My brother Stuart called last Saturday asking if I wanted to ride with him to the Ashtabula County campground where his family stays weekends in warm weather. It may seem odd that we visited a campground in February, but his purpose was to negotiate a sale of the camper, to be replaced by a newer camper. I had planned to visit later in the day, so I adjusted my schedule a bit and left in the morning instead so I could ride with Stu. As we prepared to leave, his 8-year-old son, Britton, asked if he could go and received permission, and Britton’s presence made it a fun afternoon for me.
The campground occupies a glade along Conneaut Creek about two miles south of Lake Erie, and when we descended the narrow lane we saw great slabs of ice piled along the bank; across the creek a cliff made of earth and layered stone was partly covered with ice formations in white and blue that looked like something out of the Great White North, not northern Ohio. Read the rest of this entry »
See this link for a post by my nephew Brian that includes comments about folk-rock music:
Here are a few records from my vinyl collection.
I was standing halfway up the stairs when the lights went out. The ranger, at the top of the stairs, cautioned against taking flash photos in total darkness and even right after the lights came back on. He turned off the lights, and we were as sightless as the blind crayfish that inhabit the cave.
You haven’t seen total darkness until you’ve been in a cave with the lights out. Your eyes strain for a piece of light, any light, the way they cast about upon entering a room that at first looks completely dark but eventually is surprisingly light after your rods, the retina’s faint-light receptors, kick in.
But that day no faint light came to the eye, and the rods had nothing to sense. It was total darkness. And of course the stragglers entering immediately after the lights came on had missed the ranger’s admonition against flash photography, and the entire line of tourists on the stairs yelled “Nooooo!” when the stragglers held their cameras to their faces, but those slowpokes flashed away anyway. Read the rest of this entry »
Chesapeake the Orange followed me to the goat house Wednesday, walking up my path trodden in the snow. I coaxed him into the brick-paved goat parlor while Eutzly ate, picked him up and set him atop bales of hay. After Eutzly finished his grain and his bonus salad cuttings he chose to return to his stall for the third course, his daily hay, and I returned to the garage with Chesapeake in my arms. This was different behavior for Chesapeake. Usually he prefers to jump down rather than be carried, but this week he has begged for extra attention. I attribute it to the loss of his bosom buddy.
Chesapeake moved to our yard in the summer of 2005 as a partially grown kitten after finding the food I left outside on the patio for our outdoor cat. He had been living at a neighbor’s house across the street, and because he began life as a feral kitten it took a month of quiet sitting on my part to convince him to approach me, and to this day he fears everyone else and at times still runs from me. But otherwise he is incredibly affectionate and is a loudly purring, dedicated lap cat when I sit outside — during our two or three weeks of warm weather. Read the rest of this entry »