One of my very favorite places to walk my dogs is cemeteries. The occupants are quiet and never complain, visitor traffic is sparse, and the atmosphere is quiet, almost peaceful. Except for all the dead people.
I've been walking at the Converse Cemetery for at least 12 years. Tuesday evening, after supper, the west wind (been there for at least three weeks) made the walk nearly unbearable. And then, a thought: there is a hedgerow along the north (long) border of the grounds and a wooded creek on the west side. Every time I had walked here, I had walked clockwise, with no fore- or after-thought. Should I reverse directions, fully half the tour would be shielded naturally, and the wind would be at my back that last long stretch.
I tried it Wednesday afternoon, with mixed ratings. But better.
And there was something else: I saw most of the markers from the other side for the first time.
In the northwest corner, an old part of the cemetery, was a stone engraved "Clester".
The very first thing I thought was "clester feck".
Taylor Creek provides the western border. It's like a twenty-foot cliff. The reason is the natural contour of so many cemeteries has been backfilled to provide a more-or-less level "planting" area. In the mid 90's, Elwood moved the main sewer up out of Duck Creek with a $7 million grant from the feds. A thousand feet was relocated into the City Cemetery. The excavations piled mounds of old-time backfill 25 to 30 feet in the air. These piles were full of 60 - 75 year-old bottles, in various conditions.
Note that before plastics, bored into the skull of consumer America by "The Graduate", dumps were routinely fired to reduce waste piles, usually on an undesirable edge of town.
As towns grew, that "undesirable edge" became ultra-thin.
When the dumps were fired, sport was available for children, as the rats tried to flee. This also provided diversion for too many dim-witted adult males, who in an unholy alliance with some devil, found time to reproduce. You know them. Stand still in a box store for ten minutes, at your extreme peril. Earn a Merit Badge in "Quasi-Human Exploration".
Another by-product was the surviving rats, most necessarily the vast majority, found routes into all the new homes crowding the "undesirable edge".
An aside that helps delimit my tolerance: I will trade each rat in my home for a Duroc Hog, and pay all the difference.
I do not like rats.
And at some point, probably now, smoke and stench must be mentioned. There. It was. Because the downwind people welcomed the fresh smell of burning plastics.
The Fifties! What a great time! No A/C, so choose which is the least offensive, blowing through your screen on a swampy July night: burning rotten animal flesh or dioxins!
Aw, the 50's. Great music. Except you wouldn't listen to any of it for more than about eleven minutes.
Try the first three or four Stones albums (admittedly, the 60's). the very best rock band ever, and you're, WTF?
Because all these rock monsters were learning, and rock really exploded in '68, and most before is known only because it was recorded.
I was shuffling through the snow on the cliff edge, the cemetery overshadowing Taylor Creek, looking for my Abbe. Who was surely looking for open water in the creek, the temperature in the low 20's, to cool her heels, or just because she really, really likes to splash water.
The trees in the creek bottom are ten - fifteen feet high, and I saw what I thought was blue, and, as I watched, there was a clester of Bluebirds. Just totally gorgeous. And not the first time this winter I thought a bluebird in the snow was the most beautiful bird in existence.
And these Bluebirds jumping around in these tree tops, at eye level, flashing that beautiful blue in every light, and every bird a distinguishable hue, and the orange throats onto the white, was a spectacle to keep forever.
I am so glad I didn't have a camera, because I could never, ever, with tons of time and tons of film, capture the splendor of these few little birds dancing through these humble trees.
My sister has taken medical teams and supplies to Haiti for at least (so, so sorry if I shortchange this selfless effort) fourteen years, and these people are the poorest people in the Americas, and as besieged as any country in Africa.
For years Haiti was ruled by Papa Doc and then Baby Doc Duvalier, who never troubled themselves with Haiti"s Constitution, the earliest in the Americas, and wrung every cent out of every inch of people and land.
Now comes two days of earthquakes, and here's my new candidate for "Dumbest Motherfucker on the Planet", Pat Robertson.
I was gonna post his crap, but will not soil my blog.
Here's a link, if you want to know what a piece of shit that Americans support with much moola says:
I've been walking at the Converse Cemetery for at least 12 years. Tuesday evening, after supper, the west wind (been there for at least three weeks) made the walk nearly unbearable. And then, a thought: there is a hedgerow along the north (long) border of the grounds and a wooded creek on the west side. Every time I had walked here, I had walked clockwise, with no fore- or after-thought. Should I reverse directions, fully half the tour would be shielded naturally, and the wind would be at my back that last long stretch.
I tried it Wednesday afternoon, with mixed ratings. But better.
And there was something else: I saw most of the markers from the other side for the first time.
In the northwest corner, an old part of the cemetery, was a stone engraved "Clester".
The very first thing I thought was "clester feck".
Taylor Creek provides the western border. It's like a twenty-foot cliff. The reason is the natural contour of so many cemeteries has been backfilled to provide a more-or-less level "planting" area. In the mid 90's, Elwood moved the main sewer up out of Duck Creek with a $7 million grant from the feds. A thousand feet was relocated into the City Cemetery. The excavations piled mounds of old-time backfill 25 to 30 feet in the air. These piles were full of 60 - 75 year-old bottles, in various conditions.
Note that before plastics, bored into the skull of consumer America by "The Graduate", dumps were routinely fired to reduce waste piles, usually on an undesirable edge of town.
As towns grew, that "undesirable edge" became ultra-thin.
When the dumps were fired, sport was available for children, as the rats tried to flee. This also provided diversion for too many dim-witted adult males, who in an unholy alliance with some devil, found time to reproduce. You know them. Stand still in a box store for ten minutes, at your extreme peril. Earn a Merit Badge in "Quasi-Human Exploration".
Another by-product was the surviving rats, most necessarily the vast majority, found routes into all the new homes crowding the "undesirable edge".
An aside that helps delimit my tolerance: I will trade each rat in my home for a Duroc Hog, and pay all the difference.
I do not like rats.
And at some point, probably now, smoke and stench must be mentioned. There. It was. Because the downwind people welcomed the fresh smell of burning plastics.
The Fifties! What a great time! No A/C, so choose which is the least offensive, blowing through your screen on a swampy July night: burning rotten animal flesh or dioxins!
Aw, the 50's. Great music. Except you wouldn't listen to any of it for more than about eleven minutes.
Try the first three or four Stones albums (admittedly, the 60's). the very best rock band ever, and you're, WTF?
Because all these rock monsters were learning, and rock really exploded in '68, and most before is known only because it was recorded.
I was shuffling through the snow on the cliff edge, the cemetery overshadowing Taylor Creek, looking for my Abbe. Who was surely looking for open water in the creek, the temperature in the low 20's, to cool her heels, or just because she really, really likes to splash water.
The trees in the creek bottom are ten - fifteen feet high, and I saw what I thought was blue, and, as I watched, there was a clester of Bluebirds. Just totally gorgeous. And not the first time this winter I thought a bluebird in the snow was the most beautiful bird in existence.
And these Bluebirds jumping around in these tree tops, at eye level, flashing that beautiful blue in every light, and every bird a distinguishable hue, and the orange throats onto the white, was a spectacle to keep forever.
I am so glad I didn't have a camera, because I could never, ever, with tons of time and tons of film, capture the splendor of these few little birds dancing through these humble trees.
My sister has taken medical teams and supplies to Haiti for at least (so, so sorry if I shortchange this selfless effort) fourteen years, and these people are the poorest people in the Americas, and as besieged as any country in Africa.
For years Haiti was ruled by Papa Doc and then Baby Doc Duvalier, who never troubled themselves with Haiti"s Constitution, the earliest in the Americas, and wrung every cent out of every inch of people and land.
Now comes two days of earthquakes, and here's my new candidate for "Dumbest Motherfucker on the Planet", Pat Robertson.
I was gonna post his crap, but will not soil my blog.
Here's a link, if you want to know what a piece of shit that Americans support with much moola says:
the little bird is so cute with beautiful colors i like it very much thanks for sharing this with us..
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ReplyDeletewao what a beautiful bird thanks for sharing with us.
ReplyDelete