Nature

Autumn, A Fine Time Of Year

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

For many years, autumn has been my favorite season, though I guess spring has been gaining ground in that regard. In any case, summer and winter sure ain’t contenders, as I’m not into sweating like a pig nor freezing my balls off.

What is it that puts autumn at the top? Well, the coolish daytime-high temperatures of many of its days please me just fine. And I’m influenced, I believe, by the fact that I’m an October baby. It seems logical to be a fan of the season during which one was born. Actually, I wonder how much truth is in that statement. I’m not sure.

But what I like the most about fall is tree leaves changing color, a spectacle I can’t get enough of. I feel sorry for folks who live in sections of the globe where the extravaganza isn’t staged. In a very real sense, they are being cheated. Many of the deciduous trees in my area have been doing their morphing thing for several weeks, and are looking mighty fine.

I live in a tidy, oldish and unusually hilly neighborhood, part of a town located close to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. In an attempt to keep my bod in halfway-decent shape, I go for walks in the hood fairly regularly. A stroll along the streets two Thursdays ago was a most lovely one. The temperature when I left the house at about 11:00 AM was 57°F (14°C), which was a little lower than it would have been if I were in charge of things, but perfectly acceptable nonetheless. What’s more, the sky was painted a vivid blue, with wads of clouds scattered here and there along its lower regions. I examined the sky closely throughout the walk, since the heavens above almost always are worth looking at and admiring. I’ve been semi-negligent about doing this for much of my life, and recently have tried to become more attentive. A walk I took and wrote about a few months ago got me thinking along those lines.

The color transformations on the Thursday in question knocked my socks off. Shades of orange, gold and cranberry, among others, lit up the neighborhood fabulously. I was particularly drawn to the trees laden in both orange and gold hues. They knew they were something special and proudly showed off their wares. But not boastfully. That’s how confident and assured they were about themselves. The mixture of those colors got to me in a deep way. Not only was it fiery, almost paradoxically it was mellow too.

By the time I arrived home, I had hiked nearly two miles, farther than I was expecting to. Tree leaves with mesmerizing powers had kept me on the streets. Sad to say, the multi-color show will have reached the end of its run by late November, if not sooner. That’s the way Nature rolls.

In 1972, Van Morrison, the singer-songwriter who at age 80 is still going strong, laid down the tracks for Hard Nose The Highway, an album that was released the following year and whose awkward title refers to the importance of trying to persevere through hard times. There are some top-notch tunes on Hard Nose. Maybe the best is Autumn Song, a Van composition that instantly carries me away, so sweet and relaxed is it. The best time and place to listen to Autumn Song, I believe, is late on a fall night, indoors with the lights turned off or way down low. But, with few exceptions, any hour of any day at any location will do just fine. The recording is more than 10 minutes long, by the way. Autumn Song doesn’t overstay its visit, though, because it’s a total charmer. Here it is, anxiously waiting for you to click on the Play button.

A Cloudy Walk And A Rousing Novel

Yeah, Another Blogger134 Comments

A half hour shy of noon a few weeks ago, in need of some exercise, I raised my bony ass off the living room sofa, exited my house and took a walk around my suburban neighborhood. It was a hot and humid summer day, the type that normally causes me to spew sweat like a volcano. I guess the dermatology gods took pity on me, though, for my wrinkled skin became only mildly moist during the stroll.

I usually don’t spend a lot of time looking upward when I’m outside, not in daylight nor when the skies are black. Pretty foolish of me, because, obviously, the heavens are incredible. But, on the day in question I decided to alter that orientation by examining the clouds filling much of the sky. They were of two sorts, some of them bright and friendly and perfect partners for the sky’s blue areas, the others darkened and signaling that rain, which ultimately never arrived, might be a-comin’.

And I also had my eyes on trees, which are fairly abundant in my neighborhood (I live a few miles outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA). It would be cool, I decided, to snap some photos in which cloud-filled skies and trees appeared. But only cloud-filled skies and trees. This turned out to be harder than I thought it would be. I shouldn’t have been surprised, of course, since my neighborhood is jam-packed with houses, utility poles and overhead-utility lines, nearly all of which not only were in the way, but also cursed me out when I told them I wouldn’t include them in the photos. What a bunch of obnoxious bastards! Persevering, I found a fair number of vantage points that allowed me to meet my criteria. I tell you, the life of an amateur photographer ain’t a breeze. On the other hand, just about nobody’s life is a breeze. Hell, that’s life.

Two photos from my mini expedition adorn this essay. I regard them as semi-abstract compositions, the amorphous clouds offset by the tight structure of treetops. I bow before Mother Nature. Her variety of creations is dazzling and just about infinite, yet limited and uncomplicated displays of her wares, such as these, have no trouble awing me. There’s a whole lot to be said for simplicity.

Getting back to life, this month I was swept away by a novel that tells the tale of one David Granger, a 68-year-old American whose adult life has been the opposite of a breeze. Months and months of violent combat in Vietnam jungles in the late 1960s saw to that, not only while he was fighting the Viet Cong, but also every year since then, a decades-long period during which war-induced nightmares have bedeviled his bedtime hours. Granger is the narrator of The Reason You’re Alive, the madcap, profane and humane book by Matthew Quick published in 2017. (Matthew Quick’s best-known novel is The Silver Linings Playbook, which was turned into a movie starring Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper.)

David Granger is a piece of work, an over-the-top character who wears his lengthy list of opinions on his sleeve. A widower, he has an uneasy relationship with his one child (an adult son named Hank), and adores his young granddaughter, Ella. His friendships are pretty plentiful and also profound. And although he possesses a conservative, America-first outlook, he does not meet the definition of a Trumpster, because he is completely accepting of, and admires, the USA’s racial and sexual minorities. A complicated guy, Granger feels compelled to put his story down on paper before it might be too late, seeing that he recently went under the knife for brain cancer, a disease he believes was induced by heavy exposure in Vietnam to the poisonous chemical Agent Orange. Post-surgery, Granger gets it into his head that he should return a valuable object that, under shameful circumstances, he stole from a fellow soldier during the war.

I don’t want to spill too many beans about the plotlines, so I’ll say little more. I will add, however, that the sentences in The Reason You’re Alive barrel along like a high-speed train and pack a punch. Here’s a sample paragraph from the book:

Doctors had sawed through my skull. They had cut out part of my brain. I was still freeballing it in a lime-green fairy gown. I was in a fucking hospital bed, for Christ’s sake, and Hank’s machine-gunning me with entire belts of words just because I didn’t tell him about the surgery until after it was over. I figured, why worry him? We hadn’t been speaking since summer anyway. Ever since we had a blowout at the Phillies game.

See what I mean? Matthew Quick can write. I unhesitatingly recommend The Reason You’re Alive.

Trees And Ponds Go Together Oh So Well: A Cape Cod Story

Yeah, Another Blogger154 Comments

My wife Sandy and I have visited Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA, almost every year since our first vacation there in 1998. Obviously, then, we love the Cape. We’re lucky as hell to have discovered it in the first place, as it never had occurred to either of us that there might exist a locale to which we would want to return again and again. Thus, it’s an understatement to say that Cape Cod has made our lives better. We feel at home there. We enjoy exploring its old villages and areas of natural beauty. We fill up on the Cape’s arts scene and at its eateries. And we engage in sweet old-school activities, such as mini golf and sunset-watching, that we almost never do back home in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Yeah, Cape Cod suits us to a T. We never will tire of this 65-mile-long peninsula.

Anyway, I’m now bringing up Cape Cod not just for the heck of it, but because Sandy and I spent 11 full (i.e. non-commuting) days there recently, and I sense some thoughts about the visit trying to coalesce. Away we go!

Last month’s Cape escape was, as each of its predecessors had been, damn fine. I could go on and on about the many highlights of the trip. But doing so would extend this piece to a mind-numbing length. I don’t know about you, but my mind already is numb enough as it is. That’s why I’ll limit the remainder of my commentary mainly to a specific topic. To wit, ponds nestled in woods.

Nature-wise, when most people think of Cape Cod they picture fine beaches and gorgeous open waters. For sure, the Cape has plenty of those. Less known are its ponds, of which there are hundreds. Most ponds, however, for one reason or another are difficult or near-impossible to access. For example, many are boxed in by housing that has sprouted up around them over the years. Not the case within Cape Cod’s several forests, though, which are protected from development. On back-to-back days we visited two of those woodlands, largely because ponds reside inside them. First up was Brewster township’s Nickerson State Park, a sizable forest, followed by Provincetown township’s Beech Forest, which is less spacious than Nickerson.

The trees in each forest — loads of pines and oaks, among others, in both, and plenty of beeches, appropriately, in Beech Forest — impressed the heck out of me and humbled me too, as trees always do. Hell, trees deserve deep respect. After all, they can trace their ancestry back 400 million years, give or take 50 million. That’s saying a lot.

Nickerson State Park’s Cliff Pond (Brewster, Cape Cod)
Nickerson State Park’s Little Cliff Pond (Brewster, Cape Cod)

But when you add ponds to the picture, you really have something. At Nickerson I got up close and personal with Cliff Pond and Little Cliff Pond, and did the same with Blackwater Pond at Beech Forest (both woodlands contain additional ponds, but I gazed at only three). Those lovely waters, in combination with the trees surrounding them, put me, who leans toward the tense side of the spectrum, at ease, for ponds and trees are a perfect match, gentle with one another and zen-like in the aura they project.

And that’s not all the scenes did. The longer I took them in, the more my inner smile widened and the more I went weak in the knees, because, to me, tree-rimmed ponds rank at the top of Nature’s cute and adorable scale. So, I became totally smitten, a state of affairs I wholly embrace, and which doesn’t happen to me often enough. Any way you look at it, I was fortunate to be at those sites.

Beech Forest’s Blackwater Pond (Provincetown, Cape Cod)

Over the years, Sandy and I have passed way more time on Cape Cod’s beaches, admiring the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Cod Bay and Nantucket Sound, than we have at any of its other natural spots. The Atlantic coastline, raw and almost entirely undeveloped, is, in fact, my favorite aspect of Cape Cod. But, ponds within woods are special too. Very special. A trip to Cape Cod without visiting any of them is incomplete.

Spectacles!

Yeah, Another Blogger154 Comments

I’m not sure when the Northern Lights captured my imagination. Maybe when I was in my 30s. Whatever the case, for a hell of a long time I’ve wanted to see them up close and personal, not just on YouTube videos or on television documentaries. They (and their counterpart, the Southern Lights) can be spectacles of the highest order, as we all know. However, to satisfy this craving I’d have to head to Alaska, Iceland or the like in late autumn or in winter, which is when the light displays generally are at their best. Most likely, that would entail enduring ass-numbing temperatures, something I once would have been okay with but am not at all keen on anymore. So, I have a feeling the craving will go unfulfilled.

Cape Cod, Massachusetts (October 2023)

Well, I can live with that. But I sure wouldn’t want my life to be spectacle-less. Over the last 30 or thereabouts years, I’ve developed a powerful need to be thrilled and awed on a somewhat regular basis by one spectacle or another. By sunsets, for instance, many of which I’ve witnessed during that span. Man, good sunsets are jaw-droppers, right? They are so inspiring and beautiful, you can hardly believe they are real. The same goes, of course, for sunrises. But not many of them have unfolded before my eyes, as I am not a fan of dragging my previously referred-to ass out of the house at ungodly early hours.

Cape Cod, Massachusetts (October 2021)

And I can’t get enough of energized ocean waters, either. Watching and listening to waves develop and roll to shore puts me in a hypnotic sort of state. I engage in this activity frequently on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where my wife Sandy and I have vacationed almost annually since 1998. I purposely overdose on it, in fact, since our permanent home, in Pennsylvania, is nowhere near the ocean. By doing so, the magic of the Cape’s ocean waters stays with me for several months after I’m back home.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (January 1, 2020)

Not every spectacle that rings my bell mightily is Nature-made, though. I’m into fireworks, which, when superior, are a fairly good rival, I suppose, to the Northern and Southern Lights. And in recent years I’ve enjoyed the Philadelphia Flower Show, a famed annual event that, out of ignorance, I pooh-poohed for decades before mending my ways.

Now, I’m not a gardener in any meaningful sense. Sandy and I own a home whose grounds I try to maintain halfway decently. Meaning, I mow, rake and prune — rudimentary tasks — to the best of my limited abilities. But I don’t plant or transplant flora, or nurture them in any way. That’s why I paid no attention whatsoever to the Philadelphia Flower Show (PFS) until 2016, when Sandy and I, kind of just for the heck of it, decided to give the production a whirl. It hooked me immediately, not because I found myself inspired to create flower beds at home or to learn the ins and outs of horticulture, but because it was spectacular. Imaginative installations and wide palettes of colors abounded. I’m proud to say I’ve returned to the flower show five times since my inaugural visit.

Philadelphia Flower Show (March 2025)

Though not quite as swell as some previous years’ extravaganzas, PFS’s 2025 version, held in a cavernous convention center in downtown Philadelphia, damn well was plenty good enough. Sandy and I visited the multi-day event two weeks ago, exploring the display areas for two hours, at which point we ran out of gas.

Philadelphia Flower Show (March 2025)
Philadelphia Flower Show (March 2025)

As always, I happily succumbed to the bright colors — of flowers, light installations and other design elements — that filled the hall. They got my juices flowing. And the PFS environment was a welcoming one, too, for, as had been the case on our previous visits, the show attracted a broad spectrum of people. Young and old. Black and white. Mobile and disabled. It felt good to be part of an inclusive community. Inclusion is where it’s at.

More spectacles are on the horizon this year. Flowering trees, magnolias initially, I think, probably will begin to bloom in my area in early April, possibly before then. Is there anyone who doesn’t like their enormous masses of blossoms? Also during spring, Sandy and I will return to Cape Cod. There, ocean waters and unobstructed sunsets, among other natural delights, will be on view. I can barely wait to soak all of this in.

I Don’t Like Winter, But I Liked This Winter Walk

Yeah, Another Blogger166 Comments

In 2023 I penned an essay, Summer Kind Of Sucks, in which I expressed my strong distaste for hot weather. My feelings about the overheated season turned around meaningfully in 2024, however, due to the concerted effort I made to change my mindset. I’m still impressed I was able to accomplish the partial transformation, which found me embracing summer with a fairly warm hug and with an unforced smile on my heavily wrinkled face. I’m hoping to do the same when the temperatures skyrocket later this year. It’s very possible I shall.

But what about the other problematic season? Namely, winter. Here, in southeast Pennsylvania, USA, we’re moving toward the end of what has been, overall, a quite frigid winter, one peppered with numerous but small snowfalls. Have I enjoyed this season at all? Barely, because the days when I loved to frolic in the cold air and snow ended decades ago. Ever since then, I’ve gritted my teeth and slogged through each winter as best I could, staying indoors as much as possible. I’m hardly alone in this. I’m pretty sure that winter enthusiasts make up only a smallish part of the adult population.

And yet, good winter moments can emerge. As they did nine days ago when I ventured outside to take a look at the state of affairs in my suburban neighborhood. Unlike the conditions during previous walks I’d taken there this year, the temperature (45° F/7° C) was totally tolerable. Bundled up as I was, I didn’t get chilled at all.

I had something specific in mind for the hike. And that something was to spend time admiring leafless trees, which tend to be extremely underappreciated. I wanted to photograph them too, planning to aim my phone’s camera carefully in order to avoid having any houses or cars or other distractions enter the scenes.

Off I went at 2:00 PM. Though the onset of budding was visible, nearly all of the deciduous trees I encountered were bare basically, and they stunned me. They looked primeval, and would have appeared even more so in that respect had their backdrop been a grey sky rather than the afternoon’s gorgeous blue one. Their trunks and branches were things of beauty, the former as resolute as prizefighters, many of the latter delicate and poised to dance. And the no-nonsense, medium-to-dark hues of the trees made me concentrate on shapes, patterns, angles and intersections much more than I would have if the trees had been in leaf. What can you say? Mother Nature, as everyone knows, is the artist supreme. No large-scale, man-made sculptures surpass the big, bare fellas I tipped my hat to during the walk.

Now, none of this is to imply I might once again become a fan of winter. Cold weather activities, other than walks, don’t interest me. At my advanced age, I’d undoubtedly break a bone or two, or worse, were I to attempt to perform any winter sports. And, seeing that over the last few years I’ve become more sensitive to the cold than before, I’m averse to spending more than 30 consecutive minutes outdoors in winter anyway, unless the thermometer is nicely above 32° F/0° C. In other words, yours truly does not relish freezing his ass off.

Nonetheless, I’ll enjoy venturing outside occasionally for brief periods in future winters, to take in the wonders of Mother Nature. Assuming I remain above ground, of course. Fingers crossed about that. As for now, I’m looking forward to spring’s arrival. Which, I’m mighty pleased to say, will be soon.

Watery Pix Of The Cape

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

During the 11 full days my wife Sandy and I were on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, last month, my right index finger was busier than it normally is. For it is the digit I usually employ to tap the big button on my phone’s camera when I notice a scene I want to immortalize. I snapped 137 photos during that period, which averages out to about 12 per day. That’s a substantial amount of picture-taking, an activity I enjoy. And I thank the stars above for making digital photography, via camera phones, so very easy and so very convenient. If it weren’t, I probably would say f*ck this, and then look for another hobby. Yours truly, you see, likes things to be as simple and problem-free as possible. But enough about that proclivity. Let’s now spend a few minutes with some of my pix from the Cape. All of them are water-based.

I’m not surprised that water features prominently in a significantly high number of the 137 photos, because it was on Cape Cod, which Sandy and I have visited almost annually since 1998, that I fell in love with water. Open, endless waters particularly, and ponds too. I don’t know why this love affair blossomed when I was in my 50s, rather than much earlier in my life, as I spent plenty of time at ponds and lakes and the Atlantic Ocean during my younger days. But people — a category I’m fairly sure I’m a member of — sometimes evolve.

Cape Cod is the area shaped like a flexed arm. The land mass above Buzzard’s Bay is not part of Cape Cod.

Four bodies of water surround Cape Cod. I don’t know squat about one of them, Buzzard’s Bay, because it’s too damn far from where Sandy and I stay on the Cape. On the other hand, I am real good pals with the other three: the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Cod Bay and Nantucket Sound. They are majestic. As many times as I’ve stared out at them, I’ve never tired of their looks and auras. They make my jaw drop even farther than old age already has. If I had to choose a favorite among the three, the Atlantic would get my vote. It’s beyond mega-huge, and one never knows what temperament it will display on any given day.

Mill Pond (Orleans, Cape Cod)
Atlantic Ocean, as seen from Nauset Beach (Orleans, Cape Cod)

I’m continually amazed that our rented house, in Orleans township, is deliciously close to the ocean. A 15-minute walk will take you there. And what a walk! From the house, which is nestled in a wooded area, you stroll two blocks to luscious Mill Pond and then head eastward along Mill Pond’s marsh-grassed edges. Soon you reach low dunes, beyond which lie Nauset Beach and the big fella himself. The Atlantic. Sandy and I trod this route at the very tail end of our trip in October. We were not disappointed. Natural beauty bathed us every step of the way. The ocean was fairly calm that day. We took our time watching it, listening to it, letting the waters soothe our minds. Then we bid farewell to our friend, whom we hope to meet again next year.

During the first few years we vacationed on Cape Cod, Paine’s Creek Beach (in Brewster township) was our favorite vantage point from which to imbibe, figuratively speaking, Cape Cod Bay. Subsequently, we discovered other Cape Cod Bay beaches with exceptional views. But Paine’s Creek Beach remains high on the list.

Cape Cod Bay, as seen from Paine’s Creek Beach (Brewster, Cape Cod)

The scenes at Paine’s Creek Beach last month made us question why we haven’t moved to Cape Cod. The sea grasses poking out of the waters were showing off their autumnal amber hue. And the waters themselves were a dream, as calm and gorgeously blue as anyone could want. There is nothing even remotely close in beauty to Cape Cod Bay in the region we call home (southeast Pennsylvania). Unfortunately.

For one reason or another, we don’t feast our eyes on Nantucket Sound as often as we do on the ocean and Cape Cod Bay. However, I’d been impressed by Chatham township’s Hardings Beach, bordering Nantucket Sound, a bunch of times over the years. And so, after catching a movie (“Saturday Night,” which is super-entertaining) at the cinema in Chatham’s village section, we drove to Hardings Beach to watch a sunset.

A sunset at Nantucket Sound, as seen from Hardings Beach (Chatham, Cape Cod)

Though not a knock-your-socks-off spectacle, the feathery, misty sunset was way better than meh. And, as always, Nantucket Sound captivated us. Massive bodies of water have that kind of power. For two and half decades I’ve been losing myself in the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Cod Bay and Nantucket Sound. I doubt if I’ll ever get my fill of them.

It’s My Kind Of Place (A Cape Cod Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger157 Comments

Not knowing what to expect, my spouse Sandy and I first visited Cape Cod, Massachusetts, in 1998. We enjoyed the experience enough to return one year later. That second sojourn sealed the deal, and we have vacationed there just about every year since then. We can’t get enough of the Cape’s expansive areas of natural beauty, its arts scene, its wide choice of restaurants, its delightful old villages, and the healthy vibes that permeate the air. By now we’ve spent, I estimate, more than one year’s-worth of days on this 65-mile-long island. We think of it as our second home and in some ways prefer it to our primary home in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. We’d possibly move there for keeps if healthcare were as good, or almost as good, on Cape Cod as it is in Greater Philadelphia. But it isn’t.

Last month Sandy and I were Cape-side for 11 days, in a rented house in the township of Orleans. As usual, we were far more active than we are back home in the burbs, devoting about eight hours each day to this, that and the other things. Such as: beach walks; a forest walk; visits to museums and art galleries; moviegoing; theatergoing; chowing-down in restaurants; shopping in and wandering around villages. We played mini golf too, and flew our tattered kite on a stretch of sands beside the Atlantic Ocean. I like playing with our kite, even when the f*cker refuses to stay up in the air for more than two or three minutes at a time, which was the case that day.

One section of Cape Cod always has intrigued me more than any other: the desert on the ocean side of Provincetown and neighboring Truro, the townships comprising the Cape’s farthest reaches. It’s hard to believe that this rugged territory is within walking distance of Provincetown’s famed and cool-as-can-be village. The Cape is full of surprises.

I’d hiked in the wonderland any number of times before, including last year. No way was I not going to explore it again. Not in the mood to risk getting lost in desert sections I was unfamiliar with, I decided to walk to the Atlantic Ocean, sticking to the established sand trail that leads there. (Sandy didn’t join me. She has been in dunesland only once. She found the trek to be too physically demanding, and has no plans to revisit this desert.)

The steep sand hill, near Snail Road, that one must climb to reach open sands.

The access to the trail in question is via a wooded area that abuts Snail Road, in Provincetown.  A ridiculously steep dune partly lies within this wood, and up it one must go in order to reach open sands. In the past I’d had little trouble ascending the dune. Last month, however, I began to huff and puff well before reaching its crest, my thigh and calf muscles not performing as well as I’d expected. What can you say? I was four days shy of my 77th birthday. I sure as shit am not what I used to be, and apparently wasn’t even what I’d been one year prior.

Anyway, after conquering dune number one, I set off for the ocean, about one mile away. The trail, easy to follow because of thousands of footprints in the sands, goes up and down dune upon dune before reaching level ground, after which dunes emerge again. Some of those sand hills are incredibly wide and tall. They’d fit right in on the Moon.

I’ve never been less than awestruck in the Cape desert. This time was no exception. It’s so beautiful out there, so unlike anywhere else on Cape Cod. Amazingly, a tiny number of people live in this demanding land, most of them in shacks, the rest in very modest houses. The abodes have no running water, of course. Maybe some have electric generators . . . I don’t know. In any event, it’s not your average person who chooses to reside in such an environment. I wouldn’t. I like my comforts too much.

The Atlantic Ocean is very nearby. Two dune shacks are in the distance.

Well, eventually I made it to the ocean. Almost to the ocean, that is, as I saw no path leading from my sand-cliff perch to the beach and waters below. Some years ago I’d walked onto the beach easily. Not sure why access is difficult now. I suppose that powerful storms have shifted the sands around, creating barriers. Mother Nature has the last say.

My tank dangerously low on gas, I eventually made my way back to Snail Road, stopping every few minutes to drink some water. It’s a good thing I’d had the sense to bring water with me. Otherwise, I might have collapsed somewhere in the lunar-like landscape and drifted off into eternal sleep. If that had happened, the WordPress gods would have been very disappointed, for they’d recently honored me with their Your Articles Kind Of Suck, But We’ll Let That Slide award. What’s more, I now wouldn’t be looking forward to my next vacation on Cape Cod. Yes indeed, it’s my kind of place.

Too Much Green?

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

Earlier this month, my wife Sandy and I made our way from our abode in Pennsylvania, USA to a village in the northeast section of New York State. We journeyed there to attend a family reunion at the home of my brother and sister-in-law. Spread out over several days, the event turned out to be as delightful and meaningful as we could have hoped. Most of our close relations, from my side of the family, live far from Sandy and me. So, we don’t see them all that often. Outstandingly, all of them were at the reunion.

The village in question, not far from Canada, is bordered on its eastern side by Lake Champlain. What a beautiful locale. Farmlands and rolling hills abound near the village. And Lake Champlain, enormous, is as pretty as a picture.

The best natural sights we saw during the trip, though, were the Adirondack Mountains, a large section of which we drove through in order to reach our non-mountainous destination, and on the return trip too.  Of medium but not insignificant height (46 of the Adirondack peaks are over 4,000 feet/1,219 meters), they possess an aura of composure and stability. Those qualities aside, what wowed me the most about them were their trees. A mixture of conifers and hardwoods, the trees were so thickly massed. And, it being summer in the northern hemisphere, so green. Man, I’m a suburban/urban guy who doesn’t get to see endless expanses of trees every day. You better believe I was duly impressed.

But . . . leave it to me not to have taken any pictures of the Adirondack greenery. Ditto for Sandy. Sue us! However, all is not lost. For, last week I decided to gaze upon and photograph trees in my suburban neighborhood. The density of trees here is insignificant compared to that of the Adirondacks, of course, but is pretty good for suburbia. Thus, after slathering my arms and beyond-wrinkled face with sunscreen lotion, out the door I went on a hot Monday morning. Over the next 50 minutes I traversed many of my neighborhood’s blocks. And got more than my fix of green.

Now, when it comes to scientific matters, I’m almost as dumb as shit. In fact, if you take away the almost from the previous sentence, you’ll be much closer to the truth. Which is why I had, and still have, no answer as to why the tree leaves I saw that morning showed no signs of drying up, considering how brutal the Sun and temperatures had been in my region for the previous four or more weeks. Mother Nature knows the reasons, of course, but hasn’t been in the mood to share her knowledge with me. Up yours, Mother Nature! (Just kidding, my dear lady, just kidding.)

Yes, green was the color of the day. But after strolling around for a while I began to think that maybe too much green was on view. I mean, green’s dominance in my little corner of the vegetation world was impressive and more than deserving of a salute. However, I grew a bit tired of the sameness as my walk progressed. As a result, I found myself thinking ahead to autumn, when tree leaves put on multi-colored spectacles that never fail to totally knock my socks off. Would I also have tired of Adirondack greenery had I spent more than a limited number of hours in the mountains’ presence a few weeks ago? Likely. What can I say? Green, I like you, but I guess I don’t love you.

I’m not quite finished talking about green, though. That’s because of a song — Bein’ Green — composed by Joe Raposo in 1970 for Sesame Street, a children’s television series. Bein’ Green truly is lovely. Its lyrics and melody tug at your heart. First sung by Kermit The Frog, who is one of Sesame Street’s characters, the tune has become a classic covered by numerous performers.

So, here’s the thing: Kermit is green, which is a prominent color in the frog family. But he wishes he were a more interesting hue, one with more oomph. Well, Kermit then gives the situation some additional thought. And, as he is unusually wise, concludes that he will accept himself for what he is. There’s beauty and worthiness in just about everything, after all.

Who am I to argue with Kermit? If green is totally good enough for him, it is for me too. Green, I apologize for not appreciating you fully. I’ll try to do better!

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.

Rocking On!

Yeah, Another Blogger144 Comments

Here in the northern hemisphere, autumn is not all that far from drawing to a close. Winter soon will arrive. Having spent way too little time admiring the changing colors of tree leaves this autumn, a week and a half ago I decided to try and rectify the situation by taking a walk around my suburban neighborhood. And so, after murmuring a fond I’ll be back to the sofa I’d been resting my bony ass upon, out the door I went. Though many trees had already dropped all or most of their leaves, I quickly discovered that some still were proudly displaying plenty of their wares. Those leaves, masterpieces in shades of amber, burgundy, russet and gold, moved me. I was glad to be around them.

It wouldn’t be long, of course, before just about every deciduous tree was bare. Which is why, as I strode along, I found myself thinking about time’s relentless forward thrust. Man, not only will winter soon arrive, 2024 will too. Huh? For me, 2022 absolutely zoomed by. And 2023 is setting an even faster pace. It’s scary how time seems to accelerate when we get up there in years.

And there’s no question that I’m up there. I’m 76, for crying out loud, a number that stuns me. In my mind I may be 45 or 50, but the mirror tells a different story. As does this obvious truth: Even if I remain above ground for another 20 or more years, I’m ridiculously closer to the end than to the beginning. Holy shit, who designed this system?  I don’t like it! If it were up to me, we wouldn’t have expiration dates. Or, at the least, the expiration dates would be a hell of a lot longer than they now are.

What to do, what to do? Well, we all know that a good approach to life is to keep on keeping on as best we can. Meaning, we should be loving and giving individuals, and should pursue those activities that bring us joy. And it wouldn’t hurt if we spread our wings too. Yeah, that’s a game plan to embrace, no matter what our age.

There’s not enough room on this page for me to delve into my successes and failures in attempting to meet each of the criteria suggested above. But I will describe one recent activity that brought me joy. Namely, my attendance, with my wife Sandy, at a Willie Nile concert, which took place at City Winery Philadelphia. Willie is a songwriter, vocalist and rhythm guitarist. And, most important, a high-potency rocker. I’d seen him in concert before, and was at City Winery because I expected to be rocked righteously. For rock and roll — guitar-based, take-no-prisoners rock and roll, to be exact — is a form of music that meshes exceedingly well with my internal rhythms. When the songs are hearty and the playing is powerful and the musicians’ commitment knows no bounds, I’m transported to higher realms.

Everything came together magnificently that night. Willie and his band were on fire, unleashing torrents of energy. I’d been feeling rock-deprived for the previous two or three months. The Willie Nile concert put a halt to that.

The concert not only excited me, it got me thinking too. Willie, you see, is a mere eight months younger than me. He’s been part of the rock scene for decades, has played thousands of shows, and hasn’t lost his passion for the music. I tell you, Willie shines as a role model for seniors who are a bit dismayed by the thought that the Grim F*cking Reaper might be lurking around the corner. I’m one of those seniors. Willie is doing what he loves, and shares his gifts generously with his audiences. I believe he’ll rock until the day he drops. That’s a truly worthy way in which to live a life.

In closing, I’ll present you with a video from the concert in question. Dig Willie’s leg kick towards the end of the song. He might be old, but he’s still got “rock star” moves: