A few? several? months ago I heard? read? something by Louise Perry about a newer holiday. Or she was inveighing against newer holidays generally. Her gripe was that celebrations/commemorations of a more recent vintage have shallow roots, they don't have years of tradition behind them to bolster their potency by imbuing them with meanings honed through the ages and handed down to us moderns. It seemed a very silly complaint to lodge. I mean, traditions have to start somewhere; they weren't floating around in the ether waiting on human beings to grasp them; they were purposely created by people at some point to speak to the times in which they arose.
It seemed to be a case of chronological snobbery where new traditions were assumed to be inferior because...well, because. She didn't really offer an explanation and I felt her performance in the piece or podcast or whatever it was to be weak sauce in contrast to her usual thoughtful commentary. I think this was around the time she had converted to Christianity and so she was likely speaking with the zeal of the convert. New holidays, especially those that aren't Christian in nature, don't deserve our attention - their meanings and practices be damned. Age and Jebus are all the count. If her attitude had been more widespread back in the day, her beloved Christian holidays would never have gained traction. Imagine a 4th century Louise Perry arguing against this new-fangled Christmas holiday and instead lecturing people on the great virtues of Saturnalia.
This came to mind last Friday while I was driving north as it was Beltane. 1 May. While I'd rather have been standing around a bonfire marking the Wheel of the Year rather than sitting behind the Wheel of the Mazda, I at least had the consolation of meeting an old friend at the end of my journey. While I am unsure how Beltane celebrations today compare with those of ancient Celts, it really doesn't matter. The important thing is to enjoy all the flora you can as buds become leaves and the great outdoors simply becomes ever more verdant; to enjoy the warmer weather and prepare for planting as the last freeze date nears; and, if possible, linger near a fire. For me Beltane is the fulfillment of the promise of the vernal equinox. And a good excuse to send my friend in Milwaukee a card with a bunch of cats dancing around a bonfire.
Her remark seemed odd to me at first - who would honeymoon in Osseo? - but my mind was quickly gripped by the Baader-Meinhof effect which dictates that, once you are in throes of divorce, it seems like most people have been through it too or are, at least, having marital problems and seem to be heading towards separation. See! Even the hotel clerk has been divorced. No one stays together anymore.
Eventually I made it to my room where I was able to relax for a short time before my friend Jason texted to say he was on his way to Burly-N-Bucks. Sadly the Northwoods Brewpub, our usual meeting spot, was no more. While I grant you that their beer quality was inconsistent, I still have great affection for their Rowdy Rye, a mighty fine rye ale.
We caught up on one another's lives. His family was well and his daughter is to marry next year. Being in our 50s, we talked about health issues. An old classmate or two came into the conversation including one whose name we couldn't recall. I just remembered that he was always dressed to the nines and was gay. Jason and I both could picture a face but his name remained on the tips of our tongues. We also tossed around ideas for an off-anniversary class reunion. It was a mixed bag of topics. Oh, and baseball. Baseball is life for Jason.
About an hour in it occurred to me that one reason I enjoy his company so much is that he is genuine and doesn't hide behind a facade of irony and sarcasm. Not that he isn't ironic and sarcastic at times but he hasn't adopted these attitudes as a lifestyle unto themselves. In addition he hasn't become a grumpy old man. Not yet, anyway. He isn't angry and cynical like some of the people I know in my age cohort (I am thinking of my wife here, especially.); instead he is good-natured and gladsome. It must be all the clean country livin'.
Having him return to my life after an absence of decades has been wonderful.
At some point a hard day of coaching baseball caught up to Jason and getting up at 4, working, and then driving caught up with me. Before we parted he gave me some fine reading material.
For my part, I made sure he went home with the bag of treats from Fortune Favors that I had brought. I am responsible for his addiction to their candied pecans and I am unrepentant.
I slept well and was up at my usual time which was before I could get a good cup of coffee in town. The brown water from the coffeemaker in my room managed to stave off my cravings just long enough while I did some writing before I showered. A bit after 7 I was off. First stop: The Nickel Barn.
The Nickel Barn wasn't far away from the motel and I could taste the coffee goodness as I made the short drive just to the other side of the interstate. Stepping out of my car I was greeted by an orange cat.
Seeing him or her approach put a big smile on my face. What a great way to begin my day - with pets. I wandered inside where I got a large coffee and a couple souvenirs. Their shelves were a bit on the bare side but I suppose this wasn't surprising considering that it was not yet tourist season. Come Memorial Day weekend, they'll no doubt be fully stocked with bourbon barrel aged maple syrup, chocolates with animal scat names, et al for the visiting hordes from Chicago.
I wandered through the antiques outside the barn for probably the first time.
(Listen to the accompanying sound track.)
(early October 2023)
Always a glutton for punishment, I returned to the Chippewa Moraine State Recreation Area the day after my spooky encounters. This time I glued myself to the familiar trails I have always hiked and have never once shared with a homicidal, axe-wielding maniac. To my knowledge, anyway.
While it was yet another overcast morning, there was no rain. The Circle Trail was, as always, simply gorgeous.
Not even close to peak, as I see it, but there were some great seasonal hues nonetheless. Just look at these red oak leaves!
As I do every year, I slowly traversed the trail, stopping at my whim. It’s such a relaxing place. Work seems a million miles away and my mind, lulled into a sense of ease by the quiet and solitude, wanders freely. It is nature's Calgon.
I rolled into town, which like last time, looked as if it was deserted like in a Twilight Zone episode. It was slightly eerie. At some point a car drove down the main drag to dispel the notion that Cornell had become the municipal version of the Mary Celeste but I saw no one on foot. Much to my disappointment, I discovered that the brewery was closed. Not permanently, just for the day. Oh well. Maybe they were short on help. As long as I was in Cornell, I thought I’d get some photos of the pulpwood stacker that I had neglected to get the last time I was in town.
The stacker, or what remains of it, anyway, is a giant steel structure that looks like an oil rig that leans at 45 degrees. The enormous arm of girders and cross beams looked to have weathered the decades well. Big concrete pillars anchored the leviathan.
Today a figure appropriately carved from a log sits at the base to serve as a reminder of its former glory keep watch over the site.
Luckily they were receiving the thirsty and so I avoided having to cause a ruckus which would have probably seen the local constabulary throw me across the town line into a ditch. I began my treatment with, if I recall correctly, a lighter brew such as a golden ale or a cream ale but then for reasons I cannot explain, my typical desire for beer that tastes like beer deserted me and I got a s’mores porter or stout or whatever style it was. Such novelty beers are strictly verboten in my workaday life. I love the taste of grain and adore the flavors that are produced when they're cooked but, while on vacation, I occasionally throw caution to the wind.
I think the beer itself was OK but I couldn’t really taste it after licking away some of that goop to get clear a spot that I could drink from. All that sweetness dulled my tongue to the (theoretically) succulent maltiness of the brew. I did not eat all of the marshmallow but the damage had been done by the little I did.
My next one was not the beer equivalent of a novelty ice cream treat but I could barely taste it. Heed this cautionary tale - avoid novelty beers!
Having eaten a moderately hearty lunch at the brewery, I needed to get out and about so I didn't descend into a post-prandial lethargy and decided to cruise around town to see what there was to be seen. One thing I saw was an ever rarer fallout shelter sign at the entrance to a church or a church school.
As I cruised down Main Street, I spied what appeared to be a Trachte shed off to the east. I turned down the next street and went in search of it. After a couple wrong turns, I finally found it in an industrial area that was bordered by train tracks.
I have no idea what it is/was used for but it was neat to see a little bit of Madison history up north.
When I went back to the hotel, I immediately showered and then sprawled out on the bed with the air conditioning turned up to high. With the sun beginning to set, it was time to bring out the book I was reading, The World of the Shining Prince: Court Life in Ancient Japan by Ivan Morris. It had been a long time coming.
I bought it back in circa 1999 in order to familiarize myself with the favorite era of Japanese history of the woman I was seeing at the time. She had been a Japanese language or Japanese literature or whatever other similar major the UW had on offer to aspiring nipponophiles. Her long hair and big eyes were captivating and her love of Japanese culture and history was quite alluring. It was impossible not to get taken in by the great enthusiasm and affection that emanated from her every word when she spoke about the early 11th century classic The Tale of Genji and its author Lady Murasaki. The Heian period, late 8th to late 12th century, was, as the kids say these days, her jam.
We dated very briefly and, although I had bought the book, I was unceremoniously dumped before I had dug in. With my main motivation of impressing a pretty lady now gone, I put reading the book onto the back burner as I pursued new frauleins. I never ran into another woman enamored of the Heian period and so the tome remained on my medieval history bookshelf collecting dust. One recent day as I was scanning my bookshelves looking for something to read, it occurred to me that I am getting to a point in my life where I really ought to start reading more books that I've meant to read over the years because, if I delay much longer, they'll go unread.
Published in 1964, The World of the Shining Prince is ostensibly for the layreader. But it has that academic sheen to it. I suppose this is still the time of The Great Books of the Western World where your average middle class Joe is presumed to be able to read Milton in its original early 17th century English and endowed with the ability to comprehend it without any helpful annotations.
Despite a fairly staid writing style, the book was quite interesting. The 2 centuries previous to the Heian period saw Japan appropriating any and everything it could from China much the way they pillage American culture today and come away with a profound love of baseball and Elvis. But as the 8th century became the 9th, the Japanese became more insular and began to generate their culture themselves rather than borrowing it from across the East China Sea.
As the title indicates, we’re talking about court life here, not the lives of the rural peasants. Chinese was still the language of choice in administrative, religious, and academic matters (like Latin was in the West during the Middle Ages) but Japanese became more common in literature during this time.
Buddhism came ashore and mixed with the native Shinto religion while the various superstitions that reigned such as directional taboos and a panoply of demons and ghouls were likely derived from older Japanese folklore.
At court, gentlemen were expected to be aesthetes of the highest order with a great sensitivity to beauty in art such as painting as well as more utilitarian things like gold inlaid boxes that held scrolls. Good calligraphy and the ability to compose verse was important for both men and women while courting. I cannot recall all of the details but the man would write a 31 syllable poem to the woman he was looking to get it on with. She’d reply and courtiers would fall over themselves to inspect her calligraphy to make sure it was up to snuff and everything was done in strict order. Quite a bit different and much more eloquent than a meager swipe to the right on a smartphone.
A very interesting book made all the more so by the fact that I knew precious little about the Japan of any time period going into it.
I woke up the next morning to find it rather muggy out and that the smoke from those Canadian wildfires had settled in overnight giving the town a hazy golden glow.
I got fuel – both coffee and gasoline – and cruised around town a bit more as I had a little time to kill for I had an appointment in Eau Claire at noon o’clock and the trip wouldn’t take me very long.
My youngest stepson had been shacking up with his girlfriend there until recently when she unceremoniously dumped him and kicked him out. He was now living with us in Madison and I had volunteered to stop by the apartment to fill my car up with as much stuff of his as it could fit.
I decided to wander the streets of Bloomer once more to see if I had missed anything yesterday and ran across a couple more items of interest. First was a restored ghost sign for the Hotel Anderson on Main Street.
As I cruised down the road headed for home I was sad that my vacation was over. My hikes were simply wonderful and I enjoyed investigating Bloomer. But it was back to the workaday world and to being a stepdad to a very lost young man. I had to lend the kid support and try to convince him to rub some dirt on that wound and get back on that horse.
He is 24 and it’s all too easy for me to look back when I was at his age and sigh “Kids these days” in an exasperated tone. I was on the rebound too at that time of my life but I was gainfully employed and self-sufficient. Still, I have a lot of sympathy for him. He is welcome to stay with us. It’s fun to have him around. The kid has a long way to go and I’ll be there to help him. As they say, every journey begins with a single step and I am focused on getting him to take it.
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Bonus photo. This time we have statuary from Mankato, Minnesota.
(late September 2023)
(Watch the prelude.)
With plans for an autumn trip to London once again put on hold due to my Frau's medical issues, I turned to my old standby and devised a trek up north for some hiking. While I would return to my beloved Chippewa Moraine Nature State Recreation Area and its majestic kettle lakes, I began the trip with a visit to Beaver Creek Reserve up by Eau Claire.
Beaver Creek Reserve is a camp that provides environmental education for area youth along with hiking trails for those of us that have graduated to adulthood. It’s a bit like the Aldo Leopold Nature Center here in the Madison area but set out in the countryside of west central Wisconsin, some 15 miles east of Eau Claire.
I had timed my trip in the hope that the trees would be well along in their annual change in color but I was a bit early. On trips up north in the earlier part of September it seemed that the fall colors had only begun to appear. And then a visit in the latter half of October proved to have been very much on the downswing of the change. I figured a trek right in the middle would have been perfect but Mother Nature (and perhaps global climate change) had other plans.
And so, while the trees remained mostly green, it was only just. There was still a fair amount of autumnal hues to be had, thankfully.
I had randomly pulled into the northern part of the reserve and found a school bus from Osseo and a bunch of gaggle of kids who looked to be 5th or 6th graders. I did my level best to avoid them. Finding the nearest trailhead, I happily set my course away from the screaming schoolchildren. They seemed to be having fun so more power to them. For my part, though, I simply wanted some quiet, in addition to the great scenery.
I eventually found myself walking along a creek that I think is Deinhammer Creek. Presumably Beaver Creek was to be found elsewhere on the property.
It was overcast but mild and so I didn’t complain too much when forced to walk through the creek in order to get to a set of stairs set on the hillside.
The lovely scenery continued.
After a while I came to a sign indicating that I was leaving Beaver Creek Reserve and was headed towards Big Falls, an Eau Claire County park. Before long I caught sight of the Eau Claire River.
It was just a few minutes before I heard a faint rumble in front of me. With every step the roar of what I presumed to be Big Falls grew louder until I was standing next to it.
Not the biggest of falls, I agree, but it was pretty and those rapids would surely capsize any canoe I was in.
The rather large outcrops of stone that I walked on were littered with smaller rocks.
I have tried to lookup what type of rock this is but have failed. One site said that the rocks at Big Falls are “Precambrian amphibolite gneisses and schists” but, when I look up “gneisses” and “schists”, I see pictures that don’t resemble mine. On the other hand, Precambrian means old. And I’m not talking Joe Biden old. These rocks were formed many millions of years ago, if not billions. Brazil and Nigeria may still have been part of the same land mass. Strange plants were providing shade for the first animals ever on Earth – our (extremely) distant cousins.
It boggles the mind to contemplate something that ancient.
After taking in Big Falls for a while, I headed back the way I came.
Back at the trailhead, I walked around Hobbs Observatory.
Someday, or some night, rather, I will have to return and check out the observatory. It houses 2 telescopes: a 24-inch Newtonian reflector telescope and a Meade LX200 14-inch Schmidt Cassegrain. With much less light pollution than down here in Madison, there must be some fine star gazing there, telescope or not.
I am reminded of the final night I spent at my dad’s house before moving down to Madison to start college. A friend came over and he and I spent the night with my father throwing back a few adult beverages on the patio and shooting the bull. The sky was marvelous. Being out in the country meant exponentially more stars were visible to us than in a city. Plus there was a full moon, or nearly so. To top things off, the Milky Way was out as well. It was as if the night sky was bidding me a fond farewell as I prepared to plunge headlong into adulthood. Or at least into life as a college student which, I suppose, is not exactly adulthood.
After wandering around the observatory, I drove across the road to the southern part of the reserve and found myself before the Wise Nature Center. Stepping inside, I was confronted by a life-sized diorama of a tree and its various animal friends.
The nature center proved to be really neat with the learning area having various exhibits dedicated to both flora and fauna.
Eau Claire means “clear water” in French and the area was home to many a French fur trader back in the day. And so it is only fitting to have a display of various animal pelts.
We generally think of skunks as being nasty, stinky critters and raccoons to be annoyances that try to rifle through our garbage. But, take it from me, they have some very soft fur.
And being the Badger State, there had to be one of them on display.
This one’s open mouth could be interpreted as a friendly grin but that would belie what vicious little bastards they are. Those claws are more representative of the badger’s demeanor. I have only ever run into our state animal once and I hope to never again. We got hissed at, were given threatening looks, and otherwise was told our presence was not wanted.
There were a few live animals to be found including this turtle who looked like he could use a bigger home.
If memory serves, there was a sign saying that new digs were in the works.
Another exhibit taught visitors how to identify the signs left behind by animals on their excursions – by both prints and poop!
For instance, here’s how to ID the signs raccoons leave (from their) behind(s). Get it?
This one for beavers gave me visions of a Caddyshack-like experience the next time I find myself in a creek or river.
Sadly, not all environmental education involves fun as you learn about various critters and plants, as this display on endangered species showed.
It was disheartening to see one so close to home in Dane County.
With my hike being done, it was back to Osseo for a shower and some muscle relaxant at the Northwoods Brewpub. Always one to drink seasonally, I ordered an Oktoberfest.
It wasn’t great, let’s say that. The body was a bit thin and there were some stray phenols that gave it a hefeweizen taste. The follow-up, a brown ale, was much better.
I got back to my hotel room only to receive word that my youngest stepson’s father had been diagnosed with some form of blood cancer. A lousy way to end an otherwise wonderful day. I felt terribly for them both. Earlier in the month the kid's girlfriend had broken up with him and he'd been unceremoniously kicked out of their apartment in Eau Claire. On my way home I was to stop by there and grab as much of his stuff as my car could fit. I texted him saying that I was sorry to hear the news and that I loved him.
Wanting to change my now sullen mood, I picked up the book that I had been reading, Death in Fine Condition by Andrew Cartmel. I adored his Vinyl Detective series which chronicles the adventures of the titular hero, a vinyl record afficionado. For The Vinyl Detective, Cartmel took Dashiell Hammett's Continental Op, de-hard-boiled him, and then threw him into Agatha Christie-like ensemble situations. We never learn his name.
In each book, he and his ladyfriend, Nevada, are tasked with finding an extremely rare record and all sorts of intrigue and mayhem ensue. Here, the heroine is Cordelia, an impecunious lover and collector of paperbacks. She is usually late on paying her rent but strangely timely when it comes to procuring marijuana. One day at her dealer's home, Cordelia notices a photo on the wall of a couple people posing next to a bookcase filled with what appears to be a complete set of Sleuth Hound paperbacks.
She seeks out the books and purloins them only to discover that their owner is a fellow named Colin Cutterham who happens to be the leader of the local chapter of organized crime. Peril ensues.
While Cordelia is entertaining and certainly a very capable stoner, there's just something missing, something to really endear her to me that just isn't here. I think that a big part of this is that, while The Vinyl Detective would have fun conversations with a cast of goofy people, Cordelia's chats are more serious. Or, if not serious, just more banal. And Cartmel overcompensates for this by making a fair amount of Cordelia's internal monologues overwrought with metaphor and clever allusions.
Death in Fine Condition is still a fun read, but it lacks the magic of The Vinyl Detective novels for me.
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Bonus photo. Here’s Grabby at her first vet visit after we adopted her.
