BEFORE
AFTERSunday, October 28, 2007
Fall Colors 2007 #3
These photos were taken the weekend of 10/20 - 10/21. I can't imagine the colors getting any better. I didn't get over there this weekend. Jeff was out of town, so Jann and I had a nice quiet weekend at home to ourselves.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Roma - Il Colosseo
My son and daughter-in-law, Adam and Rachel, just got back from vacationing in Italy. All I got was this lousy postcard....Happy first year wedding anniversary Adam and Rachel!
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Fall Colors 2007 #2
Here is the second issue of fall foliage pictures, 2007. These photos were taken October 13. We still have not had a killing frost and none are predicted in the seven day forecast.
That is a red fox near the top of the hill on the left. He has been spending a lot of time around the pond.
Friday, October 19, 2007
First Day
Last Saturday was the first day of bow season. So with great anticipation, I dressed in my invisible de-scented camo and headed out to my invisible tree stand, taking my new, deadly accurate and lethally fast bow. I was not disappointed. Shortly after first light, a doe and fawn came walking by 18 yards away, totally oblivious, of course, of my presence. Shortly after, a young bobcat followed, but saw me move as I reached for my camera. I took a picture, but my camera is terrible in low light conditions, even though it was about 7:30 by then. I watched a male ruffed grouse strut his stuff as he ate his way through the woods 20 yards out. And as always, the squirrels and the chipmunks kept me on high alert with their constant leaf rustling. A red tailed hawk swooped by below me about 5 feet away from my tree stand, landed in a tree 40 yards away, and a few minutes later dove down and grabbed some breakfast and flew away with it in his talons. Finally, two bucks, a four point and a six point, came by, both within ten yards. One stepped out into the field and ate and chewed it’s cud for awhile, the other made a scrape (not a rub). The evening watch included a small buck entertaining me for 10 -15 minutes as he made a rub 25 yards away. It was great to sit in the woods again.
If you would like to be really bored with hunting stories, here is a piece I wrote several years ago.
Just back in from a long day out deer hunting. Frosty this morning, and foggy, despite the 60 degree temperatures we had yesterday. Nonetheless, it promised to be a beautiful day in the woods hunting. I was not disappointed. It was one of the best days hunting ever. I didn’t see a deer all day.
Hunting is a passionate activity for those who practice it, an enigma for those who don’t. For me, each fall, the hunger for deer hunting calls, as much a part of my tradition as it likely is the manifestation of some deeper calling. As innate as the maternal instincts of a mother caring for her child, so to is the urge to hunt for man since before the practice of botanical cultivation. While maternal instincts remain a necessity, and a blessing to mankind, modern civilization and conveniences have relegated hunting to the arcane.
Why do I hunt? I doubt the primal urges passed down from our ancestry move today’s spirit. A degree of spirituality for me is involved. Is it the “call of the wild”? If wild is defined as the great expanse of God’s gift to us known as nature. I find it to be the “call of the peaceful”.
Certainly, the very act of killing an animal might be considered “wild” and violent. Undeniable. I do not enjoy that part of the sport; I partake in that aspect very reluctantly, but do so in a most holistic sense. Who enjoys field dressing a deer? My wife doesn’t understand during the first week of deer season when I call from deer camp and tell her I saw some deer today but didn’t shoot any.
A right of passage? It once was for me.
From the first time my Dad took me rabbit hunting, along with my three older siblings, my seven or eight year old body in tow. I remember it well, out past the maple-sugar shanty, walking through the woods near a grassy swamp. I was wearing corduroy pants and each time my fat little legs would take a step, the audible rubbing sound precluded any chance of hunting success. I presume my older brother and two sisters must have been perfect hunting companions. Dad tied his cotton handkerchief around one of my legs to quiet the disruptive hunter. I began to learn then a sense of responsibility for hunting companions and that a chance for success meant more than just traipsing aimlessly through the woods.
The search for knowledge continued sporadically; learning more through experience. Hunting with my brothers or friends, mostly squirrel or rabbit. The year I turned sixteen meant I could hunt with the big boys! I could hunt deer!
The first morning dawned cold. Real cold! I went hunting with our neighbors. They put me on watch. That means, you go stand next to that tree at the end of that pine stand, stay there, we are going up on the hill, and after several hours of walking and staying warm, we’ll work our way back to your frigid feet and push all of the deer in Steuben County right past you. “You have the best chance of success of anybody.” they said. I was excited.
Best chance of getting cold I soon discovered. And excited anticipation soon turned to desperate survival. My limited knowledge about proper dress for cold weather hunting had me pacing back and forth through six inches of snow within a half hour in an attempt to maintain feeling in my fingers and toes, creating a tell tale beaten path fifty yards long. I counted. Back and forth. It was boring too. Sure enough though, within an hour(or ten it seemed), despite my frantic activity, several deer arrived on the scene some sixty yards away, and I leveled my Dad’s sixteen-gauge shotgun with open sights on the only deer presenting itself as a clear target and dropped the deer in it’s tracks. With excitement and pride, and suddenly feeling warm again, I approached the fallen deer. It was a buck! I had no clue. Not a big one. Spike horn, four point, I don’t even remember. What I do remember is when the gang showed up and congratulated me, they couldn’t help asking what the beaten path in the snow was all about up there by the stand of pines where they had put me on watch. Oops. So much for covering my tracks.
As I went to college and moved away for my job over the next fifteen years, hunting was a reason to come Home. To spend time with family and friends, and reacquaint myself with the hills and the woods. I never met with great success. But it was Thanksgiving time, and I was thankful. In fact, because of my limited time in the woods, I was a very poor judge of deer size. Invariably, I shot the smallest deer and became labeled as the “Bambi Killer”.
Now more than thirty years later, more experience, more observation, taking up bow hunting and it’s integral study of the art, I may have rid myself of the title, but I’m still just a babe in the woods.
Hunting for me now is still a “Coming Home” experience. I no longer care about shooting the biggest buck or the most deer. Sure, that’s nice. But if it happens under the right circumstances at the right time. There are a lot of other reasons I spend time in the field. I don’t even care if I shoot a deer.
It’s an inventory. Of life, of memories, of timber, of wildlife.
As I sit here in the solitude next to the warm wood fire, the stars sparkling outside on a cloudless night, a constellation filled sky replete with shooting stars, stars that can’t be observed from the suburbs in which I regularly live, I relish in the escape from the hectic bureaucratic business world of busyness. The calm and quiet of deer camp is restorative. No one can measure the benefits of such solitude, especially after such a hectic year, and for one whose roots are so deep in the quiet countryside. For some, and sometimes for me, deer camp can also be the camaraderie of old friends and family. But mostly, just quiet. And rest. And thoughts. Much like my day in the woods was today. Or any other day in the woods.
Memories. As I sit or hike in the woods, I recall childhood memories. Or as I visit with the local hunters on our land, recall past hunting success and enjoy stories of hunting and outdoor lore.
Today I sat in a tree-stand mere yards from a site where I recall as a very young boy cutting fire-wood with my father. He cut and I and my brothers played. Dad built us a fire and the warm memories resurfaced as I reflected. Several years ago I was hunting through the woods and came across a tree stump. Just another ordinary tree stump, a remnant of a once mighty tree that my father had cut down for firewood, and subsequently chainsawed his initials, RJM, into the stump. A decade after his passing, it no longer was just an ordinary tree stump. It was a monument of memories. I know the general location, but have yet to find that tree stump again. No matter, the evidence of my Dad’s whimsical and creative nature remain. Come find it again with me.
I walk past sites of previous deer hunting success, and recall the accomplishment, skill, and mostly dumb luck. I hike the hills and remember the stories of old house foundations and trails. I walk past the still brown area from a fire many years ago and recall the “hermit of our hill”, Gordon Mosher, who died in a tragic fire one cold winter day, living in a 19th century logging shack on our 20th century property. The boogie man of our youth and misunderstood mountain man of Biscuit Hollow. I visit with the hunters and hear their tales of hunting success. But most fondly, their stories of how they first started hunting here so many years ago and their memories of my grandparents and parents, welcoming them to the valley, and making them life-long family friends.
My deer camp is my childhood home. How many memories can that recreate when you have so little time otherwise there to reflect.
Timberstand. Mundane to most. Probably the most valuable crop we grow on this so called farm, but little noticed by most. I enjoy walking the woods and inspecting the timber, seeing its growth. Observing damage from the previous year’s storms and wishing for more time to selectively harvest now for an improved harvest later. I admire the commercial grade logs and dream about harvesting, sawing, drying, planing, and creating furniture and moldings from the trees off our property for the beautification of our home, my deer camp, to add to the authenticity of the home that my Dad built for his wife and subsequent six children some fifty years ago. I thrill and reminisce as I walk through the maturing plantation of larch I planted as a 4-H project with my grandfather 35 years ago, and watch the deer scamper from the cover.
The maintenance of the deer herd is important to this end. I had a professional forester inventory our property several years ago and he was amazed at what little regeneration of new quality timber we had. A result of too many deer and turkey was the reason, he observed. Eating all the browse. One loses sight of the quality of timber because the profit is only realized every fifteen to twenty years. But amortized over that period of time, one begins to realize the importance of maintaining an appropriate deer population, thus I am again inspired to hunt.
Wildlife. Oh, the beauty of God’s creation. To observe His wildlife in their natural setting, up close and personal, is beauty in motion. Squirrels and birds of many feather, bears, foxes, bobcats, coyotes, and yes, even deer. Being close to the creatures, still enough to observe, and be unobserved. The greatest thrill! From the smallest chickadee three feet from my head as I sit quietly; the gray squirrel imitating a deer’s walk through the dry leaves, quickening the pace of my heart needlessly. Raucous crows or pileated woodpeckers adding their imitation tropical forest cry and rat-a-tat-tat. A mink or skunk has come scampering along. The raccoon and opossum as well. Deer mice rustling about your feet. And the most beautiful creature of the woodland, the whitetail deer. Does and fawns and bucks, feeding and fighting and breeding. The most exciting, and peaceful, contribution to the restoration of one’s soul.
Of life. One has a chance to think. Not always. Alert. Observing. Noises. Looking. And the woods go quiet and you relax. Time goes by and you have the opportunity to reflect. Missing those who have gone before, and those who are not with you enjoying this experience. Those who have played such a formative role in your life, and those who make your life whole now. Your wife, your children, your family and friends. Your God. You reflect on the past year since last deer season, and yes, you recall your hunting successes. But then you think about life. Your family. Your job. Your successes and failures. And realize that the quiet and hope of God’s creation restoring your mind and soul at this moment is the restorative and inspirational source you need to go on. To be the husband, the father, the boss, the employee, the servant of God you need to be. The prayerful time is uninterrupted, until the next squirrel comes hopping along, and you smile and know that all is right with the world.
Hunger. No hunter that I know of has ever gone hungry in deer camp. The creative culinary skills in primitive conditions by otherwise unskilled cooks, or without the familiar contribution of the fairer sex of the family still creates the most tasty and hearty meal after a day in the woods. I know that at one time, the primal nature of man drove him to hunt for necessity, to feed his family. We are fortunate that we do not live in that time. I recall a time however that hunting provided the most economical, and nutritious source of protein for the family. Even my family. But now, my wife and kids (mostly my wife) do not care for venison or wild game. I still have two deer in the freezer from last year. Maybe even a squirrel or two. But the deer hunt must go on.
Not just for all the reasons above. But also for the ethical harvest of a burgeoning deer population that causes damage to the future value of the timberstand, farmers’ crops, depleted food sources creating dangerous potential for herd diseases and resultant wintertime suffering without the merciful control effort of the deer season, and even car damage on the highway as I so up close and personally experienced this fall. But what to do with the venison? My family may not be willing or able to use all of this nutritious source of protein I am able to harvest each year, but we are fortunate to have another opportunity. There are those among us in our community who are hungry. I have been excited to play a very minor, but supportive role in an endeavor known as the Venison Donation Coalition. I hope to contribute any deer that I might harvest this year to that end.
Finally. Yes. I thrill at the sight of deer and the opportunity to harvest this resource. I even tremble when the sights fall on a potential trophy. I hesitate, and often fail to even shoot. But when, and if, I do, be assured that the harvest will go to a good cause. And the process of the hunting season will have made me a better person.
If you would like to be really bored with hunting stories, here is a piece I wrote several years ago.
Just back in from a long day out deer hunting. Frosty this morning, and foggy, despite the 60 degree temperatures we had yesterday. Nonetheless, it promised to be a beautiful day in the woods hunting. I was not disappointed. It was one of the best days hunting ever. I didn’t see a deer all day.
Hunting is a passionate activity for those who practice it, an enigma for those who don’t. For me, each fall, the hunger for deer hunting calls, as much a part of my tradition as it likely is the manifestation of some deeper calling. As innate as the maternal instincts of a mother caring for her child, so to is the urge to hunt for man since before the practice of botanical cultivation. While maternal instincts remain a necessity, and a blessing to mankind, modern civilization and conveniences have relegated hunting to the arcane.
Why do I hunt? I doubt the primal urges passed down from our ancestry move today’s spirit. A degree of spirituality for me is involved. Is it the “call of the wild”? If wild is defined as the great expanse of God’s gift to us known as nature. I find it to be the “call of the peaceful”.
Certainly, the very act of killing an animal might be considered “wild” and violent. Undeniable. I do not enjoy that part of the sport; I partake in that aspect very reluctantly, but do so in a most holistic sense. Who enjoys field dressing a deer? My wife doesn’t understand during the first week of deer season when I call from deer camp and tell her I saw some deer today but didn’t shoot any.
A right of passage? It once was for me.
From the first time my Dad took me rabbit hunting, along with my three older siblings, my seven or eight year old body in tow. I remember it well, out past the maple-sugar shanty, walking through the woods near a grassy swamp. I was wearing corduroy pants and each time my fat little legs would take a step, the audible rubbing sound precluded any chance of hunting success. I presume my older brother and two sisters must have been perfect hunting companions. Dad tied his cotton handkerchief around one of my legs to quiet the disruptive hunter. I began to learn then a sense of responsibility for hunting companions and that a chance for success meant more than just traipsing aimlessly through the woods.
The search for knowledge continued sporadically; learning more through experience. Hunting with my brothers or friends, mostly squirrel or rabbit. The year I turned sixteen meant I could hunt with the big boys! I could hunt deer!
The first morning dawned cold. Real cold! I went hunting with our neighbors. They put me on watch. That means, you go stand next to that tree at the end of that pine stand, stay there, we are going up on the hill, and after several hours of walking and staying warm, we’ll work our way back to your frigid feet and push all of the deer in Steuben County right past you. “You have the best chance of success of anybody.” they said. I was excited.
Best chance of getting cold I soon discovered. And excited anticipation soon turned to desperate survival. My limited knowledge about proper dress for cold weather hunting had me pacing back and forth through six inches of snow within a half hour in an attempt to maintain feeling in my fingers and toes, creating a tell tale beaten path fifty yards long. I counted. Back and forth. It was boring too. Sure enough though, within an hour(or ten it seemed), despite my frantic activity, several deer arrived on the scene some sixty yards away, and I leveled my Dad’s sixteen-gauge shotgun with open sights on the only deer presenting itself as a clear target and dropped the deer in it’s tracks. With excitement and pride, and suddenly feeling warm again, I approached the fallen deer. It was a buck! I had no clue. Not a big one. Spike horn, four point, I don’t even remember. What I do remember is when the gang showed up and congratulated me, they couldn’t help asking what the beaten path in the snow was all about up there by the stand of pines where they had put me on watch. Oops. So much for covering my tracks.
As I went to college and moved away for my job over the next fifteen years, hunting was a reason to come Home. To spend time with family and friends, and reacquaint myself with the hills and the woods. I never met with great success. But it was Thanksgiving time, and I was thankful. In fact, because of my limited time in the woods, I was a very poor judge of deer size. Invariably, I shot the smallest deer and became labeled as the “Bambi Killer”.
Now more than thirty years later, more experience, more observation, taking up bow hunting and it’s integral study of the art, I may have rid myself of the title, but I’m still just a babe in the woods.
Hunting for me now is still a “Coming Home” experience. I no longer care about shooting the biggest buck or the most deer. Sure, that’s nice. But if it happens under the right circumstances at the right time. There are a lot of other reasons I spend time in the field. I don’t even care if I shoot a deer.
It’s an inventory. Of life, of memories, of timber, of wildlife.
As I sit here in the solitude next to the warm wood fire, the stars sparkling outside on a cloudless night, a constellation filled sky replete with shooting stars, stars that can’t be observed from the suburbs in which I regularly live, I relish in the escape from the hectic bureaucratic business world of busyness. The calm and quiet of deer camp is restorative. No one can measure the benefits of such solitude, especially after such a hectic year, and for one whose roots are so deep in the quiet countryside. For some, and sometimes for me, deer camp can also be the camaraderie of old friends and family. But mostly, just quiet. And rest. And thoughts. Much like my day in the woods was today. Or any other day in the woods.
Memories. As I sit or hike in the woods, I recall childhood memories. Or as I visit with the local hunters on our land, recall past hunting success and enjoy stories of hunting and outdoor lore.
Today I sat in a tree-stand mere yards from a site where I recall as a very young boy cutting fire-wood with my father. He cut and I and my brothers played. Dad built us a fire and the warm memories resurfaced as I reflected. Several years ago I was hunting through the woods and came across a tree stump. Just another ordinary tree stump, a remnant of a once mighty tree that my father had cut down for firewood, and subsequently chainsawed his initials, RJM, into the stump. A decade after his passing, it no longer was just an ordinary tree stump. It was a monument of memories. I know the general location, but have yet to find that tree stump again. No matter, the evidence of my Dad’s whimsical and creative nature remain. Come find it again with me.
I walk past sites of previous deer hunting success, and recall the accomplishment, skill, and mostly dumb luck. I hike the hills and remember the stories of old house foundations and trails. I walk past the still brown area from a fire many years ago and recall the “hermit of our hill”, Gordon Mosher, who died in a tragic fire one cold winter day, living in a 19th century logging shack on our 20th century property. The boogie man of our youth and misunderstood mountain man of Biscuit Hollow. I visit with the hunters and hear their tales of hunting success. But most fondly, their stories of how they first started hunting here so many years ago and their memories of my grandparents and parents, welcoming them to the valley, and making them life-long family friends.
My deer camp is my childhood home. How many memories can that recreate when you have so little time otherwise there to reflect.
Timberstand. Mundane to most. Probably the most valuable crop we grow on this so called farm, but little noticed by most. I enjoy walking the woods and inspecting the timber, seeing its growth. Observing damage from the previous year’s storms and wishing for more time to selectively harvest now for an improved harvest later. I admire the commercial grade logs and dream about harvesting, sawing, drying, planing, and creating furniture and moldings from the trees off our property for the beautification of our home, my deer camp, to add to the authenticity of the home that my Dad built for his wife and subsequent six children some fifty years ago. I thrill and reminisce as I walk through the maturing plantation of larch I planted as a 4-H project with my grandfather 35 years ago, and watch the deer scamper from the cover.
The maintenance of the deer herd is important to this end. I had a professional forester inventory our property several years ago and he was amazed at what little regeneration of new quality timber we had. A result of too many deer and turkey was the reason, he observed. Eating all the browse. One loses sight of the quality of timber because the profit is only realized every fifteen to twenty years. But amortized over that period of time, one begins to realize the importance of maintaining an appropriate deer population, thus I am again inspired to hunt.
Wildlife. Oh, the beauty of God’s creation. To observe His wildlife in their natural setting, up close and personal, is beauty in motion. Squirrels and birds of many feather, bears, foxes, bobcats, coyotes, and yes, even deer. Being close to the creatures, still enough to observe, and be unobserved. The greatest thrill! From the smallest chickadee three feet from my head as I sit quietly; the gray squirrel imitating a deer’s walk through the dry leaves, quickening the pace of my heart needlessly. Raucous crows or pileated woodpeckers adding their imitation tropical forest cry and rat-a-tat-tat. A mink or skunk has come scampering along. The raccoon and opossum as well. Deer mice rustling about your feet. And the most beautiful creature of the woodland, the whitetail deer. Does and fawns and bucks, feeding and fighting and breeding. The most exciting, and peaceful, contribution to the restoration of one’s soul.
Of life. One has a chance to think. Not always. Alert. Observing. Noises. Looking. And the woods go quiet and you relax. Time goes by and you have the opportunity to reflect. Missing those who have gone before, and those who are not with you enjoying this experience. Those who have played such a formative role in your life, and those who make your life whole now. Your wife, your children, your family and friends. Your God. You reflect on the past year since last deer season, and yes, you recall your hunting successes. But then you think about life. Your family. Your job. Your successes and failures. And realize that the quiet and hope of God’s creation restoring your mind and soul at this moment is the restorative and inspirational source you need to go on. To be the husband, the father, the boss, the employee, the servant of God you need to be. The prayerful time is uninterrupted, until the next squirrel comes hopping along, and you smile and know that all is right with the world.
Hunger. No hunter that I know of has ever gone hungry in deer camp. The creative culinary skills in primitive conditions by otherwise unskilled cooks, or without the familiar contribution of the fairer sex of the family still creates the most tasty and hearty meal after a day in the woods. I know that at one time, the primal nature of man drove him to hunt for necessity, to feed his family. We are fortunate that we do not live in that time. I recall a time however that hunting provided the most economical, and nutritious source of protein for the family. Even my family. But now, my wife and kids (mostly my wife) do not care for venison or wild game. I still have two deer in the freezer from last year. Maybe even a squirrel or two. But the deer hunt must go on.
Not just for all the reasons above. But also for the ethical harvest of a burgeoning deer population that causes damage to the future value of the timberstand, farmers’ crops, depleted food sources creating dangerous potential for herd diseases and resultant wintertime suffering without the merciful control effort of the deer season, and even car damage on the highway as I so up close and personally experienced this fall. But what to do with the venison? My family may not be willing or able to use all of this nutritious source of protein I am able to harvest each year, but we are fortunate to have another opportunity. There are those among us in our community who are hungry. I have been excited to play a very minor, but supportive role in an endeavor known as the Venison Donation Coalition. I hope to contribute any deer that I might harvest this year to that end.
Finally. Yes. I thrill at the sight of deer and the opportunity to harvest this resource. I even tremble when the sights fall on a potential trophy. I hesitate, and often fail to even shoot. But when, and if, I do, be assured that the harvest will go to a good cause. And the process of the hunting season will have made me a better person.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Sports Update
Corning West JV football defeated cross-town rival Corning East in the annual head to head battle tonight 21 – 20. Jeff Sienkiewicz had 7 or 8 tackles and recovered a fumble. The coaches stated that Jeff’s play, especially in the second half, made a difference in the game and awarded him the game ball. What was already an emotional win for the Corning West Vikings against their perennial rival was made even more emotional for Jeff, playing on the anniversary of his father’s death, and winning the game ball. We are proud of you Jeff. And I know your father would have been proud to see you play so well.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Phone Home
So what's significant about this leaning phone junction box that's across the road from the house? It wasn't leaning last week. Upon closer inspection, there was muddy bear paw prints on it. Apparently a bear thought it might be a food cooler and tried to break in. Or wanted to make a phone call.....
Sunday, October 14, 2007
How Do You Like THEM Apples?
I liked them just fine! This is a wild apple tree behind the "park". Our wild apples this year are hit and miss. Some trees have them, some don't. This tree was loaded and they still haven't dropped. The deer have been hitting it pretty hard but I can't figure out where to put a tree stand in the vicinity.I took Jann out for a 4-wheeler ride on Columbus Day to enjoy the colors and when she saw these, she thought we should pick some. So we went back to the house and grabbed some bags and went back and waded through the thorns and filled the bags.
Tonight when I got home from Biscuit Hollow, Jann served me a mighty fine bowl of apple sauce she made from these little wild apples.
So, I wonder. How did this tree get there? Who plants wild apple trees? I guess deer eating them may spread some seeds. I have a more interesting theory. Remember how Dad taught us to throw crab apples on a stick? Maybe that's how it got there. Hmmmm.
I wrote this poem several years ago for Mother's Day. I first shared it in my March 27th entry. Somehow, it seems appropriate to share it again.
CRAB APPLE JELLY
Down by the spring
an apple tree grew
an ugly tree
and ugly fruit.
Fed by the pure waters
of the old milkhouse spring
we watched it blossom
in it we watched the birds sing.
It’s beauty has grown
through all these years
not the tree
but the master it knows
That old fruit I recall
was sour to taste
fun to put on a stick
Dad taught us to whip it away.
But the tree held magic
a friendly thing
we watched it and smelled it
the blossoms smelled sweet.
Each year as it did
it’s thing by itself
no prunning, no care
just a harvest time wish.
We climbed up it’s branches
we threw stones at it too
we picked up the drops
and plucked some of the fruit.
For what reason you say
did we ignore the tree in this way
‘cause we knew some one special
would bring hope to our sway.
We carried them home
and after a taste
a sour look on our face
we gave them away.
We gave them to the Master
a Cook, it was she
she could turn anything
in to a treat.
Alas, the old tree
it is gone now for sure
we will miss climbing its branches
we will miss tossing its fruit.
But we still enjoy the blessing
of that wonderful magic
the skills of that lady
that lady a Cook.
Crab apple jelly
so tasty and sweet
red and delicious
from that ugly old fruit.
I still have a few jars
from the Master’s kitchen
rescued last summer
from the last bit of juice.
Let us gather together
sometime real soon
and honor the Cook
who’s delights made us swoon.
I’ll bring a jar
of Crab apple jelly
you make the toast
we’ll slap on the jelly.
We’ll talk and laugh
we’ll have a great time
we’ll honor the Master
the Cook sublime.
What a blessing she is
she taught us to cook
she taught us to love
and how we should look.
She taught us to care
and how we should pray
she taught us to behave
and how we should say.
I thank you Lord
everyday of my life
for the blessings I have
and the Grace that you gave.
And I thank you Lord
for the Mother I have
the Cook sublime
the master Cook.
On this Mother’s day
that’s why I say
Mom thank you again
for your special tune.
Your music, your piano,
your accordian too
the hope that you gave
the valuable lessons too.
This special day
I hold dear everyday
for you are our teacher
our guide and our friend.
That old tree is gone
but the memories are dear
how Your love reflects
such hope every year.
My life reflects
what’s impossible to say
how you’ve turned an ugly old fruit
into Crab Apple Jelly.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Let the Games Begin
One of our weekend trips this summer was a stop in Cleveland for a Red Sox vs. Indians baseball game.
Jann, Jeff, and I spent most of the day at Jacobs Field, including an extensive tour of the stadium.
Here Jeff is doing his best Terry Francona (Red Sox manager) impression from the dugout.
And now his best Bob Euchre impression, checking out our seats before the game beneath the scoreboard.
Who knew then that the Red Sox and Indians would be playing each other in the ALCS. If you watch the games when they get to Cleveland, you'll undoubtedly see the drum guy. We sat just a few feet from him. He told me he's been to every home game for the last thirty years.
We got to see a real home run slug fest. The Red Sox won, of course. Here Manny hits the third longest home run in this park.
We saw some of the players up close, including Josh Becket, the likely Cy Young winner this year.
And John Lester, the come back kid of the League, having recovered from cancer. Jeff also watched him pitch a game before his comeback in Rochester.
One of Jeff's favorite players, Trot Nixon, is on the field below. He's an Indian now, but when he was a Sox, he wore #7.
Oh, and yes, we did go to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Fall Colors 2007 #1
Not a catchy title, I know. These pictures were taken October 5. I find it fascinating to watch the progression and development of the fall colors, as well as just soaking in their beauty. Perhaps a bit over analytical, I notice the colors turn first on the south facing slope, then on the hill across the road. Probably a result of the different predominant tree species. 
Of course, I was most intrigued to know if the pond would have any affect on the colors of the red maple we were so careful to preserve during construction. I guess not. It's a little more burgundy than crimson, but that may be a result of many other factors.
It's been VERY dry this year, versus very wet last year. And then, also very warm this fall. We have not had a killing frost yet.
Oh forget the analysis. Just enjoy.
One secret to fall foliage colors is to take the pictures when the sun is at low angles. The golden hues in this photo are enhanced by the setting sun.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Flocking Robbins
The robbins are apparently flocking in preparation for their southern migration. They swarmed the yard and several flew into the windows. Maybe they had been eating some happy berries. This female sat out a few minutes from the fun and frivolity to rest up.Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Ladder Stands
You may not be able to see this ladder stand I built due to the expert application of the camo paint.Anyways, I had some leftover scrap lumber, bought the rails, and thought I would make a couple of "wildlife observation posts" on the quick and cheap. This is the 16' model. I also built a 12' model. Took me most of a weekend for the both! Then a couple of hours painting. I never knew it was so hard to "randomly" apply paint.
This was the mode of transportation to get to the secret location. I assumed I would be able to stand it up like any ladder, although I knew it would be heavy. I couldn't. I had to devise a system of ropes, two other ladders and a pulley. Half a day later, it's in place. I don't think I saved much money, certainly not time, but there's a conversation piece strapped to a tree on Mount Laurel that will become a subject of future lore. Bow season opens Saturday and that's where I'll be.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Kitchen Redo
Not all that dramatic to you, I suppose. But a long awaited improvement for us. Another project here at home this summer was the redecoration of the kitchen. Patched the holes in the walls, new wallpaper, painted, new hardware on the cabinets. Coupled with the new hardwood floor from a few years ago, a much improved look.
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