existence and parts of New Jersey, I have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of God, Satan and other well recognized talking heads.

It’s been my honor to share their blogs here at The Planet.

As Fate would have it (if you knew Fate as I do, you’d know how Fate always has to have things its own way or else you get the silent treatment), during my most recent hike along the Existential Trail (I didn’t run into Mark Sanford), I happened to come upon one of history’s most horrific human beings, Adolph Hitler. Well, actually it was his ghost…wearing ethereal lederhosen and a “Romney 2012″ button.

He had heard of my sharing the blogs of other famous and infamous bloggers at The Planet and, after awkwardly trying to convince me that he had come to enjoy eating at delis, asked if I would share his blog here.

So, purely in the interest of openness, free expression and shameless exploitation, here is Hitler’s Ghost’s blog:

Adolph’s Blog – 8-18-2010

If only I had a Reich Mark for every time my name is mentioned in American politics, I’d put my pals at Goldman Sachs to shame…if they had the capacity for it.

Actually, it’s been quite annoying. You spend your entire adult life demonizing other races and religions in your pursuit of consolidating power under yourself then see yourself totally ripped off by a low brow American political party. Where I am now, there’s no shortage of lawyers so I am considering my options, at a minimum, I’ve got the GOP on plagiarism and theft of trademark.

What I don’t get is that they are copying mein approach to seizing power and yet, instead of giving me credit, they fling my name as an insult at a black man who opposes what we stand for. Talk about embarrassing, George Wallace’s ghost won’t stop ragging on me and it’s getting on my nerves.

I mean, come on, either you think whipping up a nation to fear and hate minorities in a time of financial insecurity, in order to marshal a mindlessly hateful mob that will sweep you into power is cool or it’s not! You can’t adopt my strategy than use my name as a synonym for “Arschloch” on other people. And BTW, using my name and “communist” or “Marxist” on the same person? Really? Where did they get their education of history, from Texas school books?

Still, I do agree with the list of targets the GOP has been building and how they’ve been portraying them:

a. Blacks are racists who are working to turn America’s government into an African socialist society…and lop off the heads of white people along the way as a preemptive measure against the popular resurgence of polka music.

b. Gays are child molesters who want bestiality legalized and want to infect heterosexuals with The Gay. As thrice married Newt Gingrich has explained, they want to destroy marriage by first adopting it then driving it up to the country and letting it out of the car to fend for itself.

c. Latinos are all illegal immigrants, stealing jobs and white people’s tax money in the form of social services. The highly sought-after positions of Strawberry Collection Specialist, Leaf Wafting Technician and more have been greedily ripped from the hands of American workers champing at the bit to establish these careers for themselves.

d. Muslims belong to a despicable “cult” but America should be a place where there is freedom for all religions…except the ones we don’t belong to and/or are afraid of.

e. Educated and intellectual people are elitist wimps bent on destroying our country and transforming it into Communist Russia. Real leaders don’t “think” or “research” or “deliberate”, they are “Deciders” who think with their balls…or a friend’s balls if they have trouble locating their own tiny ones.

f. The weakest and most vulnerable in our society are threats to it. Lazy, unemployed workers are responsible for our economy not recovering by greedily taking a fraction of their salary from insurance they’ve paid for over the years. The poor don’t pay their fair share in taxes, instead living it up working 3 jobs or signing up for the military. The elderly with their “entitlements” are draining the government of money that could be going to give the wealthiest 1% tax cuts which, as the end of the Bush Years prove, lead to exactly the kind of booming economy Obama inherited.

Okay, am I leaving out anyone?

Add to this…so, the Reichstag is literally burned down and Republicans are rhetorically burning down the institution of government and the SCOTUS…excuse me but are my royalty checks in the mail? I thought not.

And yet, despite the current GOP being a tribute to my work, I’m the Boogy Man to whom they constantly compare their enemies. You know, you slave for your kids, give them everything they have and then one day they steal your car for a joyride with their friends, talking smack about you the whole time to announce what a jerk you are while throwing up all over your fine Corinthian leather.

It’s no fun being ahead of your time. If only I had known my philosophy would have conquered half of America’s political parties 70 years later…I might have taken Eva out of the bunker for a movie that night.

Gettysburg. I trust most people know the history.

The Train Station, where Lincoln arrived before the Gettysburg Address.

The Eternal Light Peace Memorial. In 1938, the last great reunion of Union and Confederate veterans took place, during which President Franklin D. Roosevelt inaugurated this monument to all soldiers whom fought at Gettysburg, and, In the Civil War as well. By this time, only 65 soldiers were left who had fought at Gettysburg, though the overall attendance of veterans was 1,845. Here is the archival video. [sound cuts in and out]

John F. Kennedy, when he went to Gettysburg, made a special point of coming here. He and Jackie stepped out of their car near this point. There is a flame, though it is not seen in this picture.

Another view. I love this period’s style. There’s an Art Deco feel to this, I think.

Shultz House. The tour guide said he’d been in it and there’s a famous blood stain still in the wood flooring on the second floor. Passing another house he related a story of a haunting (Gettysburg must have the most ghost tours per square mile) reputed to have a glowing blue orb emanate in the wee hours of the morning from the windows. Some years later, he said he met the owner of the house, whom often fell asleep watching TV, when it would go to a blue screen after programming ended.

From Little Round Top [Union], looking towards Devil’s Den and Round Top [Confederate].

General Warren, looking towards the Wheatfield. Our view is of Cemetery Ridge, I think.

A few from the museum. If you’ve been to Gettysburg, well, in 2008 they opened a fabulous new Visitor Center and Museum, moved the Cyclorama there and feature a video narrated by Morgan Freeman (that’s another thing about these big East Coast historic sites, lot’s of star power which seems out of place almost).

Entering the Visitor Center. My man Abe.

The flag we now most commonly refer to as the Stars and Bars is actually the second naval jack, or extended battle flag, at a 2:1 ratio, of the original battle flag of the Army of Northern Virginia. This, the first flag of the Confederate States of America (well, not this one) is what is rightfully called the Stars and Bars. The official flag by the time of the Battle of Gettysburg would have been the Stainless Banner, though. As you can imagine, this one caused some confusion in battle.

By the way, remember the Georgian Flag controversy? well, Georgia got the last laugh. Apparently they got away with this because the actual Stars and Bars 1) isn’t tied with the Segregationist and Civil Rights era and, 2) I doubt most people know what the actual Confederate national flags looked like.

I know I’ll take heat for this, but I’ve always had a thing for Confederate Officer’s uniforms (infantry having no uniform, of course, reflecting the class structure of the CSA). My favorite is the Artillery uniform. This isn’t an endorsement of the CSA, just an aesthetic quirk I have.

So okay, I confess, I did think this was really cool. Robert E. Lee’s gauntlets, on loan from the Museum of the Confederacy (which itself will be in a later post).

The Confederate line of battle, of course.

Confederate Avenue.

I’d be guessing on this. I could give a general guess, but you can just take it as a general scene. I’m pretty confident this is Union territory, though.

All right, any Civil War buffs out there? I need help in remembering these now…

This one I know. This is Pickett’s Charge, viewed from Seminary Ridge.

The last photo is taken from the site of the Virginia Monument. All of the horse’s hooves are grounded, of course, for it is General Lee. (the so-called “hoof code” is largely coincidence, though)

The base. In front of the monument someone, or some group had placed a small Bonnie Blue flag in the ground next to the warning sign of hefty fines and consequences should anyone disturb the monument. I found it odd that it was not a Virginia flag, as on the monument itself. It was one of the only times I saw the Bonnie Blue used on my trip. I do mention this, as the flag nerd I am, because it looks like an innocuous flag. So innocuous, that you may have not noticed it flying in the midst of Gadsden yellow in some pictures of Tea Parties.

Anyone have a fear of heights? The Longstreet, or Eisenhower Tower (so called because one can view the Eisenhower farm from it). This is the last of three towers standing, which were built by the War Department, to study the battle. It was built near General Longstreet’s headquarters, as the name would suggest.

Views from the tower. Looking towards the Blue Ridge Mountains.

For the next two (and I took more), here is a very helpful labeled panorama map.

Okay guys, I know where my eyes immediately are drawn, but if you’ll look to the man to the right, you will see the face of George Washington. Remember, this was seen (or sold as) the “Second American Revolution” by the South. The Confederate Seal shows this most effectively.

This is the one statue to the CSA as a whole. Dwarfed by the state monuments -- fittingly. This sits upon a column engraved with all the states of the Confederacy, the name of the last surviving Confederate veteran (died in 1959, believe it or not, at 117), and on the base reads (in capitals, of course), “heroic defenders of their country • their fame shall be an echo and a light unto eternity”. Well, they were never ones for understatement, now were they?

Rose Woods or Round Top?

General William Wells, Medal of Honor recipient. Taken for no other reason but it was striking. Just one of the many statues that pop up in the most unlikely of places at Gettysburg. This is deep in Round Top. I’m guessing there’s a great story here because this is a Union General deep in Confederate territory.

Little Round Top, looking towards Devil’s Den, a few hours after the first shot above. The sun filtering through in the late afternoon was eerily beautiful.

91st Pennsylvania monument. We’re looking towards Wheat Field, Peach Orchard and Cemetery Ridge again (though I really feel like I’m winging this).

“The Castle” monument of the 44th New York regiment.

The 20th Maine monument.

I’ve given up trying to guess… (should have taken notes)

The largest monument, fittingly, is the Pennsylvania Memorial.

I waited, and waited and waited to get a shot without any people up top. Earlier this group of guys were just hanging out over the ledge, would walk away for a second and come back. Aargh. Pet Peeve. In the end though this family just walked up as I’d finally had a clear shot, but it almost works out in its own way to demonstrate perspective of the enormity of the monument.

A view from the top.

Gettysburg National Cemetery.

The New York Monument, which I just found incredibly elegant.

Soldiers National Monument at the spot where President Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address. The cemetery was wonderfully empty, as it was evening and the light was fading.

Closeup.

I loved this story. This is Penelope. It was fired in front of the newspaper office, which was the local Democratic Party’s organ, after every Democratic victory (which was very frequent). After too much gunpowder in 1855, the cannon ruptured. This is Penelope memorialized in front of The Compiler‘s old office.

One of a few pockmarked Civil War era buildings. I love the satellite dish.

The statue of Lincoln is pointing to the window above the door. This is where he stayed the night before giving the Gettysburg Address. My hotel was right across the street. When first entering Gettysburg and looking for parking, I by pure chance parked right in front of this building.

75th Anniversary reunion. Because, this is what it should all be about [sorry, it opens up its own window on its own].

*I found this is a handy site for identifying monuments, etc.

www.gettysburg.stonesentinels.com/index.php

After Philly, headed west again. In Chester County, stopped at Longwood Gardens. The gardens were once the private estate of Pierre S. du Pont, though an arboretum had been started from the family that owned it before, the Peirce family, who themselves purchased the land from William Penn. Now, I’m again biased. It takes a lot to impress someone who knows Butchart Gardens like the back of his hand, but Longwood wasn’t too shabby, either. With limited commentary, some pretty pictures.

At the entrance, this reminded me of some Middle Eastern motifs I’ve seen. Or even tapestries from Europe.

A brilliant fire-red tree. I did enjoy the different flora, and particularly foliage of the East Coast. I was stumped until I asked a ranger later, why there were so few pine trees (remember, I’m a Northwest native), though. The variety of deciduous trees was new and fresh to me.

Fanciful topiary always makes me feel like I’m in Edward Scissorhands.

Grand view.

Me just playing with a shot from the patio where the last picture was taken.

It ain’t Holland, or Skagit Valley even, but pretty nonetheless.

An idyll fit for a sylph.

…or a homo relaxus.

An Italian Garden.

Chimes Tower.

Inside the conservatory now.

There were lots of water features, spouting out of walls, or dancing up ledges. It was whimsy taken to its fullest.

Just Gorgeous…

Behind the curtained doors in the picture above the palm, is this ballroom, which houses the console of a famous 10,010 pipe organ (under renovation, wouldn’t you know).

Still in the conservatory. Some flora.

I always figured these things were bigger. Then again, they do prey on flies, duh.

After the Longwood Gardens, it was across the county line, to, Lancaster County. First, the bumper stickers started getting really conservative. But; after that typical rural shift, there was a bigger change!

Traffic jam!

Parking?

Workin’ it with good old fashioned horsepower.

And the newer kind. Yes, they have ways of rationalizing this. I couldn’t keep up…

Like I never saw a horse before. They did have some magnificent horses though.

Amish scooters lined up outside of a schoolhouse. I barely snapped this before all of the kids came out to play and have lunch. Would’ve loved to have gotten this shot from the other side of the fence. The thing about Amish of all ages, they generally looked genuinely content and happy. Should give us all pause…

A bookstore well off the beaten path. Inside were lots of wonderful German books, including school grammars, still printed in Fraktur typeface, which fell out of favor in Germany after the Second World War. The US history books left much to be desired, though. This is minimal education, after all. Their duties are to the farm, or to work with their hands, period. Many more shops adjoined farms. If you ever go to Amish Country, a travel tip: don’t go anywhere with “Amish” in the name. It won’t be. They don’t advertise; it’s not the Amish Way.

This is a bench wagon. The Amish do not have churches. They meet in each others homes. This carries benches from one house to another.

An Amish cemetery. All the headstones are in German. They are, of course, simple.

The Stoltzfus Farm, where I ate two nights in a row. Simple, fresh fare, like “chow-chow” – no menu save for drinks and desserts (Here’s what’s served). The Amish also make the best homemade root beer and pretzels you’ll ever have, and they are famous for shoofly pie. I sampled these at a store on the back roads.

The pregnant hostess in her early 20s heard “Arizona,” and her eyes grew wide with wonder, like I might as well have been from China. She said she’d never been outside of Lancaster County. I doubt she’ll ever get beyond Pennsylvania. A few cute waitresses were still young enough though. I hope they can get out. While beautiful to visit, I don’t imagine Amish Country is a place for a non-Amish young person.

Case in point.

These residents looked happy enough, though. Dude, whatya lookin’ at?!

On the bridge above, maybe the clearest shot I got of an Amish person in a buggy. Oh, the shots I wish I had gotten. I was polite in respecting their customs, and also creeped out by viewing them too much as anthropological subjects, or tourist props. I tried to respect their privacy as much as possible. In doing so, I missed out on some fantastic shots. Especially one of two adorable blond boys framed perfectly by a buggy. It was a postcard, I tell you.

They varied in shapes, and from battleship gray to black gloss. Some were the equivalent of Mercedes, even. Just don’t try to outrun the police!

Here are buggies parked in one of the characteristic farms where you’ll find poorly marked shops, which you probably would need a guide, like I had, to find.

A mill.

Though not seen on Amish homes (always remember, ‘modesty’ is the operative word), here are some Hex signs. If not for the Hex signs, the yellow would have been a good clue too. They were introduced by the German Lutherans, rather than Mennonites. Among the Pennsylvania Dutch, I believe this Hex symbolizes fertility.

Two of the most interesting town names ever, and next to each other at that! Bird-in-Hand, and Intercourse.

I love Intercourse!

Now to go from the Junior High, to the Freudian.

Miraculously, the residences near that covered bridge put the ‘estate’ back into real estate. Maybe something a little shorter?

Which reminds me, my time is short, and I must bid adieu to Lancaster County. Bis dann!

Before parting from Lancaster city, where I’d been staying, should I have checked out this place?

—

For a colorful look at Lancaster County, this is a fun article,

http://travel.nytimes.com/2008/06/20/travel/escapes/20rituals.html

Continuing on after D.C., drove northeast to Baltimore and then Philadelphia.

The first thing I did in Baltimore was find the grave of Edgar Allan Poe. To get there, I drove past addicts in the inexplicable tourist attraction of Lexington Market and barring a parking space, had to leave the car idling next to a fire hydrant and rush into Westminster Hall’s cemetery. I wish I could have spent some more time here, as inside the walls of the burial ground I felt safe and cloistered. I am aggrieved that I didn’t have time and was too anxious to find his original grave on the grounds, as the Poe Toaster did every January 19th until the son/impostor failed to appear this past January. Also buried there is his wife (and first cousin, as we all know), her mother, as well as Poe’s brother and grandfather. While one sees ground flood lights, unlike the Poe Toaster, I would not feel comfortable in the neighborhood at night – even though John Hopkins is nearly next door.

A little less than a mile away, in housing projects, is his salvaged home. He lived in this home in the 1830′s with his aunt and Virginia Clemm. Ironically, when the proposed “Poe Homes” projects were to be built in the 1930′s, they were going to raze its namesake before it was saved by the Poe Society. Go figure. In any case, the house was under renovations and only open on Saturday from noon to 3:30. I was out of luck. But, and forgive me for sounding snooty, I wasn’t too stoked to leave the rental there anyway. It could have been perfectly safe for all I knew, but in a strange city I don’t know, I err on the side of caution. In any case, I did not have to make this decision. This picture makes it look deceptively gentrified (again, I don’t mean to sound classist, and am not casting aspersions upon all the people living there).

Here are a few pictures from Fort McHenry. O say can you see?

Baltimore Inner Harbor, and the iconic Pratt Street Power Plant. Unfortunately, I did not have time scheduled to see “John Waters’ Baltimore,” and was quite underwhelmed by what downtown offered. One could visit a museum, or eat at a restaurant, but there was little else to do there. Perhaps since I’ve been spoiled by Seattle’s Elliot Bay waterfront, that biases me. But, while I am too polite to say so, as Anthony Bourdain, who worked in the Inner Harbor for a while put it, “Baltimore sucks.”

The USS Constellation.

Given that I was not staying the night in Baltimore, I had to skip out on Fell’s Point a few blocks away, and merely drove through the cobblestone streets, with admittedly more to offer than Inner Harbor, before driving well out of tourist’s B’more to dine at Annabelle Lee’s. It is a local’s corner tavern, with a Poe theme. Moreover, though, I got the feeling of the real local’s Baltimore there. The server said they actually never get tourists. Leave it to me and my Poe fetish to stumble upon this little jewel, I guess.

Inside, the décor was delightful, and fitfully had passages of Poe’s works stenciled on the walls. The one wrapped around the window in my view, was fitting for the gathering evening clouds outside,

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn  of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher…

Indeed, I found Baltimore, or at least the parts I saw, melancholy. But, it was not without its warmth and quirkiness, either. Across from the cozy tavern atop an upper story patio deck was a New Mexico flag, illuminated by a ray of sun filtering through the clouds which were readying themselves to release an April shower. I can only imagine the story here.

And with that, driving out amid an early evening downpour past Oriole Park at Camden Yards I crossed Delaware (a Lilliputian peregrination, admittedly), and entered Philadelphia through Camden, New Jersey over the Ben Franklin Bridge. My hotel was a short trip from the bridge, and smack-dab in the middle of the Gayborhood. Apart from that perk of culture, was the view.

And, some quaint, undeniably upscale alleyways of Old City Philly. A smartly dressed woman passerby said even she was enthralled by the scene of the blossom-strewn alley.

Here’s me getting a little too cute with the lens play. Unfortunately, whatever the angle, I cannot capture how lovely it was.

On a backstreet to Independence Hall, past the Colonial Jewish Mikveh Israel Cemetery (which was not allowed in the city’s proper boundaries of the time) is Holy Trinity German Church.

Not too striking architecturally, but I have a flag fetish, and that German flag had the finest sheen I’ve ever seen. No shabby nylon flags for them. But, this is not why I mention the church. There is a small graveyard, and I do mean small, where Acadians are buried. I took a few pictures, but there is no real good angle. Not with a children’s playground nestled behind the headstones and apartment high rises to the right. Despite this, try and use your imagination, because this is what inspired the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lines in “Evangeline,”

Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.

This is near the playground, and this is just a quirky shot I liked. Call it my commentary on the sacred and the profane? [Thanks to Kes, I hadn't looked closely, but it is St. Thérèse of Lisieux]

Hey, I see stupid white people…

And even stupider…

Now, back to reality. Independence Hall from the side. Like the White House, this is another cool one to walk up to for the first time. Although I first saw it from the front, I figure there’s oodles of those pictures. How many do you see of the side? Behind this is the West Wing, where there is an original copy of the the Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and inkwell which was used to sign each of them. A breathtaking experience. It’s an unmarked building which I walked in on a whim. Boy am I glad I did! I’ve been trying to find a Gouverneur Morris quote they had above the inkwell ever since, regarding how the Constitution was the result of imperfect compromise. The strict constructionist baggers would have been mightily confused that all the Founding Fathers weren’t gods, and the Constitution neither infallible nor beyond reinterpretation.

The famous Assembly Room, which I trust I don’t need to introduce to the Planet’s readers. Did you also know that after Lincoln’s body was laid in state in Washington, that on the way back to Illinois, his body briefly laid in state in this room, as well? How ironic, that a president assassinated by a Southern sympathizer, would return via the room where the drafters of the Constitution could not come to a solution on abolishing slavery. The core issue, during the Westward expansion of the United States, that precipitated the Civil War in the first place.

This is the doorway which leads to the Assembly. I like imagining all the people that walked under its arch. Or, if I could sneak away up the restricted stairs to the bell tower!

Carpenter’s Hall. A guild building with Masonic motifs on the interior. This was where the First Continental Congress was held. One of my pet-peeves in life is unaware people. I was waiting for a free shot. This woman was chatting on her cell outside, weaving back and forth. I mean, maybe its my shy nature, but when I’m near a photo op, I’m pretty aware of getting in someone’s shot. So, she walks out of view and finally I have my shot, and it only took a few seconds of her life. What do you suppose but she walks back just as I’m clicking this and I never get another unobstructed shot. Oh well, the lighting sucked anyway.

A panorama of the bell towers of Old City Hall and Independence Hall with “The Signer” in the foreground.

The Merchants Exchange Building. The oldest surviving stock exchange in America. Incidentally, also the headquarters of the Independence National Historic Park. Pretty quiet, but visually striking.

To the right of the stock exchange, I liked this shot.

Some of the old and some of the new. The spire of Christ Church, where many Founding Fathers worshiped, in the background.

This is outside Mikveh Israel synagogue. It’s a helpful reminder, though Republican (and a Democrat or two) assholes may only believe this freedom means the “right” religions.

What’s that? Ben Franklin has something to say?

And it being found inconvenient to assemble in the open air, subject to its inclemencies, the building of a house to meet in was no sooner propos’d, and persons appointed to receive contributions, but sufficient sums were soon receiv’d to procure the ground and erect the building, which was one hundred feet long and seventy broad, about the size of Westminster Hall; and the work was carried on with such spirit as to be finished in a much shorter time than could have been expected. Both house and ground were vested in trustees, expressly for the use of any preacher of any religious persuasion who might desire to say something to the people at Philadelphia; the design in building not being to accommodate any particular sect, but the inhabitants in general; so that even if the Mufti of Constantinople were to send a missionary to preach Mohammedanism to us, he would find a pulpit at his service.

Well said Ben. Just don’t say it within two blocks of Ground Zero. Newt will have a hissy fit.

Might I push this so far as to say you’d be turning in your grave?

Christ Church Burial Ground is probably easily the oldest cemetery I’ve ever been to. As someone who spent my time in high school haunting the local cemeteries with my B&W 35 mm, I decided to get some worth out of the ground’s “suggested donation.” Just a couple.

No matter the monuments we build, we end up the same.

Just plain awesomely weird. Seriously, if you’re gonna go, might as well leave a lasting impression.

Speaking of remembrance, this was near the stock exchange, only a week after the Polish air disaster of April 10th.

To and fro the historic buildings, I walked around Washington Square. Just an unassuming city block park I had thought. But, this is the East Coast, and Old Philadelphia at that. You trip over history when you least expect it. Turns out it was a mass grave for Colonial soldiers, among others.

Just one half of the cool flags accompanying the memorial.

Free Quaker Meetinghouse. I can trace part of my family tree back to this place.

Elfreth’s Alley.

Franklin Court. The first post office, ruins of Franklin’s home, and that is the arch Franklin passed through daily (minus the car). Some neat interpretive history, like a printer, and more. There are really some interesting, niche jobs out there for history nerds.

The obligatory shot. I’m still not clear why this thing is so famous. But, in any case, is there a way human beings will ever learn not to swarm, to form single file lines, and allow each other clear shots? Oh, right, people are jackasses. The best I could hope for was to get a ranger in the shot.

Look, no people!

First Unitarian Church of Philadelphia. In the great tradition of Joseph Priestley whose correspondence also shaped Jefferson’s Bible, this was the first Unitarian church in America. Rev. Dr. William Henry Furness who later headed the First Unitarian Church of Philadelphia, was not only an abolitionist, but opposed the return of escaped slaves so much that President Buchanan almost had him charged with treason. Holding a vigil for John Brown’s body was probably part of this. Though the congregation has gone through several buildings since it was founded in 1796 under Joseph Priestley, the current one hosted a lecture on Thoreau and Gandhi, which Martin Luther King, Jr. attended, influencing his non-violent philosophy. As a Unitarian Universalist body, it also hosted a holiday pageant where Kevin Bacon, who was raised in the church, had his first acting gig. Since I didn’t make it to All Souls Church in D.C., I had to take some small satisfaction in this.

Bite me, I accidentally permanently reduced the size of the original on this before copying… I hate it when I space out.

It speaks for itself…

Swann Fountain. This is the midway between the “Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.” To the south his father designed the statue of William Penn atop the City Hall, and to the north his son created Ghosts at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Some families have too much talent.

William Penn.

I’d had a big breakfast, so I couldn’t possibly physically stuff myself with a cheesesteak. I was regretful at this, but it just wasn’t happening. I did get to see a bit of South Philly overshooting this by quite a bit, though. I swear, the sight of cars and trucks double parked on the medians was a sight to see. Apparently, there is little enforcement of traffic laws in general! The windows with flowers and Virgin Mary’s and all sorts of tackiness was a cultural experience which was new, as well. In these old big cities, I was always a little taken aback at how much of a difference one block makes. Thinks can change so much. It was not hard to imagine generations of families which have lived within a few blocks since coming to America. I couldn’t do it, though. It would feel claustrophobic to me.

In a sketchy part of town not far outside of the Old City, is Edgar Allen Poe’s Philadelphia home. I’m silly, and perhaps naïve, as I got right out and took pictures, while most people just drove by. Where the mural is, to the left, a young man was sitting and cars driving up… To the right, a grandma was waiting at a bus stop, but never got on a bus. When I tried to give her a smile, she was cold. I still don’t know what the deal really was, but I don’t imagine cop cars visit that neighborhood often, if they don’t have to. It’s funny that only after I’m driving away do I fit it all together and get a chill down my spine. I guess, in this instance, I was one of those assholes too absorbed in my own world to pay attention to my surroundings – which is very rare for me – I’m usually hyper-aware. It is one of the times where I appreciate my long hair more than usual. In other words, I’m no narc. This one was actually part of the National Park Service. But, its hours were limited too. No matter, I didn’t want to leave the car out of my sight. Somehow, it’s fitting that though he wrote “The Black Cat” in this house, Poe can still produce a bit of a startle and unease from beyond his grave in Westminster Hall.

Back to the Christ Church cemetery, before I bid thee all adieu…

A cowboy named Bud was overseeing his herd in a remote mountainous
pasture in  California when suddenly a brand-new BMW advanced toward
him out of a cloud of dust.           

The driver, a young man in a Brioni suit, Gucci shoes, RayBan
sunglasses and YSL tie, leaned out the window and asked the cowboy, “If
I tell you exactly how many cows and calves you have in your herd, Will
you give me a calf?” 

Bud  looks at the man, obviously a yuppie, then looks at his peacefully
grazing herd and calmly answers, “Sure, Why not?” 

The yuppie parks his car, whips out his Dell notebook computer, connects
it to his Cingular RAZR V3 cell phone, and surfs to a NASA page on the
Internet, where he calls up a GPS satellite to get an exact fix on his
location which he then feeds to another NASA satellite that scans the
area in an ultra-high-resolution photo.
         
The young man then opens the digital photo in Adobe Photoshop and
exports it to an image processing facility in Hamburg , Germany .
           
Within seconds, he receives an email on his Palm Pilot that the image
has been processed and the data stored. He then accesses an MS-SQL
database through an ODBC connected Excel spreadsheet with email on his
Blackberry and, after a few minutes, receives a response.   

Finally, he prints out a full-color, 150-page report on his hi-tech,
miniaturized HP LaserJet printer, turns to the cowboy and says, “You
have exactly 1,586 cows and calves.”                        

“That’s right. Well, I guess you can take one of my calves,” says Bud.

He watches the young man select one of the animals and looks on with
amusement as the young man stuffs it into the trunk of his car.
                 
Then Bud says to the young man, “Hey, if I can tell you exactly what
your business is, will you give me back my calf?”       

The young man thinks about it for a second and then says, “Okay, why
not?”       

“You’re a Congressman for the U.S. Government”, says Bud.         

“Wow! That’s correct,” says the yuppie, “but how did you guess that?”

“No guessing required.” answered the cowboy. “You showed up here even
though nobody called you; you want to get paid for an answer I already
knew, to a question I never asked. You used millions of dollars worth of
equipment trying to show me how much smarter than me you are; and you
don’t know a thing about how working people make a living – or about
cows, for that matter.  This is a herd of sheep. ….     

Now give me back my dog.

Just tryin’ to keep it real.  Seems to me, some days you just gotta laugh to keep from balling, ya know?

Yup, since getting back in May from my trip in April, I’ve been putting this off for far too long. Due to popular demand, I’ve pared down 5,000 photos (not all of them winners, admittedly) and so here we go. Gather around the couch, fix your eyes on the projector screen, and enjoy.

I arrived in Washington, D.C. on the final day of the Cherry Blossom Festival, April 11th. This is near the Ronald Reagan Building, with the Capitol in the background.

Southern Belles in Constitution Gardens by the pond.

On the other side of the pond Sikhs were celebrating Vaisakhi. One could hear the kirtan music being performed on the stage (an example) filling the air from where the Southern Belles were. Add a gaggle of Irish Pipe Band members in kilts and this is definitely my kind of city!

I really don’t need to identify what this next picture is. There is a park service ranger responsible there, with ladder and book, for helping anyone find a name on the wall. I was amazed at how efficient he was. One thing I was struck by was how much smaller it was than I had imagined. I mean, it’s hard to quantify nearly 59,000 names. Then again, it’s a bit of an optical illusion, being nestled as it is into a knoll.

One end of the arched Vietnam Memorial points towards the Washington Monument, the other, towards the Lincoln Memorial. Of all the many photos I took I decided to choose this. How many times have you seen the ceiling of the “Temple” in pictures?

Sometimes, one misjudges when trying to shoot over people’s heads, and it works out anyway. I wish the resolution had been higher, ’cause I liked this cropped photo with words from Lincoln’s second inaugural address (I do not know the girl, unfortunately).

The first thing I saw upon landing at Ronald Reagan Airport, and the landmark which helps you get your bearing at nearly all times, is the Washington Monument, with the Capitol in the background. One is struck by all the layers of symmetry in the original city planning of L’Enfent and all the monuments large and small added since. Here, the WWII Memorial is nestled between the end of the Reflecting Pool and the hillock upon which the Washington Monument stands, but is not readily seen here. A Navy drill team can be seen in the bottom right.

The Korean War Memorial, near the Lincoln Memorial. In the reflection of the black granite can be seen both the ghostly faces sandblasted into the stone, as well as the stainless steel statues representing the soldiers who fought in the Forgotten War. I went back after dark later in the trip, and that is especially haunting.

Speaking of forgotten, don’t you think World War I deserves something more than this? Then again, I love it for its quaint, dignified simplicity. At the time I hadn’t known what it looked like and only later realized that this photo I’d snapped on a whim had been it. A shame, I would have liked to at least walk around it.

From the last remaining sakura in bloom on the Tidal Basin. It was tricky to get this as everyone flocked to it, tried to politely get a few shots, and moved on to the Jefferson Memorial.

I thought this was sort of ironic, on some level, though Jefferson was no atheist.

I also took a few pictures (which I won’t show) of one of the quotes on a large panel I really liked:

I am not an advocate for frequent changes in laws and constitutions. But laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind. As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths discovered and manners and opinions change, with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also to keep pace with the times. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors.

Never mind that I was there both at midday and evening, and surely hope that morning gives a photographer better lighting. I had a hard time getting any really good shots. This next one was about the only one with good lighting.

North façade of the White House. The first time I caught view of it was the southern façade when I didn’t have my camera, or it had ran of out of battery power. I can’t describe what it’s like to see it around the bushes for the first time. It’s a little like the feeling of magic Disneyland gave me as a kid.

Arlington Cemetery. With the inexplicable conservative criticism over Thurgood Marshall, I’m not sure I should be showing the general location of this, but here is his grave, with Arlington House in the top left. Arlington House is where Robert E. Lee lived and wrote the letter which resigned his commission in the US Army.

John F Kennedy’s eternal flame. When crossing the Arlington Memorial Bridge from the Lincoln Memorial into Virginia at night, this little flame can be seen vividly. I wondered if they turned it up at night. But, in any case, it is another example of the symmetry of the whole area. I can only imagine that the surveyor, George Washington, would have been pleased.

RFK’s gravestone. Directly underneath the Lee House. There is no more prestigious, or dramatic place to be buried in the cemetery.

To the left of Robert’s final resting place, with the same simple gravestone and cross, is his brother Teddy’s grave.

This is the view from the Lee mansion, and why the Union Army seized it early on in the Civil War.

Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns. This is located behind a very photogenic Greek style amphitheater of which I clicked a few good shots, as well. Audie Murphy’s simple grave is across the entrance to the amphitheater.

Hail to the Chief! Turning onto Pennsylvania Avenue, during the Nuclear Security Summit, the President’s motorcade. Okay, so, I decided to pick the second limo here, but it could have been the first. The only thing bad about this is you can’t the Secret Service Officer in the white very well. He had stopped us there, next to the Treasury Building for around five to ten minutes before we could even hear the sirens. If I had thought that was scary though, my heart went still when I saw the SUV’s with windows rolled down and MP5‘s in very deliberate view. When trying to remember the name of the gun I happened upon a Freeper discussion which claimed that “Obama’s Secret Service” was aiming them at the crowd protesting HCR (yeah, what would be the heightened security concern, anyway?). But get over it, it’s just not you, it’s protocol. It was actually hilarious, the Freeper’s hysterical paranoia. Unfortunately, I don’t have pictures of the SUVs. Though I clicked a few of the motorcade, I didn’t feel like testing the graces of the scary lookin’ dudes with the submachine guns.

This is where there was an older couple, which exchanged knowing glances with me, a smirk, and I almost felt as if we’d break out in conspiratorial giggles together. I’ve put the street sign in this photo so you may identify the building yourself.

Within the innermost chamber of this Temple of Justice where a soon-to-be secret Muslim Jewish Justice will sit, some overly confidant and enthusiastic dumbfuck asked when the Health Care Bill would be on the docket.  Luckily, the buxom blonde (forgive me, but it left an impression) whom had politely held back eyerolling told Mr Dumbfuck to check the docket online for upcoming cases. I think it was a wise move not to mention who was between Charlemagne and Justinian in the courtroom frieze (it’s Muhammad).

Inside the Library of Congress. Not far from the Great Hall (pictured) is a vellum copy of the Gutenberg Bible, and the Giant Bible of Mainz. On the second floor was a recreation with period books, of Jefferson’s library. They are trying to track down every book. For some reason I thought of scenes from The Ninth Gate, globe trekking to track them all down. This was one of my favorite places on the trip. I’ve always found libraries more spiritual and replenishing than church. And, even though the building had no books itself (apart from those exhibited), it was a Cathedral to Learning. The décor and art adorning it was all gorgeous. I am admittedly one of those people that digs really ornate styles, though. They had an interesting exhibition on Afghanistan I was only able to scan, unfortunately. I had to miss a lot of stuff like that I hadn’t slated, due to limited time and scheduling.

Another one of my favorite places, so much so, I visited it twice. The Freer Gallery of Art. Not only does it have an excellent exhibition of pieces from China, Japan, Egypt, India and the Middle East, it also features American art featuring the works of James Abbot McNeill Whistler. Unlike other Smithsonians, you can have it to yourself and no metal detectors, which did throw off the routine I had down pat.

In the museum, the holy grail for me was this, a silver phiale from the reign of Artaxerxes I (465-425 BCE) with inscriptions in Old Persian Cuneiform.

The Capitol Building from the Eastern side, the Senate is in the foreground. The House is in session (trivia: how can you tell?).

“Speaking” of the House.

The Capitol rotunda, with the Apotheosis of Washington. I actually liked the Statuary Hall too, perhaps better. Unfortunately I was on tour and it was crowded with other groups, and I was pretty much rushed and too discombobulated to patiently focus on getting great pictures in either chamber.

This is an underground tunnel to the Cannon House Office Building. On the way back, our group sans guide, who had ditched us, used a VIP elevator by mistake (it’s not clearly marked from underground) and on the main floor got the stinkeye from some suit. It was funny that rather than feel like I did something wrong, I got some satisfaction out of this fellow having to share it with us common folk. I get the security concerns, but on the way down an aide offered to take us back down on it with her, should we not catch the regular elevator.

This is my congresswoman’s office. In it, before the tour, I had met my old precinct captain during the 2008 election who remembered me. Apparently she’d moved up in the world since then, but still remembered little ol’ me. Quite embarrassingly, I more immediately recognized her, but blanked on her name (which was on the tip of my tongue, but nothing came) and had to consult my journal two years back later that night. Right after taking this picture, three attractive young women passed us in the hall. I was looking at the two cute ones in the front obscuring the third one, that only upon looking back did I realize that I’d just passed my congresswoman! What are the chances of that timing?

This is the Botanic Garden on the Capitol. Seriously, it’s right there across the street from the Western front of the Capitol Building. Walk in. Especially if you were to go in Winter, you have a piece of the tropics right there. If I were a low-level staffer, I also imagine it would be a convenient place to catch some relaxation time. I saw one person just zonked out chilling on one of the benches whom I imagined fit the profile. I was less impressed by the Desert Southwest section. Oh wow, barrel and prickly pear cacti. Whoopdy friggin’ doo! I couldn’t wait to get out of there. It took away from the feeling that I was on vacation.

National Gallery of Art. Gilbert Stuart’s portrait of Washington. It just may look familiar. Yup, this is the one. Next to it Stuart’s Jefferson. I went back to the National Gallery later, so more to come.

Museum of Natural History, Harappan seal, ca. 2500 BCE. This section and the adjoining Ancient Egyptian exhibit were the highlights of this Smithsonian for me.

Hirshhorn Sculpture Garden. I just loved this piece. I never made it in the museum, but this is quite eye catching when walking the mall.

Seriously, they just need to raze this and start over. The butt ugly Watergate gives new meaning to Foggy Bottom.

The President’s Box at the Kennedy Center (which is next to the Watergate). All the pictures in it are of the First Couple taken attending shows.

Hall of Nations in Kennedy Center saturated in evening shadows.

The C&O “Canal” in Georgetown. So much for that boat ride…

Oh well, I can always have a drink. Here is my Mint Julep from the Willard’s Round Robin Bar. This is the bar in which Henry Clay first mixed the drink in Washington.

Cheers!

In this shocking, unedited video, Andrew Breitbart proudly announces to an audience that he was on crack cocaine during the birth of his children, is in rehab, has sexual problems, is a narcissist and in the end confesses, “I’m kind of a fraud.”

Should he be forced to resign?

Please spread this video around, the people have a right to know the truth…but send them this link anyway!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GYigEUvG3Bo

One of our very talented members here at The Planet (you’ll have to guess who, I’m not tellin’!) has just had their latest book released! A Planet- sized congratulations!!!

I invite you to join me in supporting our fellow member and their talent by buying and reading their new work, “Forgotten Heroes and Villains of Sand Creek”. Here’s a summary from Amazon.com:

On November 29, 1864, Colonel John Chivington led a bloody and terrible raid on an encampment of Arapaho and Cheyenne who had come to the area believing they were on a path to peace. Before it was over, between 130 and 180 Native Americans had been massacred. This attack, known as the Sand Creek Massacre, is one of the most well-known and notorious events in Colorado’s history.

In Forgotten Heroes and Villains of Sand Creek, author Carol Turner turns an eye to the central characters, their histories and how they came to be part of this bloody episode. This fascinating look at such a pivotal event, its instigators and its martyrs includes the stories of John Chivington, an ambitious preacher with a streak of cruelty; Captain Silas Soule, a man who is still honored today by the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes for his efforts in saving their ancestors; Ned Wynkoop, one of Soule’s compatriots who had a change of heart regarding the tribes; Chief One Eye, a persuasive and charismatic medicine man; and many, many more.

You can find it at Amazon.com through this link: http://www.amazon.com/Forgotten-Heroes-Villains-Sand-Creek/dp/1596299436

Or at Borders.com at this link: http://www.borders.com/online/store/TitleDetail?sku=1596299436

Once you’ve read it, feel free to post your comments and thoughts about this book on this post.

After buying the old farmhouse at the end of March, I quickly went around to its back to look at what I had really purchased it for.  Because, although the house was very old and pretty in a vernacularly plain way, the property upon which the house sat was the real gem.  Sloping just this side of gentle as an expansive amphitheater of lawn down to the woods below, it swirled around outcroppings of gray rock and pistachio-colored lichen. It passed two or three ancient apple trees and went through a proscenium arch formed by opposing copses of enormous white paper birches; their tallest branches meeting high above the lawn’s center stage. It could have  called “Nature’s Gothic Doorway”.

As I took stock of my newly purchased out-of-doors I imagined how the old farm’s horse-drawn carts would travel upon the flat ribbon of trail that switch-backed midway across the slope. The trail now made a subtle snaking terrace of grass.

It was in contemplation of all this when I was met with large mossy rocks, boulders actually, and a distinct squish beneath my feet.  Bending down, I saw small  percolations of spring water rising to the lawn’s surface which then ran beneath my feet and across the descending lawn beyond, in broad sheets.  There were six or seven of them spread over a small distance, all converging down “stream” like a large ooze creating a fan of soggy lawn.  I could barely contain my excitement.  An onlooker may have seen my muted jump for joy.   I became instantly obsessed with visions of what my soggy lawn fan could become.

I impatiently rushed up to the kitchen and with a very large, handy serving spoon, I scooped out a few spoonfuls of ground releasing more water from its high table just beneath the grass .  The more I dug, the more water gushed out. My mind feverishly had its way with both spoon and ground as I  fantasized what must certainly be a torrent just below the surface.  I came up with a plan.  I’d merge all these springs into a stream that was to tumble, froth, and foam as it swept all its way down to the woods.  For that, I was going to need a shovel.

Trading in spoon for spade, I excavated around the springs .  As water emerged and descended the slope, I guided them by taking spadefuls of earth  and directed them to converge.  With each spring I had the same “dialogue”. In our dialogue, some of the springs did not like my bullying, domineering nature, rather, they stubbornly stayed submerged beneath thicker mud and bigger stones.  I relented, letting them have their way because I knew my plan was a good one and as long as I didn’t force the issue Nature would eventually agree with me in the end.  Nature just didn’t know that yet.  I knew it would take days and days of digging, sloshing, negotiating, arguing with , submitting to, but occasionally dominating the subterranean ocean I was sure I was now in charge of.

A stream was indeed there, sort of.  By now, it had all the water I could summon from its admittedly modest headwaters.  All the water it was ever to get all year because it was early Spring. My efforts produced a small but respectable brooklet. I was  pleased.  I ran the hundred yards or so up to the house into the kitchen and looked out the window toward my birch tree theater and the lawn’s new onstage star:  My stream.  At first I thought I actually saw it, but it turned out to be a rock.  I squinted wanting to believe my eye saw what was not really visible but what they wished was: A stream. Any stream.  I continued to scan and scout, and finally with the shift of the sun and its beginning to set,  I saw glimmers of backlit water.  So, it really was there.  I would just have to wait till the sun’s position in the sky was just so or resort to binoculars.  Neither option was good.  A revision of my plan was therefore needed.  WHY?  I wanted to see water, water, water!  I wanted to see  water from every room that overlooked the back yard and that meant nearly every room in the house.  So, my dream remained lofty as I realized my resources were more meager than I even admitted to myself.

Still, a vision is a vision and what does one replace a vision failed than with another vision?!  A new plan!  A pool!  So clever I thought.  So easily done.  I had already done the hard work and gotten the springs to obey me (with some compromise of course) making them form a single runnel (I could now admit my stream was no more than a largish runnel because I now had a  better dream, a more important vision).  All I’d have to do is dig something for the runnel to flow into and contain the water so it could reflect what was above.  For what is water really good for apart from drinking, if not for reflecting sky and trees around it?  In a matter of a day or two there it was.  It worked!  It was splendid!  Not only did it reward me with little ripples upon its surface, but those ripples could be seen from my kitchen window, the perch which acted as final judge of whether my vision was realized or not.  True my pool was small, only three feet by four and about eight inches deep.  But, it was shaped like an eye  which grew silver and then gold and occasionally hazel when the clouds allowed the sky to peek through.  I had an eye of water!  An eye of liquid mirroring a hovering birch branch or flying bird.  An eye in the landscape.  I rested.  My vision turned out to be an eye.

Spring continued.  New leaves on the birch added green to my eye while greater warmth stole water from it.  My eye was shrinking and shrinking fast.  It then dried up completely.  Yes, it would fill with  a hard rain, spill over even, only to cruelly return to a dark hollow socket. I was new here and Nature was not junior to my groping expertise at landscape design.   Evaporation, my unexpected foe, was now also joined by a retreating water table which absconded with my water, having its way with it deep below the surface.  I became jealous and grieved.  I knew I must win back the heart of my vision.  Scheming and plotting, I  knew full well I would resort to any trick to fool Nature into giving me what I felt was rightfully mine.   But I knew Nature had a vested interest and owned more than half of my venture’s shares so  I figured I’d better have Nature sitting with me at the water table during our next board meeting.

I figured I could  only enter the water table’s lair by digging deeper.  I could minimize water loss by making the basin wider, longer, and deeper, thereby  yielding a substantial volume of water to resist evaporation. Who knew? I might even unearth more springs! The summer was the time to dig, before the Winter ice and snow and Spring run  made digging and dredging necessary with back breaking labor.

I  invested in picks, shovels, wheelbarrows, pails and rope.  I dug into the gravel with the moist sand enticing me with what just laid below.  Occasionally, rain filled the bottom of my basin with a few inches of muddy water.  On one summer day, after such a rain, I saw a frog had come to investigate my work.  It was bobbing in the water looking directly at me.  I was charmed.  So charmed by an acknowledgment such as this and so grateful in fact, that I made a pact with the green wood frog (I also knew the rest of nature would be  listening).  I told the frog “I’m digging this for you, you know!”  The frog looked at me, impassively, not judging, just blankly appraising like frogs are wont to do. “That’s right. I promise you  a home”.  The frog stayed put, bobbing, while I dug the rest of the day filling buckets of earth and water and dumping them on the shore.  I took care not to accidentally evict the frog to whom I had just promised a home.

Now that froggie had come a-calling and since I promised him a home, my digging intensified.  I dug by moonlight, I dug in rain,  I dug when I cried, I dug while I sang. I’d fall down digging getting up just to fall into the mud again. I was called flat out crazy by some. A lunatic. A lunatic?  For digging under a full moon?  Well, I needed the moon’s opinion too!  Besides, it was so kind to illuminate my venture.

“Why don’t you just get somebody with a back hoe to dig it out for you?”.  A back hoe?  NO!  I’m the one having this conversation with my  soon-to-be-pond, not a man with some machine.  Not that I didn’t give the back hoe idea  a thought myself.  But I knew it would not do.

The winter returned, but that did not dissuade me from digging and dredging.  The water popped out of  the ground anew and trickled down the slope, once again letting me know where I should dig and where to surrender my piece of my vision to Nature’s will.  Furthermore, the water also cooperated by making my work easier.  Water helped me dig in the ice and snow as flowing water doesn’t freeze, so it melted and softened any ground it permeated. I could take out the ground in chunks. For that, I was often thankful and praised the water. The pool was now shaping up to be a large basin of mud and ice.  It was uglier than a cesspool.  Thinking the honeymoon might be over, I even started thinking of it as a cesspool.

One day, expecting the UPS man to arrive with a package, I thought I’d play a joke.  After I heard he’d arrived, I walked up to the house in my muddy work clothes, my hair and face caked with earth.  I greeted him and  told him not to mind my appearance.  That I was just in the middle of “cleaning the bathroom”.  I don’t know how he responded because by the time I finished my words laughing myself blind with hysterics, he was gone.  That’s what nature was doing to me.  Making me submit to uncontrollable giddiness and probably unwelcomed bathroom humor.

Because the emerging pond had become so ugly that Winter, come early Spring, I decided the pool was to be festooned with wild flower plants I was to start from seed.  But by that time the pool was not simply a pool anymore.  It had grown and began to take shape as bits of green emerged around it. It became more defined and rich.  It had become deep… five feet.  It was long…. twenty five feet and nearly as wide.  I stopped digging for a moment and looked.  It was actually becoming something and it kept on becoming something, a something I had been seeing only in my mind’s eye for a couple of years now.  I felt like I both knew it intimately yet was  detached and  astonished by it.  It was something so alien and wonderful.

I stopped digging for a few days allowing the silt to settle.  With the water clear and the emergent vegetation all around beginning to cloak the ground it was becoming  sort of magnificent to me.  I had channeled the excess run off from the pond making a small but effective cascade down a staircase of rocks.  It even made a sound.  I planted more flowers all around to give it a crowning glory.  I tidied up, I admired, I meditated, I was mesmerized.  I almost slept with it.

One late May afternoon,  when I could not think of anything more to do, I sat with my back against one of the mossy boulders under which so much of my spring emerged.  The sun was starting to make its descent and through the trees, light was hitting the water so as to reflect the ripples  like a screen upon the flat face of one of the giant stones.  I watched this display for a few moments when I noticed next to me under a marsh marigold blossom was a frog.  Its body postioned, once again, toward me head on.  It stared and ballooned its membranes signaling my work was done.  I told the frog “See?  I told you I would make a place for you to live”.  Satisfied now, I got up and began to ascend the lawn through the proscenium of birch, turning often to see what the pond looked like from as many angles and altitudes as I could.  The sky was blue,  rays of sun slipped through the chartreuse leaves.  There was a rich shadow giving a mysterious contrast to the land.  The air was soft, dry,  fragrant and clear.  I reluctantly bid adieu to my pond and entered the house.  I made my way to the kitchen where my husband was waiting.  I went to the sink and looked out from my perch of judgment.  There it was.  A miraculous tarn of clear mountain spring water peeking through “Nature’s Gothic Doorway.

Just then I caught sight of a large splash followed by waves which hit the shores.  It must have been some large frog I thought, maybe even a bull frog.  But through the birches I saw something entirely different.  There, floating and bobbing, was a duck.  By the looks of it a female.  I couldn’t speak.  Before I realized I couldn’t speak I saw another duck: A male.  To me, any male duck is a mallard as he was painted these most beautiful shades of caramel, red, purple iridescent rainbow and emerald green, and blue.  Too many colors!  All outlined in a bright white.  By this time the sheer adrenaline of seeing something that beautiful overtook me and broke my silence.

“Look!!”.
My husband came to the window and said:
“Oh, wow!  That is the most beautiful duck I’ve ever seen, I wonder what kind it is”.

“A mallard”.
“Oh no it’s not” he said.  “That is the most beautiful duck in the world” and since neither of us knew what kind of duck it was, I decided to identify it with the help of a bird book.  It took no time to identify it as a wood duck.  The first line of text describing it was: ”Considered by many to be the most beautiful duck in the world…”

Had I a vision of making a pond so that two  unknown birds would find it and swim, taking up courtship activities there every morning and evening for two weeks at the end of May, I never could have done it.    Nature made sure I knew it was pleased.  I was given the gift of a vision I could have never envisioned.