Walks

Blossoms Backed By Blue

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

“To me, flowers look best when there are masses of them.” Those words came from a guy who, overall, doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. Namely, from me. Once in a while, though, I realize I do know what I’m talking about. which led me to post that comment recently on In The Net! – Pictures and Stories of Life, Lynette d’Arty-Cross’s fine website that focuses on the beauty of the natural world.

What’s better than flowers? They are bursting with life, yet are peaceful. And, I’m certain, they connect positively with just about every human on Planet Earth, even with evil motherf*ckers. I wouldn’t be surprised, for instance, if the residences of Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong Un, and the surrounding grounds, boast flower displays that would knock your socks off.

Yes, I believe that you can’t have too many flowers. I began to embrace that opinion strongly circa 2018. I’m not sure why it hadn’t dawned on me much earlier. Whatever, I’m happy that I eventually wised up.

As fields of flowers don’t exist anywhere near where I live, I’ve developed a semi-obsession with flowering trees, which contain oceans of blossoms in relatively concentrated spaces. Those trees are miraculous. And, seeing that their performances don’t last for more than a handful of weeks, it behooves a flower aficionado to feast his or her eyes upon them while the feasting is good.

The spring season, here in southeast Pennsylvania, USA, was in pretty full gear by the second half of April. Various species of flowering trees were strutting their stuff. So, when a nice sunny day rolled around on the 22nd of April, I decided to take advantage of it, knowing that the blue skies would help the blossoms to look their very best. I wasn’t wrong. As I rambled for an hour through my neighborhood and an adjoining neighborhood, I soaked up the loveliness of thousands upon thousands of tree flowers, getting as close to them as I could, and allowing plenty of blue to enhance the views. My phone’s camera immortalized my walk. A few samples of its work accompany this story.

You know, when I left my house to go flower-hunting that late morning, I didn’t know that my mini expedition was taking place on Earth Day. I thought that Earth Day, an excellent event, had been celebrated two days prior. When you think about it, though, every day should be Earth Day. If humankind were a whole lot smarter than it is, individuals, governments and businesses would be doing whatever it takes, urgently, to try and repair the wounds that we’ve inflicted upon our gorgeous orb since the start of the Industrial Revolution about 250 years ago.

However, I’ve read (click here) that, despite substantial inroads made by renewable energy sources, fossil fuels (oil, coal and natural gas) remain dominant, accounting for about 80% of global energy usage. Heat-trapping greenhouse gases (such as carbon dioxide and methane) produced by the burning of fossil fuels are the main culprits behind climate change. That 80% figure needs to drop enormously in order to mitigate climate change’s manifestations: global warming; rising sea levels; extreme weather events; droughts; forest fires and floods, to name some of the biggies. Analysts, though, are divided as to when, or if, this might happen. Even under the best-case scenario, depressingly, enormous quantities of fossil fuels will continue to be burned for many years to come.

And don’t get me started on deforestation, plastic pollution and other mammoth non-climate-change-related crimes we have been committing. Holy shit, it’s absolutely incredible how destructive, and self-destructive, our species is.

On that note, I now shall sign off. By the time this story is published I will have bathed in the beauty of flowering trees several more times. They are good for my spirits. I damn well need them.

Art On Wheels, Part Twelve (Thanks, Philadelphia)

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

It had been half a year since I’d hauled my scrawny ass around the streets of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, searching for handsomely decorated trucks, vans, buses and other wheeled objects. I was itching to track down another bunch of those bad boys, photograph them, and then compose and publish a new installment of Art On Wheels, a series I’ve grown quite fond of. And so, amidst favorable weather conditions, I hopped aboard a train in my suburban burg three Monday mornings ago. One hour later I arrived in downtown Philly. The game was set to begin.

However . . . I didn’t slip into game mode as effortlessly as I’d expected, because, from the start, some of Philadelphia’s many charms began to distract and seduce me more than slightly. For instance, 19th century townhouses as stately as anyone might wish for. Rittenhouse Square, a perfectly designed neighborhood park. Skyscrapers whose glass facades, in daylight, flaunt fabulous reflections.

It almost got to the point where I considered putting Art On Wheels on hold and writing a piece about the magnificence of The City Of Brotherly Love instead. But that wouldn’t do! Hell, I was on a mission, and I needed to see it through. And so, refocusing, I doggedly looked here, there and everywhere for noteworthy vehicles. Even though I didn’t spot quite as many as I’d have liked during the two hours I spent pounding the pavement, I found enough of them to quench my thirst quite thoroughly. In all, I took portraits of 17 specimens. The six that rang my bell more artistically than the others illustrate this article.

Yes, things worked out well in the end, as they always have in Philadelphia. Being a natural-born worrier, though, I had my doubts at times that day, since each Art On Wheels expedition is in fact a bit of a crapshoot. The odds, of course, were in my favor. You’d think that past experience would have proven to me emphatically that more than a few enterprises making deliveries or providing services in Philly want their vehicles to stand out. That’s just good business sense, right? In fact, it’s surprising, when you think about it, that the exteriors of a high percentage of commercial trucks, vans, etc. are pure vanilla. Flair isn’t in their vocabulary, but it sure wouldn’t hurt if it were.

Do you have favorites among the six vehicles pictured in this story? My top three are the ones promoting Junk In The Trunk, Orbit Water, and Budweiser beer (the slogan “official beer of the shift change” is meant to honor hard workers, such as Shayna Raichilson-Zadok, the chef who is proudly pictured).

Choosing among those three isn’t easy. However, I’m going to go with the candidate that makes me the happiest. Namely, Orbit Water. The truck’s artwork is oh so refreshing. And the smiling guy in the design is the epitome of good cheer. He would make an ideal salesperson for almost any product or service. Excepting cemetery plots and colonoscopies, needless to say, and a handful of others. Orbit Water, you are A-OK in my book.

Let me conclude this opus with a sidenote: For several years I’ve been issuing, without fail, a story every other Tuesday (Tuesday in my time zone, that is). However, seeing that Chanukah has begun and will continue for a few more nights, and that Kwanzaa, Christmas and New Year’s Day soon will arrive, this is a good time for me to step back for a short while. Thus, I won’t be publishing on what would have been the next scheduled date (December 26). But, assuming I remain above ground, I’ll return with fresh material on January 9, 2024. Happy New Year, everyone!

A Foggy Afternoon At The Beach (A Cape Cod Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger140 Comments

Well, the time has arrived for me to add yet another story about Cape Cod to this publication’s contents. And why not? Cape Cod is one of my happy places, as it is for my wife Sandy. We’ve vacationed on the Cape nearly every year since 1998. We feel at home there, at peace. We never get tired of it.

Sixty-five miles in length and surrounded by endless waters on three sides, hook-shaped Cape Cod lies within the boundaries of the state of Massachusetts, USA. The Cape has a lot going for it, such as natural beauty, a good arts scene, and slews of restaurants. Sandy and I are into all of that, in spades. Thus, as usual, we had a fine time and were active as can be during our just-ended two-and-a-half-week stay. If I were to write an account of all we did, this essay would go on for 10,000 more words. The hell with that. So, as is my wont, I’ll keep things on the concise side.

For me, the one aspect of Cape Cod that stands out above the others is its Atlantic Ocean coastline, which runs north and south for about 40 miles on the Cape’s eastern border. Man, it is breathtaking. And, importantly, is undeveloped. There are no commercial enterprises or boardwalks directly on the Cape’s Atlantic coast. Unadulterated beach, sand dunes, ocean and sky are what you get. And, in a long section, massive sand cliffs too. The sand cliffs astound me. They sit at the back of the beach, eroding and receding slowly year after year due to the punishment delivered by ocean storms, yet remaining defiant. They stare straight ahead stoically, their grit undeniable.

Late afternoon two Fridays ago, my better half and I found ourselves on Marconi Beach, a spectacular stretch of the ocean coast in the township of Wellfleet. Talk about cliffs! Marconi’s are enormous, possibly taller than their siblings elsewhere on the Cape’s Atlantic beaches. By my estimation they are roughly 100 feet in height. Walking along Marconi’s sands while gazing at the cliffs is a humbling experience.

What made this particular walk extra special, however, was not the cliffs. They are a given. No, it was dense fog, whose presence surprised the heck out of me. The rocking and rolling ocean, noisy as a crowded tavern, was heavily obscured. Swaths of vapors hugged the cliffs. I love walking the Cape’s beaches when the Sun is shining, the skies are blue and all seems well with the world. But I dug Marconi Beach no end that foggy afternoon. Variety damn well is the spice of life.

Sandy and I were pretty well bundled up at Marconi, as the temperature was not exactly warm. And the beach was uncrowded, just the way I like it. We saw only 25 or thereabouts individuals while we were there.

Two of our fellow beach visitors blew my mind: teenage girls frolicking in the surf. Holy shit, the waters were rough! I worried for the lasses. But they must have been experienced at this kind of thing, and clearly were having the times of their lives. Here’s the amazing part: The girls were as naked as when they were born, having left their clothes hanging on one of the many sculptures (human-made assemblages of driftwood) that graced the sands.

I toyed with the idea of snapping a picture of the young ladies, from a distance of course. But the possibility of them noticing me, then chasing after me, then catching me and beating the crap out of me, wasn’t appealing. Anyway, I’m an old man, not a dirty old man. I think.

Getting back to driftwood sculptures: I saw plenty of them on one beach or another during our Cape vacation. Marconi Beach contained an unusually large number. Do people have an innate urge at beaches to make arrangements of pieces of wood? I know that I do at times. I did just that once or twice while on the Cape this trip. Not at Marconi, though, despite driftwood abounding there. I guess I had other things on my mind. The fog, for one. And maybe the unclothed girls!

(The photos are from Marconi Beach)

The City Of Brotherly Love At Night

Yeah, Another Blogger127 Comments

As readers of Yeah, Another Blogger know, I do a fair amount of walking. Many of the walks take place in my suburban neighborhood, whose pavements I pound for 25 or 30 minutes per session in the hopes of maintaining a decent level of cardio fitness. I would describe those outings as meh, because suburbia ain’t exactly crammed with interesting things to look at.  

Pretty regularly, though, I head into Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, which is close to my town, to walk for pleasure. There, sometimes by myself, sometimes with my friend Gene, I cover a bunch of miles, avidly checking out multitudes of this, that and the other thing, many of them fascinating. I never get tired of spending time in The City Of Brotherly Love.

Now, just about all of the Philadelphia hikes have been in daylight. So, when the notion popped into my head recently to stretch my legs extensively in Philly under darkened skies, I gave it the thumbs-up. After all, I hadn’t indulged in a lengthy nighttime stroll in the city since the one I wrote about in 2018.

Thus, on a balmy Tuesday evening earlier this month, I rode a train into central Philadelphia, and then spent two hours wandering all over the place. I took nearly five dozen pictures along the way. A selection of them illustrates this story.

A bit to my surprise, none of the city sections I visited were anything resembling deserted. The sidewalks weren’t crowded, but they were busy enough, with folks popping in and out of stores and eateries, going about their business in other ways, or just plain hanging out. Not bad for a Tuesday night. I was glad about all of that in terms of my personal safety, and also because it showed that the hard hits delivered by the COVID pandemic have been reversed substantially.

A group of locals on a Chinatown street corner.
The China Gate, in Philadelphia’s Chinatown section.

When it came to hanging out, nobody I saw that night did it any better than a group of folks chatting away on a street corner in Philly’s Chinatown neighborhood. I’d have liked to have walked right up to them and ask if it would be okay for me to take an ensemble portrait. But I’m a chickenshit when it comes to approaching strangers for photographic reasons. My loss, of course, as I’ve missed out on any number of revealing pix over the years. Nonetheless, I like the snapshot in which, from a distance, they appear. The mural on the side of the TeaDo tea house anchors that scene with pride. And I like even better the picture of The China Gate, the magnificent welcome-to-Chinatown arch that straddles 10th Street a block from where I blew my chance to get up-close and personal with the locals.

A guy on a blanket in Rittenhouse Square, one of Philadelphia’s best parks.

A similar situation presented itself an hour later in Rittenhouse Square, one of Philadelphia’s stellar parks, where a guy was seated on a blanket. He was as content as can be under tree branches that smiled down upon him lovingly. Once again, a close-up would have been cool. On the other hand, the park’s calm vibes wouldn’t have been as evident in a close-up as they are in the picture I took instead.

City Hall (left) and skyscrapers.
A block of Sansom Street, not far from City Hall.
Hard Rock Cafe, Philadelphia.

Calm vibes, in fact, filled the air everywhere I went. The city was quieter, more welcoming than it is during daylight hours. The semi-darkness helped bring that about, and I was under its spell. Hell, just about everything looked good to me. City Hall, smack dab in the middle of central Philadelphia, and the modern skyscrapers just beyond it dazzled in an understated manner. Streetlamps and store signs bathed narrow blocks, such as the Sansom Street corridor west of City Hall, gently and warmly. A giant guitar sculpture, lit up like a Christmas tree and hanging from the facade of Hard Rock Café, never looked better.

But all good things must come to an end. A few minutes after admiring the guitar I entered Jefferson Station, within which I hopped aboard the train that took me back to my little town. It had been a big night in the big city.

Yeah, long solo walks in stimulating places are my cup of tea. I live in the moment during these mini adventures, enjoying the heck out of being able to go here or there as I like, answerable to no one and curious to see what’s around the next corner. They make my cares and woes disappear, leaving me with a sense of freedom that normally I don’t experience all too deeply. Man, I’d be golden if I learned to incorporate that orientation much more fully into my everyday life. Will it ever happen? Well, . . .

Summer Kind Of Sucks

Yeah, Another Blogger165 Comments

Ah, my mind is drifting back to the carefree days of my youth, ages ago, when I embraced the summer season, thinking nothing of being outside in the sun for hours on end. What was there not to like? Playing baseball, basketball, volleyball, golf, and tennis sure as hell was very alright with me. As were any number of other outdoor activities, including a passive yet major one. Namely, lying on beaches and in the backyard of the house I grew up in. There, while listening to music on my transistor radio, I’d soak up the sun’s vibrant rays in hopes that the suntan lotion I’d slathered all over my body would help my innately pale skin shift to a handsome shade of bronze.

Well, a bronze god I never became. Or a god of any sort, for that matter. Shit! But, despite that disappointment, I had plenty of fun, fun, fun in the summertime.

That’s no longer the case. Nope, I haven’t been a fan of summer for quite a few years. The heat doesn’t agree with me. Nor does a maniacally sneering sun. Thus, when the temperature is above 80°F (27°C) and the sun is unblocked by clouds, which is the scenario on the majority of summer days, I’m not in a rush to mow the lawn, go for a cardio walk in my steeply hilled neighborhood, or engage in any other semi-strenuous activity. When those meteorological conditions are in play, I’d rather spend my time productively indoors — belching harmonically, for example, as I twirl the five strands of hair remaining on the crown of my head.

Nevertheless, a boy needs his exercise. Which is why, on a recent morning, when it already was hot enough at 10:00 AM to fry an egg on the sidewalk, I jumped into my car and drove to the enclosed, three-story mall less than a mile from my home. I spent 40 minutes there, striding purposefully along its avenues and raising my heart rate in the process.

What was true even before the COVID pandemic arrived is far truer now in the wake of that siege. Meaning, the mall is struggling. I saw any number of vacancies. And a bunch of shops, still in business apparently, had decided not to open that day. Except for food stores, pharmacies and a few other commercial businesses, how does any retail establishment, pretty much anywhere, compete with online shopping anymore? I don’t know. It’s a troubling situation. Many jobs are at stake.

Still, I enjoyed the walk, looking, as I was, for store-window posters that idealized the joys of summer. I found a few that did precisely that. They almost made me think that fun in the summer sun could still be a significant part of my life. Then I returned to reality. I mean, all of the models in the posters were under age 25, a time in life when summer heat doesn’t make you melt like ice cream, and the sun wants only to bless you. I don’t fit into that picture.

Heat-wise, more likely than not, the worst will have passed by late September. Autumn, my favorite time of year, should be in first gear by then, starting to bestow its charms and cooler temperatures upon my part of the globe (southeastern Pennsylvania, USA). I damn well am looking forward to those developments.

Yes, I’ll be happy to wave goodbye to summer. But, on the other hand, I don’t want to get on summer’s wrong side, considering that its normal side is just about too much for me. That’s why I’m going to try and appease the blazing season by ending this essay with one of the best summer songs ever: Hot Fun In The Summertime, by Sly And The Family Stone. It came out in 1969 and sounds as good today as it did then. Maybe better. What grit, what cool, what joyfulness and power! Summer kind of sucks, but this recording doesn’t.

Art On Wheels, Part Eleven (A Philadelphia Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger151 Comments

It was a fortuitous moment for yours truly when the idea for Art On Wheels popped into my head in 2017, as this series, now comprising 11 stories, has brought me plenty of pleasure. An admirer of good-looking objects, I have become semi-addicted to tracking down attractively decorated trucks, vans and other wheeled vehicles, snapping their portraits and writing about the adventures.

This is especially true for parts eight through eleven of Art On Wheels, which are the four most recent episodes, because I initiated them by roaming the streets of Philadelphia on foot in search of prey. Prior to that, my main modus operandi had been to drive all over the frigging place in the Philadelphia suburbs (I live in those burbs), where I located vehicles in strip malls, loading docks and other non-descript places. I doubt if I’ll ever return to that method. I’d rather walk than drive, for one thing, and Philadelphia, unlike the burbs, is made for walking. What’s more, Philly is fascinating and full of energy. My suburban area doesn’t come close to fitting that description.

There I was, then, on a recent Friday morn, boarding a train in my sleepy town. Forty-five minutes later I bade the train farewell within Jefferson Station in central Philadelphia and headed outside to begin my mission. Past experience had shown me that lovingly adorned vehicles, some in motion, some parked along curbs, are not uncommon on Philadelphia’s streets. But would I encounter enough of them on my wanderings this day to illustrate a story? Was a dud of a day in store?

It wasn’t! Man, within three minutes of exiting the train station I saw, and photographed, several vehicles that passed muster: a delivery truck, a delivery van and a tour bus. I’m worried that the truck and bus might sue me or physically confront me, as I’ve decided that only the van, belonging to the Mini Melts ice cream company, is worthy of immortalization on my site. I tell you, being a beauty contest judge is cool, but there’s a darkish side to the gig.

Long walks and I agree with one another. And it was a long, zigzagging walk I took through a multitude of neighborhoods in Philadelphia, the city I know better than any other. After six and a half miles of pavement-pounding I decided to call it a day. I likely would have continued the expedition for another hour or so, but at around the six-mile mark, from out of the blue, my calf muscles cramped up outrageously. Shit, those f*ckers hurt like hell! I could barely move and had to lean against a building to prevent myself from sinking to the sidewalk. Amazingly, the pain soon mostly went away, but I wasn’t about to push my luck. So, I made my way to Jefferson Station and returned home. I’ve never had leg cramps like those before. If they ever decide to pay a return visit, I’m going to be royally pissed.

I’ve poured over the pix of the vehicles that posed for me during the trek. I’m avoiding overkill by presenting but six of the nearly 20 photos I snapped. They are the portraits I like best. My top two votes go to the trucks belonging to Allspec Construction and to Vision Furniture. They took my breath away when I crossed paths with them the other day, and their pictures continue to do so. The airiness and lightness of their designs make me say “ooh la la!”

Still, I have a clear favorite. Vision Furniture, in my book you are numero uno! Your chairs are the embodiment of happiness, barely restrained by gravity’s pull and delighted to be with one another. And your power goes beyond that: When I look at you, I hear piano music — melodies as carefree as kids at play — accompanying the flying chairs.

Well, maybe I’m getting carried away a bit. But hell, I can’t help myself. It’s the way I roll. Been doing it for decades. One thing I know for sure, in any event, is this: If Vision Furniture had been the only stellar vehicle I saw during my urban safari, I’d have deemed the day a success.

Springtime Close-Ups

Yeah, Another Blogger156 Comments

Maybe it was due to global warming, or maybe Nature was just feeling antsy. Whatever the reason, spring arrived way earlier than usual this year in my neck of the woods, aka southeastern Pennsylvania, USA. Man, I saw a few trees in flower on the 22nd of March, for crying out loud. That’s at least three weeks sooner than tree-blossoming normally begins. And maples and other big boys of the non-flowering kind unfurled their greenery far ahead of schedule too.

I ain’t complaining, though. A lover of colorful spectacles, I rate the springtime performances of flora quite high on my entertainment list (though not at the lofty level occupied by autumn’s leaves-changing-color extravaganza). Thus, you’ll find me taking a number of walks each spring in which my focus is to admire colors that were unavailable during winter. I spent an hour recently in my suburban neighborhood doing exactly that. My trusty and trusted smart phone was in hand, its camera poised for action. The plan was to use the camera strictly for close-ups. Not of my face, of course, as any images of that rutted, crusty object would have shattered the f*cking camera lens. But of flowering trees and bushes? You bet! Close-ups eliminate surrounding distractions. They get straight to the heart. A close-ups day it would be.

Japanese cherry tree
Japanese andromeda

The conditions for the walk were ideal — sunny, cool and breezy. So breezy, in fact, that I had to hold on tightly to my baseball cap a few times, lest it blow off the previously mentioned rutted, crusty object. I strolled from block to block to block, getting up close and personal with cherry trees, azalea and lilac bushes, and other examples of Nature’s wonders. That didn’t happen as often as I’d have liked, however, since many lovely creations were in the middle or rears of people’s lawns. You better believe I wasn’t about to step onto those lawns, not being in the mood to have homeowners yell at me from their front doors or, worse, come dashing out of their homes to confront me. Sadly but truly, you never know what might happen these days. We sure as shit live in uncertain times.

Dogwood tree
Azalea bush

Nonetheless, the walk was a damn fine one. I felt relaxed and at peace, my head pretty much devoid of thoughts. All of which took me by surprise, as I am, for the most part, a natural-born worrier and overthinker, and good and tight in the shoulders too. Calmly on the lookout for pretty colors, I somehow had entered a near-zen state. That’s part of the magic that a Nature walk sometimes imparts to me. I could go for that degree of mental and emotional clarity and ease all the time. It’s the way to be, of that there is no doubt.

Azalea bush
Lilac bush

I haven’t inhaled spring’s charms and soothing hues all that much since the walk I describe took place. I plan to pick up the pace soon, though, because before you know it all of the flowering trees and shrubs in my area will have dropped their blossoms. I find it a shame that spring’s delicacy and soothingness don’t last for at least several weeks more than they do. If I were in charge of Nature, they would. Hell, let’s take this a few steps further: If I were in charge of Nature, violence and disease would not exist. Living things would not feed upon other living things. The world, in other words, would be a gentle and wonderful place, one in which all organisms, including humans, of course, would spend their days in fulfilling and pain-free manners.

A boy can dream, right?

Windows Shopping

Yeah, Another Blogger145 Comments

I don’t know about you, but in my neck of the woods (I live a bit outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA) there aren’t too many towns that look like towns. Mine sure doesn’t, though I suspect it did up until 70 or 80 years ago. Today it’s a mess, a hodgepodge of neighborhoods interspersed with shopping centers galore. And of those towns that do look like towns, few have thick roots going back many years. Which is one reason why I’m pleased that the borough of Doylestown, Pennsylvania lies a mere 15 miles from my abode.

Doylestown, large in size and containing a high percentage of structures erected between the mid-1800s and the early-1900s, somehow combines stateliness, quaintness and chicness casually and seamlessly. I find it to be a swell place to hang out in and to stroll around, and have been doing just that pretty regularly for decades. I dig its well-kept houses, its arthouse cinema and museums, its record store (Siren Records), its bookstores, its big collection of eateries. On a recent Monday I spent two hours on the streets and alleys, and within a few shops, of this estimable hamlet. I had a specific purpose in mind, one I hoped would result in a photographic essay for Yeah, Another Blogger. Hallelujah, my hopes have been realized!

I arrived in Doylestown at 11:00 AM under skies glowing happily in blue and white. The temperature was 50°F (10°C), quite pleasant, though not warm enough for me to wander without my winter coat. You better believe that I, an old f*cker, chill easily. Anyway, with my trusty phone’s camera at the ready, I immediately began checking out the town’s windows, as windows were to be the stars of the hoped-for story. Windows? You bet. I’m into themed walks and have reported upon any number of them for this publication. Now and then, for instance, I’ve gone in search of well-decorated motor vehicles (click here to read my latest opus about the subject). That’s the way I roll, wobbly as it may be.

Now, I’m not going to tell you that I saw any Doylestown windows with design elements that completely knocked my socks off. However, a number came close. For example, there was no denying the power of the tall, narrow windows, pointing skyward, that adorn the Doylestown Presbyterian Church. Some of them depict Biblical scenes. In retrospect, I’d have loved to view them from inside the church too, but the idea didn’t occur to little ol’ me at the time.

And I was taken with the asymmetrical positioning of the windows on a lovely mustard-colored home. Unbalanced though it may seem at first glance, to my eye the arrangement makes perfect sense. It demonstrates how components big and small can work together in harmony when the will is there. The nations of Planet Earth have yet to learn this lesson fully.

The coolest thing about windows is that they usually are reflective, and many were showing off their talents in that regard. Reflections often blow my mind, as they are real and not real simultaneously — real in the sense that they do exist, and not real because they are weightless representations, often distorted, of the physical world. In any event, I couldn’t get enough of the reflections proudly displayed in the windows of the Bucks County Administration Building, a sharp red car parked on State Street, and the Doylestown Inn.

Very cool, too, was a window I photographed while inside Siren Records, where I browsed through a box of used CDs (I bought five of them). As ordinary as the window itself is — billions upon billions of its type populate the world — the scenes surrounding it and seen through it grabbed me. The window, delighted to be trimmed in yellow and to be adjacent to a wide array of colors, provided a shimmering, kaleidoscopic view of the outside world, courtesy of a sun that glared as if there were no tomorrow.

Well, the time to leave Doylestown has arrived. But I’ve still got windows on my mind, and I’m also ready to be rocked. So, I’ll end this story with one of the best windows-centric recordings I know of. The song, written by the late Tony Joe White, is titled Steamy Windows, and has been recorded by several artists, including Tony Joe. Tina Turner more than did the tune justice, releasing a bluesy, full-steam-ahead version in 1989 that is strong enough to shatter glass. Go, Tina, go!

Smiling Faces

Yeah, Another Blogger141 Comments

The skies were depressingly grey two Saturdays ago, the wind was not gentle, and rain poured down in buckets. In other words, it was real shitty outside. I’m no fan of such conditions — except for ducks, who the f*ck is? — but I was itching to wander the aisles of a local public library, and my aged body was in need of some exercise. So, out the door I went that morning, scrambled to my car and headed off to take care of business.

Success awaited me at destination number one, the library, where I found a book I’ve wanted to read for a long time (A Year In Provence, by Peter Mayle). Next stop, Willow Grove Park, a three-story, enclosed shopping mall in the Philadelphia burbs. It’s located less than a mile from my house. I drove there not to shop but to walk its every corridor. I go for several walks each week, almost always outdoors. But when the weather truly sucks, and an exercise session is in order, I stretch my legs at this indoor mall.

And stretch them I did, for almost an hour, with plenty of bounce in my step and with an episode of The Many Moods Of Ben Vaughn, a music podcast that features a wide range of tunes, playing through my earbuds. There was a pretty good number of people at the mall, some of them youngsters lined up, in the special Christmas section, to have a chat with Santa Claus. A pretty good number, yes, but nothing much out of the ordinary, considering that the Christmas-shopping season was upon us. In fact, a third of the businesses, as I walked past them, had nobody but employees within. Can brick and mortar establishments continue to hang in there, what with the heavy body blows that online shopping delivers to them non-stop? It’s not an upbeat situation.

Being one with artsy leanings, I took a good look at the posters on display in store windows as I strode through the mall. Designed to catch the attention of potential customers, nearly all of them were great. And halfway into my walk it dawned on me that a considerable number of these artworks had something in common. To wit, they featured one or more people with smiling faces. Not just half-grins, mind you, but broad, joyful, glad-to-be-alive smiles. (A sampling of the posters illustrates this article.)

I was down with that. Absolutely. After all, what’s better than being happy and showing it too? Not much. Anyone who spends a meaningful percentage of their waking hours in that state has found a strong path in life.

When I began composing this essay several days after being at the mall, I recalled someone who would have been a natural for a store poster, as he wore a smile almost all the time. He’s the only person I’ve ever known who fits that description. I worked with Ray, for that’s his name, in the 1980s. Everyone liked him. How could you not like a guy who brought bright light to the workplace? Ray never was stressed, never was in a bad mood. Unfailingly helpful and friendly, he was nothing short of amazing.

The posters at the mall, and thinking about Ray, have made me realize that I should start smiling more than I do. I would have nothing to lose by doing so, and possibly a good deal to gain, right? There’s no doubt about it. What’s more, can you imagine how much better the world would be if everyone upped their smiling quotient? We’d be on our way to creating paradise if that ever were to happen.

With that in mind, give a listen to a song I heard at the mall, courtesy of Ben Vaughn’s podcast, if you’re in the market for something that will put a nice big smile on your face. The one tune Ben played that really jumped out at me, it’s by The Penguins, a long-defunct doo wop cum rhythm and blues vocal group. Their biggest claim to fame was Earth Angel, a syrupy ballad that became a smash hit in 1954. You hear Earth Angel to this day. On the flip side of the Earth Angel single, however, was Hey Senorita, a song so cool it’ll make you want to bounce around madly. Thanks. Ben, for airing it. Here it is:

Some Walks Are Better Than Others (A Cape Cod Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger151 Comments

Well, another Cape Cod vacation almost has reached its conclusion, as my wife Sandy and I will be back home just as this story hits the presses. We have had a wonderful time. We’ve done a lot and seen a lot on the 65-mile-long peninsula that we think of as our second home, and which we have visited almost annually since the late 1990s.

In some important respects, Cape Cod (which is part of Massachusetts) far surpasses the suburban jungle, in Pennsylvania, where we reside most of the year. You can find genuine peace and quiet on Cape Cod, for instance, and gorgeous waters, sands and marshlands too. In our overpopulated and overdeveloped home base? Fuhgeddaboudit! If health care were better than it is on the Cape, we would consider moving there permanently.

We pursue all sorts of activities on Cape Cod. We stroll through charming villages, play mini golf, fly our kite at beaches, watch sunsets, eat and drink well at taverns and restaurants, go to movies, concerts and plays . . . holy shit, I nearly feel guilty about how good I have it on the Cape!

If I had to place one activity above the others, though, it would be immersing myself, via hikes, in the natural world, which exists abundantly on Cape Cod. These explorations usually set my mind at ease and my heart aflutter. That being the case, I try to make a walk part of my game plan for nearly every day that I spend Cape-side. Now and then I trek alone. In most instances, however, Sandy is my companion.

We’ve been on a number of especially good walks these past two weeks. Magic, or who knows what, was in the air, elevating the experiences to special heights. We oohed and aahed in unison and fed off one another’s energy. And we each made a few pretty sharp observations about Nature that wouldn’t have occurred to the other party.

One of those excellent hikes took place on the eastern coast of Cape Cod, where the Atlantic Ocean, sands and sky make beautiful music together (except when raging storms are doing their thing). They are in harmony because most of the Atlantic coastline is government-protected territory, meaning that hotels, boardwalks, amusement rides and concession stands ain’t to be found. That’s just the way I like it. Another bonus is that not too many humans are on the beaches in the off-season, which is when Sandy and I visit the Cape. I’m down with that too.

There we were, then, on the stretch of coastline known as Nauset Light Beach, located in the town of Eastham. This particular beach is one of my favorites on Cape Cod, partly because of the mighty sand cliffs that back it. The cliffs, ranging from about 30 to 80 feet in height, are part of a chain of cliffs that covers at least half of the approximately 40-miles-long Atlantic coast. They never cease to amaze me. And that day, at Nauset Light Beach, I was struck especially hard by the deep grooves and primordial shapes that storms have sculpted in them. Those storms have pummeled all the cliffs on the Cape’s Atlantic coastline for time immemorial. It’s estimated that they strip away an average of several feet of sand from the cliff-faces every year. As a result, houses and other structures at cliff-top level keep growing closer to the edges of the cliffs. Over the years, some structures have had to be relocated farther inland, and some currently are in worrisome situations. Nature, in no uncertain terms, rules. (Erosion is an ongoing process and concern on many sections of the Cape’s sandy coastlines, not just its Atlantic Ocean side.)

The skies were cloudy as Sandy and I made our way along the beach, sometimes stopping to gaze at the uneasy waters. A strong wind blew, but it didn’t bother us. On the contrary, it energized us, boosting our awareness of the surroundings. As pompous as it sounds, we came pretty damn close to becoming one with Nature, as close as suburbanites have any right to be. We absorbed the unceasing roars, gurgles and hisses of the ocean, the imposing grey skies, and the haphazard array of stones, shells and driftwood on the beach. Everything seemed perfect, exactly as it was meant to be.

Our mini-adventure at Nauset Light Beach went by in a flash. We’d have stayed longer, probably should have stayed longer. But we had other places to go, other things to do. Till we meet again, NLB!