Barks at Planes

Photo by Alanna Mallery

My dog is no Kevin Costner. As far as I know he doesn’t even know Kevin Costner or Lloyd Bentsen for that matter.  That lack of familiarity should on no account make him less worthy of his own nickname.

I saw Kevin Costner, back in 1991, on the campus of Middle Tennessee State in Murfreesboro, not too far from Nashville. Well, it wasn’t actually him. There was a pretty good likeness of him though considering the floppy screen they were showing Dances with Wolves on for $2 that evening in the student union. I was there studying Theatre and Music Recording and from what I recall here these twenty years later I believe there was a little of each of those in that film.

I didn’t have any dog back then. I was living in a dorm on campus and I don’t believe that sort of thing was allowed. I did have a Russian roommate named Igor. Actually he and his family had just moved here from the Ukraine.  He looked more like Yakov Smirnoff than Boris Yeltsin. But he had more of a Boris Yeltsin sense of humor. I never asked him but I don’t think he knew Kevin Costner either. I might have helped him spell Kevin Costner a time or two. I helped him out quite often with his reading and writing assignments. Not sure why, but that fellow seemed to have an awful time pronouncing and spelling words.

Barks at Planes is not much for enunciation or spelling either. Don’t judge him though; we just adopted him from Parma a couple of years ago.

A lot of people say that a dog is man’s best friend. I’ve got to tell you though, sometimes old Barks at Planes seems awfully fond of my wife. We have found that beyond the companionship a dog can bring into your home, he can bring you a feeling of safety and security as well.  Just this afternoon I was bringing my son home from school. Barks at Planes loves to go for rides. He’s very happy when we pull up and he sees our buddy waiting for us. 9 times out of 11 my boy hops into the back to ride with our dog on the way home. When we got home today we stood out back for a while watching Barks at Planes tromping around playing in the snow. As we stood watching, a jet came roaring nearby and sure enough there the dog went running and jumping and barking, ferociously defending his turf. Right then and there it occurred to me. Not once since Barks at Planes has come to live with us here has a single airplane even attempted to land in our back yard. And in this day and time that’s just one less thing to worry about.

All Quiet on the Quabbin

“The clue is Thickly Settled.”

 “What is: How I felt after my second bowl of Bob’s famously spicy chili, Alex?”

 “Good answer, but remember the category is Road Signs… road signs.”

 I read that particularly peculiar sign for the first time near the Massachusetts town of Petersham when I was 24 years old. Our destination was the last building standing on the edge of that partially submerged and nearly forgotten town. Our final turn lead us onto a frozen road down toward the Quabbin Reservoir about 60 odd miles west of Boston. The trees and ground were heavily coated with a recent snow. The family of Laura Ingalls Wilder seemed to inhabit the home on the corner where tin buckets hung hopefully from spigots attached to sugar maples.

 Turns out “Thickly Settled” is shorthand for “caution you might come across a live animal other than deer or chipmunks ahead! Possibly even a human!” That possibility all but vanished as we turned Bob’s rattling blue/gray hand-me-down Ford wagon onto that final and perfectly frozen road. Bob was my friend and card partner from the Charlestown Navy Yard. We lived there among about 20 other park rangers in the old Marine Barracks. For work Bob carried a gun, I used my mouth.

 That road! It was a harbinger that both frightened and inspired me. So much so, that the photograph is forever etched in my memory and coincidentally displayed on a shelf in our living room. Had I been driving I would have thought hard about turning back. There are few things that evoke the trepid, tranquil peacefulness of that scene.

 A short, slippery drive later we came upon a dwelling. It was wooden, small and white, with an even smaller building out back. The undersized coziness of it was a blessing since the only heat came from a near miniature black wood-burning stove. The land and buildings had been purchased some time back by Bob’s grandfather. The narrow but functional kitchen had an odd contraption in it; a crank handle. Unless your last name was Keebler you had to turn the crank to hoist the roof in order to cook. Ingeniously the roof was emotionally involved with a bit of screen, leaving small windows at the roof level after cranking.  The second small wooden building was, as I discovered later that evening at twelve Fahrenheit, an outhouse and the only option available.

 Early next morning we took off through just about nine inches of freshly falling snow. I wore, for the first time ever, a pair of prehistoric looking snow shoes and Bob wore cross country skis that Bob Cratchett may have recognized. Never before or since have I worked so hard to enjoy the serene silence. I crunched, Bob swooshed and though we carried on a lively and jovial conversation on occasion we both mostly just enjoyed being. When we reached our destination, we laughed and skid along the edge and tried to drop rocks large enough to break through the ice. Exhausted then, in the late morning shadows of Soapstone Hill, we sat in total stillness staring out in peaceful bliss at nearly 400 billion gallons of the ice-coated Quabbin. Thoreau had his pond, we had an entire reservoir.

 I could not, would not have thought to write about this back then.  Often when you are caught up in your moment it is hard to contemplate your reality: and vice versa. Up to that moment we had lived our entire lives. Looking back now, I am glad I captured it in photos but not words. Thoreau said, “How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.”

 I’ve been back many times since. I heard my very first Loon during one visit there. We later climbed Soapstone, Rattlesnake and other intriguing hills. We spent too few weekends there when my wife and I were first dating and Bob and Deb were newlyweds. Lately my visits are only through photographs and memories. One day soon, I’d love to turn back onto that final frozen road with my family still laughing at the “Thickly Settled” signs: even if only to spend one wintery weekend with Bob and his family.  Of course, he’ll insist upon embarrassing me with a game or two of Cribbage.  Soon after we’ll all drift off to sleep with Bob stoking the fire. Then soon, other than the crackles from the fire and the gentle snores, all will be quiet on the Quabbin… At least until I fall asleep.

I’d Rather Be in Bahia Honda

 

Flashback January, 1994. I had just finished directing “Waiting for Godot” and taking a course in Ethics to wrap up my requirements for graduation at UMass Boston. I was officially in limbo and limbo was hovering around twelve degrees Fahrenheit. Nights were much colder than that. I couldn’t remember the last time it had been above freezing.

My long stint as a park ranger at Boston National Historical Park, where I’d been working my way through finishing up my degree, had come to an end in December. I was free as a bird, but broke as hell. My good friend Bill Crumley and I had been buskering at a couple of the larger stops on the MTA. Charlie had nothing on us! We usually were able to afford lunch afterward.

One day as we were bundling up to brave the cold I casually mentioned that it was 78 degrees in Key West, Florida. We woke up a couple of mornings later in Atlantic City. Two lucky slot machines had afforded us a room for the night, a couple of meals and extra gas money. We decided we would stay off the interstate that day and take the Cape May Ferry. Somewhere in Delaware that day we emerged from our vehicle and felt something very strange. Sunshine! Rays at 35 degrees actually felt as though they were warming our skin and souls.  We stood in our shirt sleeves and mercifully absorbed. I remember it vividly. It still makes me smile.

A couple of short rest stop naps, greasy food and bad coffee is what we rolled into the Everglades on a couple of days later. We had a couple of beers and played some songs in the sawgrass beside the gators in the light of a carbide glow with my friend and former co-worker at Mammoth Cave, Chuck DeCroix.

Where or how we discovered Bahia Honda I don’t recall. Bill would. He is blind and his reliance on memory for many things has created one of the worlds top walking encyclopedias. On our many trips now I have blurted out the name of a passing obscure monument or battlefield and become the delighted recipient of an intriguing lesson in history. The lucky fact remained, we discovered Bahia Honda. Not like Columbus discovered America. Okay, well maybe actually kind of in the same way.

Bahia Honda to me stands for all that is good in a cold winter in America. It lies just past the Seven Mile Bridge, a nice distance from Key West. Without coats and winter boots, we hiked and camped and sat very still for long hours staring at the water. We shared stories and songs and meals with our campsite neighbors. We recovered and rejuvenated.

I stupidly called home on a payphone to check messages. Cell phones then required you to wear a transmission disc attached to a hardhat on your head and they still had rotary dials. I returned one of the calls and was offered a seasonal job as a park ranger at Lowell National Historical Park back up in Massachusetts. I asked when, they said two weeks. I looked up into a sky filled with sunsine and warmth, then over at my friend Bill. We were still planning to visit my brother in New Orleans. I spoke into the phone thanking them and declining their offer.

Five minutes later, back at our beachside campsite enjoying the last of our beer. I leaned against my car and felt the thinness of my wallet. Two weeks later I rejoined the National Park Service.

I loved that job and every one that came after. I sit here now just outside of Cleveland, Ohio in 2011. I find myself once again seeking a job and looking at this Friday’s low temp of seven degrees. I’m nearly running late to meet some of the Tibbee Bottom Boys for lunch and its time to bundle up. I’d rather be in Bahia Honda!

Eggs New Orleans

I love to eat!  I enjoy new flavors and combinations. This morning I had planned on just frying up a couple of eggs. What eventually landed on my platter was a creation I call Eggs New Orleans!

As I dug in the fridge for the eggs I noticed some fresh Andouille. That sent my mind reeling back to a trip last spring that took me twice through New Orleans. I stayed with family along St. Charles giving me streetcar access to Bourbon Street and the French Quarter. In less than thirty minutes one evening I discovered a sad truth. I had outgrown Bourbon Street. The happy truth is that discovering the sad truth allowed me to discover the real New Orleans!  Aw Yeah! I found marvelous restaurants off Bourbon, the kind that have dishes on the menu with fresh, local ingredients that are only served while they last. My brother and sister-in-law took me to where all the local musicians had migrated. Away from the drunken thump of Bourbon Street is now where you can find the music that made New Orleans!  While out that evening they invited me to return the next weekend, after Easter in Texas,  for the French Quarter Festival, which I am so thrilled to have gone back for! Many say it is what Jazz Fest was before it went corporate.

This is how we get back to eggs. The French Quarter Festival began with an early morning parade. Well, early for me anyhow. I found my way via streetcar down to the Quarter and discovered I had time for breakfast. It was one of the best meals I ate during my six-week long trip. The eggs were perfectly over easy, the bacon was bendable but not breakable, the toast was slightly garlicky and  the grits were steamy and spicy. The chicory also seemed to be laced with  a hot spiciness. Wake up, I did!  This morning when I saw the Andouille this is what flashed through my mind.

Here is how I prepared my dish:

Hand rub a cold pan with olive oil, bring up to medium heat, fry 2 eggs over easy, add a pinch of Cajun spices and a dash of hot sauce as the eggs hit the pan, flip gently then lightly sprinkle with chèvre (goat cheese), cover, quickly melt cheese, then place the eggs on two slices of pan-grilled garlic cheese toast and top with hot broiled thinly sliced Andouille sausage. I then set Pandora to New Orleans Jazz, poured a hot cup of coffee and travelled back in time…

Cuyahoga, The Lyrics

Below are the lyrics to the song Cuyahoga written by Hank Mallery and recorded by Crookneck Chandler and the Tibbee Bottom Boys. The song was released by Tibbee Bottom Records on the 2007 CD “Aw Yeah!” and is available on iTunes by clicking here.

Cuyahoga
Crooked River
Seein’ you on fire
Made me shiver

Cuyahoga
Dreams of fishing
We ain’t quite there yet
But We’ll keep on wishing

We love how you twist and turn
And we’ll never again let you burn

Cuyahoga
The Indians named you
There for a number of years
Nobody would claim you

Cuyahoga
I’ve seen you falling
The stuff we’ve dumped in you
I find appalling

We love how you twist and turn
And we’ll never again let you burn

Cuyahoga
Where you going?
I’d like to drift with you
Where nobody’s knowing

Cuyahoga
You’re looking alive now
Heading out to Lake Erie
You can hold your head high now

We love how you twist and turn
And we’ll never again let you burn

Cuyahoga
You just keep on winding
We’re heading in the right direction
Now, that’s what we’re finding
Cuyahoga, oh Cuyahoga
Cuyahoga

More about the song and how you can help the Cuyahoga can be found by clicking here.