OLD FRIENDS, SEEN IN STRANGERS.

 OLD FRIENDS, SEEN IN STRANGERS.

 

I took a short walk downtown before facing the task of bringing in or covering my numerous houseplants from the porch, as the possibility of a frost looms over the next few days.

 

Living in Vermont's tiny (the smallest in the USA) capital city (pop 4500)  and having rented an apartment (half a house actually) only two blocks from our blink stop city center it barely takes sixty seconds to be in our State and Main shopping center.

 

Today's was a 'visit' , that is purposely not purposeful. Living without a goal, meandering, wandering, chilling.... some of many words which are close to my heart, probably rooted in a 12 year part of my childhood which was strictly controlled by people who viewed the quiet mind as time wasted, not used. To the child's mind, much of which I have retrieved, this is a state of openess and exploration.

Downtown Montpelier has several traditional social stops for me comingle with my fellow beings. In fact, this is the sum of my social life and I'm content with that. Over the decades I have established some good contacts where conversations are generally welcome, greetings and recognition de 'rigeur' and possible purchases to be enjoyed. I tend, however, to 'tell stories' and, given my diagnosis of HDTV...no...HIV...nope..HSBC...you know what I mean...Hyperactive what's it's name....ADHD.. (sigh) there it is ! I can tend to follow more tributaries than has the Amazon river, eventually asking "What were we talking about ?"

 

Stepping up into the open door ( this despite it being a blustery, 50 degree late Spring day) into Antiques at 110 Main I say 'Hi' to Carl and hear a woman's voice  saying, no exclaiming my name 'Dylan !!!!'. Looking to the source of this voice I stare, open ,at this positively lovely woman whom I failed, initially, to recognize.

 

 



The only difference was that this person was someone I knew.  Two things occurred. My mind went into an immediate photo file scan, hindered by the accumulated sludge of ageing. My mouth probably remained open, until blurting out 'Pat !', as her name surfaced, thankfully in a matter of seconds.

 

Had that not occurred I should probably have said "Do I know you ?" Or "Have we met ?" (That's a good gambit btw)

 



 

But what happens when that greeting is met with that blank stare or puzzled expression before the turning away of the responding gaze ? This has a tendency to separate the secure from the insecure or just plain panicked and looking for the easiest exit.

 

I must say that I get it a lot. God forbid that, in my early 70's, my appeal is (still ?) alive and effective. That's hardly likely as a result of a childhood of conditioning which left me convinced that I was undesirable in every possible way. Especially when it comes to women.

 

I have grown into a more accepting view of myself to the point that I regularly tell myself that 'IyamwhatIyamwhatIyam'(and you can lump it if you don't like it) à la Popeye and , equally as regularly I catch myself in the small bathroom mirror and will either wink, click my tongue or exclaim 'Ye're a'right lad !' in my best north Yorkshire twang. Once in a while it'll even be 'Dahling, Zhou rook mahrverous !'.



 







 

It's not as though I've completely outgrown the years of conditioning which taught me to believe that as the 'planet's most undesirable person' but when I get that smile or eye contact across the street, passing the other way down the sidewalk or navigating the aisles of the local supermarket I find myself agonizing about 'But what does it mean - exactly ?' My complete lack of positive social gestures, comfortable and fearless processing and whatever else is required to exist naturally amongst others leaves me saying to myself 'But what does it mean ?" Exactly, that is, in detail so as to make it absolutely, undeniably clear to me that it's not a case of .....

 



 

Anyway, as usual, I'm steering off track, somewhat.

 

A very satisfying and enjoyable encounter with Pat, a tour of the shop and chat with Carl later, I turn the corner onto 'historic' Langdon Street and see some sale items on a table outside Onion River Sports, and , as they never offer anything in my size, I go in and check out the 'running shoe' men's section. They call them 'trainers' in the UK. neither term encapsulates the concept of nifty , sporty, classy , comfy, non-slip and lasts ten years', nor do they fit my meager budget. At least I helped zero in on what I would ,if I only could.

 

Then I notice this tall skinny, long , middle aged man in sensible rainwear and hat who seems to be accompanied by a young dude, perhaps his son or a relative ? I'm particularly struck with how his appearance jives with my memories of my most excellent friend, Hub Meeker. Hub is now in his mid eighties. We met at a group session in Primal Therapy and befriended each other on sight.

 

Not that this stranger was completely the twin of Hub but all the pieces were there, so much so that it got me thinking about this piece I'm writing now.

 

Crossing the street to Buchspieler, our local Vinyl/Antique clothing emporium, a second home to me, reminiscent of my days, in Toronto, diving into the stacks at SamThe Record Man on Yonge Street.

 

Entering I note that the Hub look alike and his friend are also there and the prospect of a story's source grows to the point that I approach him as he perused the antique T shirt rack .

 

" I have a favor to ask of you.. I'd like to take your picture", I open with, ".... I noticed you over at Onion River Sports. You remind me of an 85 year old very good friend of mine.." on which he responded," I hope that doesn't infer..."  and I countered casually..

" Oh no...has nothing to do with anything like that ! "

 

I continued, " I'm a writer and seeing you and how it brought back al these memories of my friend I thought to write something on the subject."

 

" Well, that's very touching .." he responded, "..but I won't pose for a picture."

 

"Sure, I understand. Thanks anyway." I say as I let my cellphone slip back into my pant pocket. "I'm sure I can 'manufacture' the piece anyway." ." I'm sure you can." he ended.

 

My guess is that he was either a tad offended by the mention of Hub's advanced age or, in general,  didn't like his photo being taken, especially by a stranger. Either way, although unexpected, it was cool and I returned to flipping through the LPs.

 

No problem.

 

I generally have a good grasp, visually speaking, so don't often mistake one person for another. It sure is weird when it does happen, though. Mind you, these days, you have to be even more careful, especially with all the gender interchanging.  Dread the thought that I'd catch sight of the beautiful hair of a young woman walking in front of me and, upon passing, I glance at this bearded face of the guy wearing it !

 

Onward.

 

Back in about 1973 I took a shortcut in cold weather through the old Eaton's sale annex basement. There came  a bit of a space in the flow of human traffic and suddenly, there was Kelvin, walking in my direction !

 

So what, who's Kelvin , you may ask !

 

Ten years earlier would have found me, having just returned from  a sort of sabbatical from my junior management at the Golden Lion Hotel in Hunstanton, Norfolk, England. I had been in Munich for the winter, working as a commis (lowest of the low) waiter at the luxurious Bayerischerhof Hotel. returning to Hunstanton I found that my boss, Harold Hinchcliffe, had hired two young guys from Hong Kong to work the bars. They had each assumed English names and Kelvin was one of them.

 

Kelvin and I had butted heads periodically as, it's my assessment, in my absence he had cozied up to my boss and wasn't able to return to his 'station' and take direction. Despite that these two used to throw together the best Chinese nosh at the end of a grueling day !!

 

A few words were exchanged and he was gone !

 

What are the odds. 3500 miles away on a different continent. Ten years later. I had emigrated to Canada, having left the Golden Lion for the Royal Oak in the Lake District in NW England and worked as an assistant manager for almost three years, then, in British Columbia, joined the Hudson's Bay Company in one of their retail stores in Vernon, then moved to Toronto to study photography at what is now Ryerson University. Of course, and this probably has as much to do with how short our encounter was, by then my hair was almost down to my waist and I was fully bearded and hippyfied.

 

 

 

  No wonder he ran, eh, hahaha !

 

 



PET PEEVE #1:

'..., IF YOU WILL....'

 

 

 

'If you will' is my most hated expression that many Americans have employed over the past years. It has spread like the proverbial wildfire.

 

 I agree with the attached, amusing 'derivation'. Basically it is a sneaky way of suggesting that the listener is buying into whatever concept is being discussed (see the attached cartoon's ' "If you will" What ? Accept the words you chose to say ? What if they won't ?'). But it's too late, what the speaker is expounding is already stuck on your forehead !

There is also this erroneous concept over here that if you speak with an affected, posh English accent then somehow this gives 'added value' to your utterances.

 

GMAFB !!!

 

 

One attempt at justifying the phrases use is...'It means that the speaker acknowledges that his use of the word gimmick in this case could be challenged and that he is asking for the listener's indulgence to let him call it that. So yes, it is short for "if you will indulge me." I tend to think it's more a case of 'I'm going to indulge myself, much as it may offend you.

 

Bleccchhh!

 

6 YEARS LATER.....WHOSE BLOG IS THIS ?

WHY A SIX YEAR GAP ?

In certain ways I don't have much 'stickability'. In others I'm like a dog with a bone, relentlessly hanging to the 'bone', truckin' on relentlessly on the same old path...

I was diagnosed, back in the mid-1990's as being ,clearly, ADD and, after reading several books and researching online tests etc., I suppose I'd have to concur, at least as far as the tendencies and characteristics go.

Going upstairs to get something  I'll completely forget/ignore where I was heading, see something else of interest or that I'd mislaid or any of hundreds of possibilities I'll set off on a circuitous path , perhaps for a couple of hours or more or less. Perhaps I'll recall my original purpose but it's by no means a sure thing.

I don't help things by surrounding myself with thousands of interesting and distracting items that I've gathered over a lifetime . I go through phases of dedicated and profound interest, this a complete about-face from the distracted me.

For instance, past desirous interests involve, hitch hiking, hiking, camping, health foods, folk music, blues, reading (philosophy, history, travel), antiques and collectibles, music collecting, photography, sociology, nature, gardening and research, research, research..

Immersion is my style, best illustrated by my interest in antiques and collectibles.







I rapidly became a garage/lawn/porch/estate sale 'freak' . Later on, in retrospect, it occurred to me that this was a very natural path for me to follow. I love 'the exploration' of scrounging around the countryside, people's garages and properties, flea markets and antique shops, all in search of the unknown treasure out there. By treasure I'm not necessarily referring to monetary value. Most often it would refer to something to which I applied a value, artistic, acquisitive, useful or otherwise.

I found an ongoing interest in ceramics and , over the years, built up a large library of 'Marks' books. 'Marks' for those that don't know, are symbols, any information either painted on, impressed, stamped, written or otherwise applied onto the underside or elsewhere depending on the form) of a piece of ceramic work which denotes it's origins ( country, region, town or pottery), the artist's identity, age, pattern #, batch or lot,  and other.



Some potteries are meticulous and have very trackable lineages, others often almost indecipherable and obscure. This requires the kind of mind that is open , determined and relentless, often over long periods of time and not necessarily consecutively. A whole lot of intuition is needed as well as hours of scouring my many books, old and recent of marks , eventually getting that elusive and highly pleasurable 'aha'; moment of discovery.

Ebay used, in the early days, to be  a great source of information until some bright capitalist hit upon the idea of blocking all of their past sales information under the name of Worthpoint, for which, naturally, there is a monthly fee to access. I suppose if I had been professionally involved it might have been 'worth' it but the way I work can be very spasmodic and months might go by where I would be paying and not using this resource. Not to be outdone I could always find other means of research.

Another reason this activity is so fascinating to me is that, by research and eventually by follow up, I've had some awesome experiences and actually gotten to track down the artists and correspond with them. A case in point.....



 

Being a Canadian I am well aware of out first nation, Inuit soapstone sculpture tradition so when I spotted this little beauty in my travels I snapped it up and began with the information on the bottom, 'Eric Bomberry 1996',  to search out some information. I have had one or two small pieces before and the Canadian Government's incredibly detailed files of present and past sculptors was instrumental in my being able to 'read' the glyphs on the pieces and to track down their origins and it was here that I began my research.

 

It later turned out that this particular artist, Eric's cousin, from the same Hamilton, Ontario region reservation, was renowned and well documented, had partially taught Eric but was not my piece's author. I actually didn't like the famous cousin's works as he polished and formed them into highly saleable yet modernistic designs whereas Eric retained the historical signature of the artist's northern 'Eskimo' heritage.

 

There was absolutely hardly any information on Eric or his work, with one exception, available online but somehow I found and email address and fired off an enquiry.

 

Eric, a Mohawk, had learned stone carving as a teenager and, as he put it, 'turned out pieces for the tourist' trade ! This I found staggering as this piece speaks of museum gallery quality and not an item to be flogged to itinerant passers-by. I asked Eric how much he would have sold this piece (4 cu") for and was astounded to find that after all his hard and creative work, he only asked $50 !!

 

Even more profound was that, in the great Northern New York Mohawk tradition, Eric, in order to properly support his now two children and a wife family, was 'walking steel' or 'hangin' iron', precariously and bravely, high up in the sky in Manhattan and had put aside his artistic skills.

 







I urged him to consider returning to his craft soon and he ventured, "I've been thinking about it !", no doubt as the 9+ hour drive from Hamilton to New York City must take it's toll over the years.

 

Hard to believe that this amazing, still young, native Canadian man could switch from maneuvering massive weights of iron girders in high winds, rain and ice and also meticulously carve such incredible work in, in this case, Brazilian Soapstone.

 

It's an honor to own his work and I shall never part with it.

 

This is one of many examples of experiences I have had from researching my found treasures. Another time I'll tell you about the girl from Maine who painted the tail on the 'fish plate'.

INSIDEOUTSIDE

INSIDEOUTSIDE

Sunday Afternoon October 19th 2008 @ 4.15 pm

I'd fallen asleep, in my recliner, watching a quite interesting program on Vermont Public Television , about Barack Obama and John McCain's lives.

Of course you never seem to recall falling asleep, for it's the awakening that you experience.

First the sounds of voices. Barack and John are done with, replaced by a wonderful program about the Adirondacks and their early 1900's luxurious camps. The visual images are profound as the commentator's and particpants' pleasing voices describe the scenes before me.

The combination of Sunday afternoon, a quiet street, the golden leaves of fall outside blowing in the gusty wind, stripping the maple tree and scattering flashes of golden leaves through the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, enhancing manyfold the lovely colors and shapes of my 'treasures' that I have in every nook and cranny of my apartment.

I call this corner (actually half the small room) my insideoutside room for, to me, it resembles the bridge on a ship from where I can not only draw from the activity, color and light from outside on St Paul Sreet but the light and colors out there seem to blend magically into the room, even incorporating the image on the TV.

To some this is probably a claustrophobic nightmare but, to me, it is my child's delight, a tumbling together of many experiences and memories, combined with the artist's eye for 'juxtaposition' (wonderful word), color and form.

It please me greatly and to awaken slowly, warm and comfortable, almost welded to the chair, is an experience in the process of transforming itself from the surreal to the real.

For a while I cannot move as my body and mind come back into a state of consciousness. As my mind begins to click back into gear I feel regret that some of the day has slipped away from me, especially on such a sunny one, but then, gradually, I accept the scene before me and my attention is drawn, as if changing the focal length of my eye, from outside the house to the plane of visual images before me and eventually resting where I lay resting.

It is a strange experience of boundaries merging and disappearing, blending into panorama.

Very pleasing.

AN OUT AND OUT GEM OF A MAN.

Save the Last Dance...For Joanne.

Today, Saturday, September 27, 2008 I learned of the passing, yesterday, of Paul Newman.

Back in the late 1950's when my step father reluctantly gave me 5/- a week pocket money, spending some on a movie on a Friday or Saturday night gave me a great avenue of escape from the abuse and suffering that I experienced at home. Here was an opportunity to live another existence for an hour or two, one conjured up on screen and taken into a soul in great need of comfort or diversion.

Settled into a plush seat in the huge Odeon at Leicester Square in London , the lights dimming as Pathé News came on as part of a three hour extravaganza of entertainment, was pure ecstacy for me as I was transported into so many worlds other than my own.

There were many fine actors and actresses that I admired but Paul Newman stood out to a 17 yr old college student. Not only was Paul such a consumately handsome lady's man but he had such a 'cheek' or 'sass' about him as was well demonstrated in the renowned film 'Cool Hand Luke' . Representing 'society' and all it's inherent needs to impress upon any free spirit it's need to 'communicate' a certain acceptable 'way of behaving' , the prison superintendent was as merciless and brutal as a regime can be, yet Luke, still with a flicker of a smile, repeatedly raised his head for one more spark of the rebel's life to shine forth.

Paul Newman was perfect in the role and has been , understandably, attached to it ever since.

Beyond his career and with the spirit that few have equalled (Jimmy Carter comes to mind), Paul has dedicated much of his life to giving to those in need as well as benefiting society in general through his many entreprenurial activities, not the least of which was over $250,000,000 raised by his food companies.

Unlike many of his contemporaries who were prone to philandering, in his 49 year long relationship with fellow actor and mate, Joanne Woodward, Paul seems to have kept the shine on his 'star' as bright as ever, hence the loss of his light, and his humor is the more deeply felt.

My sincere condolences to Joanne, the girls and his entire family.

Go happily into the night my good friend.

You will be long remembered.

THE WORRYING KIND (Part 2)

"I am an old man and have had many troubles.

But most of them never happened.

American Art Postcard - mid 1950's

"..had many troubles..but most of them never happened ?"

How can that be ?

Worry/Anxiety can be created by catastrophic events, such as the death of a parent and also by a repetitive , perhaps individually less dramatic, series of events which, by their being reinforced over a longer period of time, can have the same undermining effect upon the psyche of a child ( or adult).

Look at this rather difficult image.

Traced upon this unfortunate man's back are a miriad of tributaries that lightning has burned upon the surface area of his body.

Internally, and, I would suggest, emotionally/psychologically, these tendril-like paths can also be found to have been burned into being.Physically, I would not be at all surprised to learn that this man might have physically shaken for a long time, his nerves having been ' jangled' by the force of the electrical energy coursing through his body , seeking a place to ground out.

In my case, I had already endured a couple of years of my father's* abuses, his anger, his physical abuse, disatisfaction, disdain and all round general threat towards me.

*At this time I was not aware that my'father' was actually my step-father.

This, immediately followed by the death of my only protector, my mother, must have been like a rumbling tembler throughout every part of my being.

But then there was Gladys and her parents, Harold and Maggie Wilson ready with open arms to care for me.
Gladys had cared for my sister, Gail, and I since we were infants, allowing for my mother to run her hairdressing salon, based in my grandfather's front room in Crown Square.

Simple. good Yorkshire folk, these.

Gladys's dad, Harold, worked in nearby quarries while Maggie cooked, washed, cleaned house and proudly scrubbed the classic Yorkshire 'welcome mat', a sandstone step, until it was concave from constantly being scoured clean.

Harold would arrive home, tired out, his hands rough from his daily toil but always, always he would step into his home across the clean stoop, to a hot bath and meal and a place next to the fire.

THE WORRYING KIND (Part 1)

I'm sure that I worried before my mother died, but her sudden disappearance, seen through the kitchen keyhole one night as the ambulance attendants carried her away, never to return, sealed my fate as far as worrying was concerned.

Never again do I want to relive those feelings of helplessness and loss. I adored my mother. Even to this day, seeing a picture of this little 'imp' with the bucket and spade, under the protection of her elder sister, Zena, on the beaches at Scarborough, still can bring me, emotionally, to my knees.

No wonder my grandfather was seen to cry, for the first time,at her funeral. For , after all, she seems to cry out, as do all children, by their simple, innocent beauty, to be cared for. Yet none of us could, in the end, do anything to save her.



My place had always been, by her side.

Clearly, this is where I felt I belonged. She protected me and I , perhaps, thought that by keeping a close watch on her, I protected her too ..yet..despite that, I still lost my mother that December 7th 1947 to ulcerative colitis.

I was almost 5 years old. She was gone, to the muffled voices and shuffled steps and the endless night.



I am told that my Aunty Vera came for me. My sisters went to my stepfather's parents and I back to my 'nanny', Gladys, and her parents at #1, Ryedale View in Kirkbymoorside, Yorkshire.

Gladys is still like a second mother to me, her voice a balm to my pain.





"You're mummy is a star in the sky." I was told. This manifested itself as potentially devouring and obscuring , swirling , black and gray horrors in the night which wakened me in tears, frozen in fear.









It was as if death stalked at night as I feverishly scanned the skies of my dreams for signs of my mother star.







In your life expect some trouble
But when you worry
You make it double
Don't worry, be happy......Bobby Mcferrin