Trees

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.

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.

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:

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?

To The Deck!

Yeah, Another Blogger140 Comments

How fortunate am I to live in a house that has a deck? Real fortunate. I like the deck a lot, though I don’t take advantage of it as often as I should. About eight feet above ground level and attached to the rear of my abode, it extends fully from one end of the house to the other. From the deck I have an assortment of scenes to look at, including partial views of man-made stuff on nearby properties: brickwork, garage doors, sheds, recycling bins, etc. But who cares about any of that? Manufactured items I damn well would look at carefully, though, if they were there, are swimming pools and hot tubs. But only if gorgeous girls were occupying them. Some day, after I’ve bit the dust, a pool or hot tub or two undoubtedly will appear, and gorgeous girls will put them to good use. Shit! Bad timing on my part.

Luckily, I have worthy viewing options. For instance, when on the deck in daylight I sometimes gaze at the sky and at the trees in my backyard and on other lots, all the while listening to the birdies do their chirping thing. That’s one of my go-to ways of trying to become one with Nature. And, you know, sipping on coffee, and grooving to human music in addition to the avian variety, tends to make that combination of activities even better. Which is why, after plopping my ass down on a deck chair, I had a swell time one recent Saturday morning.

Ah yes, the trees. The deciduous ones are voluminous right now here in Pennsylvania, where summer is in full swing. As I admired a collection of trees from the deck, their leaves as green as green can be, I nearly rose from my chair and bowed down to them. Trees project a majestic aura. I don’t take them for granted.

The skies were wonderful too. A dreamy shade of blue, with strands of clouds lolling about, they put me at ease. What’s more, though we were in the midst of a heat wave, the early morning temps hadn’t yet gone haywire. I was as comfortable as I’d be on a crisp autumn day.

In need of caffeine, I wasted no time saying hello to my mug of coffee. As I did so, I tuned in to the birdsong. Although I didn’t spot any of our feathered friends, it was obvious they were out there in abundance, because an a cappella opus, consisting of trills and staccato bursts, bounced energetically through the air. Now, I’m a f*cking dope when it comes to birds. I can identify only a handful by sight and only one species (crows) by sound. Nonetheless, I dig the music they compose. Who doesn’t?

Amazingly, typical neighborhood noises were absent or minimal during the 40 minutes I sat outside. Human voices (belonging to kids in a house opposite mine) didn’t arrive until the 30-minute mark. Motor vehicle growls and screeches were few. And not a single canine bark rang out. What? How was that possible? There are a million dogs in my immediate neighborhood, and they ain’t famed for being quiet.

Anyway, as it turned out, bird calls were not the primary sounds to reach my ears, because I decided after a few minutes on the deck that the scenario I was part of might reach a higher level if recorded music were added to it. I was proven correct when I dialed up some SiriusXM satellite-radio channels on my smart phone. Nearly all of the songs I heard hit the spot, two in particular: Goodbye Mr. Blue, by folk-rock star Father John Misty, and Chill On Cold, by little-known blues and soul singer BIGLLOU Johnson. They were released in 2022 and 2021, respectively. Goodbye Mr. Blue is a moody contemplation on a failed relationship. Chill On Cold talks about a lady whom guys would be wise to avoid. I think it’s cooler than cool, and that BIGLLOU deserves to become popular as hell one day.

That’s a wrap, ladies and gents. Here are the tunes. Till next time!

Ozark; Azaleas; Love Letter From A Red Roof Inn

Yeah, Another Blogger119 Comments

Well, as millions of fans of dark and dirty doings know, the Netflix series Ozark has come to a close. And, predictably, this saga (44 episodes in all), heavily populated by morally compromised people doing despicable things, does not conclude in a tidy manner. As the screen goes dark and a gunshot thunders a mere moment before the credits begin their final roll, any number of questions are left unanswered about four of the show’s main characters, the Byrde family.

Unanswered, yes. I’d have to say, however, that the future clearly does not look bright for Marty and Wendy Byrde, the married pair around whom Ozark significantly revolves, nor for their 15-year-old son Jonah. Possibly Marty and Wendy’s daughter Charlotte, a couple of years Jonah’s senior, has a chance to grow towards the light. But I wouldn’t bet heavy money on that.

What else would you expect, anyway, from a series fueled by the unrelenting pressures placed upon Marty by a Mexican drug cartel whose monies he must launder if he wishes to remain above ground? Man, the directions in which those pressures take Marty, a financial advisor by trade, and Wendy are head-spinning. And the fallout from their maneuverings affects Jonah heavily, and nearly everyone else they come in contact with too.

Such an intense, over-the-top show! I couldn’t get enough of it. Each season I’d stare at the tube in disbelief as, left and right, minor and major players exited permanently, usually by gunfire. Ozark’s foulness put me in a bear hug and wouldn’t let go. I’ll miss the series. And I’ll pass on to you the one big lesson that Ozark taught me. Namely, don’t f*ck with a Mexican drug cartel, or with any similar enterprise, needless to say. You better believe that I damn well won’t.

I’m not strictly a denizen of the lower realms. So, some things way more positive than Ozark also have pleased me of late. For instance, the spring season. Yes, plant life has been looking good here in southeast Pennsylvania, USA for the last five or six weeks, with maple and oak trees and the like flaunting their foliage, and flowering trees dazzling human eyes with their blossoms. What’s more, most of the azaleas in my area burst into bloom about two weeks ago, adding tremendously to the spring spectacular. Ah, azaleas. When dense with flowers, they are hard to beat.

Fortunately for me, each year I get a mega-dose of azalea magic, because my friend Joyce, who lives nearby, is in possession of azaleas as fine as any I’m aware of. The azaleas in front of her house not only glow in a number of different hues, they also are enormous. I’d guess that the square footage taken up by those plants is about one-fourth of the square footage within her home. That’s saying something.

And, though maybe it’s only my imagination, Joyce’s azaleas look better to me this year, in terms of fullness and vibrancy, than ever before. In any case, I bow to them.

Before I bid you adieu, I’ll say a bit about a song, Love Letter From A Red Roof Inn, that needed no help in becoming a favorite of mine after I heard it for the first time earlier this month. It is a winner. (And, parenthetically, let me note that its title is as cool as they come.) Released in late 2021, Love Letter, by the blue-eyed soul band St. Paul & The Broken Bones, unfolds seductively. Lead singer Paul Janeway pours his heart out to the listener, quietly and in a falsetto as sweet as clover honey. Alone in a hotel room, he misses his lady. He’s homesick. He’s on the verge of crying himself to sleep.

St. Paul & The Broken Bones have got what it takes. I’ve seen them on TV and would love to catch them in person. After hearing this song you might want to also. Here, then, is Love Letter From A Red Roof Inn, a recording that would have made waves back in the 1960s and 70s, when soul music by The Temptations, Aretha Franklin, The Delfonics, etc., etc. rode high on the music charts. Till next time!