The Silver Swan

Swans eat fish.

And little girls wave to birds who look at them.

In England, in the north of Yorkshire, is the city of Barnard Castle. It takes its name from the castle built there centuries ago by Bernard. And in that city is the Bowes Collection, a museum once the residence of the wealthy Bowes family.

A chief exhibit of the Bowes Collection is the Silver Swan, a marvellous clockwork mechanism, built in the 1770s that still operates today.



Let's hope the video plays.

Flat Bassets and Hot Piano

One of the joys of visiting Southern California is the hospitality shown by my bassett hosts.

Apparently, in the bassett community, there is a condition known as "flat bassett." This is when a bassett hound decides that evolution has given him legs too short for walking, at which point he just flops and goes nowhere without being carried.

Here, shortly before heading to the barn at 6am, I looked over to see Rocky demonstrating the classic "flat bassett" position. Rocky likes being part of things, as long as those "things" do not require leaving the house before 6am.



Rocky is fairly calming influence. But when you are in the mood for hot piano jazz, just put some Jerry Lee Lewis on the turntable and watch Maddie get in the groove. I wish I had a picture of her in dark glasses, accompanying Ray Charles.



You may be thinking that such attitudes are disrespectful.

But that is, after all, the point of honky-tonk piano--some things are better when we set respect aside.

Wish I were here

It is beautiful where I am now, perhaps the most beautiful September since I have lived here.

Nonetheless, it is hard not to remember how beautiful it was where I was last month and think longingly of being there again.

From time to time, as I try to keep up with blogging while doing other things, I will post an image or two that keeps those memories vivid.

And I'll try to keep animals in the blog, as I do so.

The Face at the Window

The day before yesterday, I was typing at the computer.

It's a pretty common event. I was trying to cram into one long day my final edits of an overdue essay--one that I am very much looking forward to seeing in print, and one whose final revisions were causing more than usual stress.

I decided that the entire day would be devoted to completing this project, and that everything else would have to wait. I began serious changes at about 9:30 in the morning, and by mid-afternoon, I was definitely making progress . . . and definitely a long way from done.

Next to my computer screen is a second-storey Window. Not a Microsoft Window, but a real window.

A screen that I can look through and see a real world, instead of a virtual one. Sometimes, a real world with animals. Through this window, I have at times, seen deer. And turkeys. And a fox. And cats. And assorted bugs and birds.

Toward mid-afternoon, from the corner of my eye, I caught a motion at the window. I looked up, refocused, stared into the leaves of the woods beyond, seeking out the movement that had caught my eye.

For a second there was nothing. And then, in the corner of the window, much closer than I anticipated--right up against the glass, in fact--a motion again; a small face peering in my second-storey window, then ducking down again.

I am at an age where such changes in focal distance leave a doubt in the mind. But I had an expectation. In the past, small perching birds--goldfinch and nuthatch--have clung to that window ledge briefly, scrabbling for a foothold, tempting my cats, before giving up and flying away.

I looked again where the face had been, thinking "but he is too small, his feet made no noise." And then he was back.

More than a year ago, stuck while writing another essay, I had gone out into the garden. There I met a fellow creature, and over the next few days, we met with regularity and his presence helped me through that bit of the essay:

" The honeysuckle arches over the stone path that leads through the garden. The serpent coils there, among the leaves and blossoms, the patterns of his scales blending with the shade and dappled light of the late afternoon sun. In “The Name of a Dog,” Levinas insisted on the specificity of his dog: “But enough of allegories! . . . The dog is a dog. Literally a dog!” (48). Certainly, Derrida is responding to Levinas when he insists on asserting a complementary specificity: “I must immediately make it clear, the cat I am talking about is a real cat, truly, believe me, a little cat” (6). So, too, must I now insist on the specificity of my serpent: the snake is a snake; literally a snake. And not a little snake, either, for as he dozed on the honeysuckle, I measured him with a tape measure at just over three feet. Writing this essay, in late spring, as I took a break to do some gardening, I stumbled upon him one afternoon. He was sunning himself on the very branch for which I was reaching with clippers in hand. As the essay dragged on over the next week, we began meeting regularly every sunny afternoon, a little after three. The fox who stepped lightly out of the woods one afternoon, and climbed the steps leading up from the overgrown lane, only to work his way along the edge of the side yard, before disappearing into bushes that lead to the open field beyond was only a visitor. As was the deer who nibbled the tender new leaves at the very edge of the wood. These came and went. But the snake in the garden remains. And with each of his near-daily visits, something like a face more clearly emerged. One afternoon, his eye was clouded, milky, a sign that he was about to shed his skin. The next day, bright-eyed and seeking warmth, he was back on his familiar perch."

The face at my window came clearly into focus. By the time I got my camera, he was leaving again.






I went downstairs and photographed his departure.



He is the one who is NOT the cable that snakes through my outer wall into my computer.



He travelled up, transverse, across the bricks, in dappled light, then down beneath the dry already-fallen leaves into the gutter trough along the garage's roofline. He is not his father (or grandfather's--Faulkner would say "grandfather") size, but it seems likely that he lives in his father's house.



When the weather turns cold, and the ground gets hard, the field mice will come looking for warmth. And he will be waiting. In the Keweenaw this summer, people spoke of how dry it was last winter, and how warm the water was this summer; that pattern promises heavy snow in the north this year, they tell me.



Does my tenant have a face?

Labor Day Weekend

Labor Day Weekend marks the end of the Del Mar meet.

So before they load the horses on the vans and ship back up to Los Angeles, let's get in one more blog post on the sweetest summer spot in Southern California.

They don't just have hats at Del Mar, they have horses.



But not all the beauty, or all the beautiful horses are at the track. Some are still getting ready, back at the farm. This one is one of my favorites.



She's incredible.

Let's hope everything goes well, she encounters no problems, and we all get to hear a lot about her.
















Horse racing is largely about the hope that what might be special has a chance to flower.

Paris Hilton has gotten . . . (well, it rhymes with "hat")

Those who know me, know that I am fan of nice hats. I suppose that's what makes Opening Day so much fun--it's just amazing to see so many spectacular hats off the rack. And those hats are spectacular.

But there is more to me than just a simple hat fancier. Readers of this blog know, for instance, that I am something of a cat fancier. But even though "cat" does rhyme with "hat," I am afraid that to the best of my knowledge Paris Hilton has not gotten a cat.

No, the sordid truth is that the innuendo in my title is that Paris Hilton has gotten fat. It's true that just this morning I was reading that she has also gotten busted for possession of cocaine, but that does not rhyme with hat. My interest is only in the fatness of Paris Hilton.

And, of course, the only Paris Hilton I am interested in has never been near cocaine.



You don't really need to tell me that "short" does not rhyme with "hat," either, but the fact is that this photo should indicate that without getting any taller, poor Paris weighs more now than she used to. If you are not convinced of this, let's go to the aerial view:



Yes, gentle reader, that is not so much a photograph FROM a blimp, as it is a photograph OF a blimp. Poor little Paris, who still scoots around pretty quick on those stubby little legs is officially wider than tall. The reason for this turns out to be pretty quick to identify. Being close to the ground and all, Paris seems to get to the hay in the pen before anyone else. And, like any good hardtime inmate, now that she has weight, she has apparently learned how to throw it around. Notice, for instance, how the taller (more slender?) supermodel goats give her room:



The first remedy for this was a common-sense initiative: limit her rations by relocating her to a pen where she would not have an unlimited supply of hay, and give her only straw for bedding and a daily food ration for nourishment. But it only took a day or two to realize that once she finished breakfast, she went right to work on eating her bed. So before long, the Paris Hilton solitary confinement diet was born: bare dirt to sleep on, and only minimal feed. With any luck at all, she will soon be looking less like Rosie O'Donnell and more like her namesake.

Fortunately, there does not seem to be similar issues with the burritos, 1 and 2.

Burrito 1 . . .




. . . and Burritos 2.

Hats For Sale!

It seems forever ago that I read that book . . . it might have even been called "Caps for sale." And it had monkeys in it. That's about all I remember.

But it also seems like forever ago when I went out to Del Mar, and that was only about six weeks ago.

The Opening Day at Del Mar is kind of State Holiday in California. Almost everything stops, while people announce the final summer season by trekking down I-5 to Bing Crosby's favorite track. The paddock at Del Mar is a kind of floating cocktail party on Opening Day, as Peb has caricatured in his mural:





But that, of course, is only art.



Life itself is less organized, more chaotic. And on Opening Day, it is about one thing . . . hats.













There are little blue hats and LARGE RED HATS.


There are quiet purple patterned hats . . .



. . . and loud, flashy turquoise hats.
















There are red hats . . .






. . . and brown hats . . .













. . . and softly elegant black hats;















There are even L O U D flowered hats




And more sedate floppy brown hats



There must be, of course, pretty pink hats . . .



. . . just as there must be smiling brown hats.





There are huge flocks of hats . . .




And a few tasteful individual hats like Miss Saigon and her rose-tinted topper . . .













There were hats everywhere. Well, almost everywhere. If you looked hard enough, here and there, you might find someone who was topless.



Fortunately, after all those hats, it was possible to go back to the farm and get a chiropractor to come straighten the kinks out of your back and help you relax.





All things considered, it's a pretty demanding life.

Summer Reset

Eagles? Lakes? Where did the summer go? How did I get here?

Let's try to reset the last month. Perhaps narrating my daily progress will wind up looking like Tristam Shandy's autobiography--getting further behind every day. But I will attempt it anyway.

About a month ago, I was in a frenzy of packing and sorting. Having returned from England (a lot more that needs to be posted retrospectively, I see), I now had to get ready for back-to-back journeys, to California and Michigan.

The young are light and frivolous and can journey halfway 'round the world with what they can put in a backpack. But as I age, I overpack. I imagine that by the time I am ready to journey to the next life, I will have to take most of the earth with me when I go--or, at least, 30 cubic feet of it.

Any way, when they detect signs of impending travel, the cats like cluster about for reassurance. Remedios, if she can, will sleep on my lap; Shiva will curl impossibly into his wicker basket. But when I am also typing, Remedios can't claim the lap, and has to settle for the basket on the dresser.

Herein lies a humorous tale.

For she had put herself happily to sleep in this location, when Shiva wandered in on what the poet once alluded to as little "cat's feet." So softly did he pad into the room that I never heard him. Nor did, apparently, Remedios.

But Shiva did not curl in his basket. Instead, he waited patiently for Remedios to move. And when she didn't . . . he--lightly, quietly--jumped up next to her.

This woke her just enough to scare the hell out of her--while leaving her in no position to argue, or even move much. Check it out:



I am not sure if you can see how vigorously (albeit, passively) Remedios is announcing her displeasure with this arrangement, but after taking a photograph, I thought it would be a good idea to wander over and offer comforting reassurance.

I was repaid with a reciprocation from Shiva, who wanted me to know that he was, himself, utterly and completely innocent, and had never in his life contemplated anything more menacing than peaceful coexistence. Really. Look into my eyes if you doubt me, he said.



Like a sensible cat--and I realize how strange an epithet that seems for Paxil--Remedios's brother had followed a prudent course of action. When Remedios first voiced her panic, he did what any intelligent male sibling would do. He ran away as fast as he could.

But four or five minutes later, the sounds had subsided. And, indeed, there were no raucous chase sounds. All in all, one had to admit, it was quiet . . . perhaps TOO quiet . . .

And, so, with the stealth for which he is famous (the only cat I know who has managed to fall off a table while sleeping at least six inches from its edge), he too padded into the room.

And, of course, he too wanted me to know all about his innocence. Look in my eyes, if you don't believe me, he said.




I took this as a sign that detente had succeeded, that there would, indeed, be peace in our time; and that I was free to travel west in order to renew old friendships and make new acquaintances.



These shall have to be narrated in subsequent posts.

Last Days of Summer

What was I thinking when I called this "DAILY Paxil?" It seemed a good idea at the time.

But unlike some people, I have never mastered uploading photos to laptops, or even doing much web-surfing on laptops, so my travels this summer have interfered greatly with my posting.

The good news is that I am now back home; well, I guess that is only good news in some ways. But I am back home with more photos than I can possibly write posts for. Unless maybe I start now and just keep throwing something out there frequently.

Maybe even daily.



This is what I have been looking at daily for the past two weeks.

That and birds. Lots of birds.

Especially bald eagles.



This one was in the tree in my backyard. The image of the light on the lake above was in the front yard.

I'll post more soon, but that's it for tonight. Maybe tomorrow I should return to updating about cats.

Hollyhocks

These will not be my images in this blogpost. I will, instead, steal them from the web.

Today is the thirty-fifth anniversary of the most tragic match race of the twentieth century. Thirty-five years ago today, the brilliant and previously undefeated Ruffian broke down in her race against Foolish Pleasure. Attempts to save her failed, and she had to be put down.




I remember hollyhocks.

One of the marvelous things about great horses--or maybe it's just about youth--is how their performance touches you so deeply that you feel a personal connection. Or, perhaps, maybe that is just the way the young think about everything that matters, that it matters especially to them.

They ran that race on my afternoon off.

I seldom took any time off. I was usually in the barn by 4:30 and seldom left the grounds. But once or twice a month, I would spend the afternoon with family, usually at my grandmother's house in the country. It was a big 19th century farmhouse with one of those wide, expansive porches, and a front lawn that seemed to roll away forever.

The television was kept in a morning room with a big picture window. Outside the window, next to that wide, sweeping porch, grew hollyhocks.

Growing up, I hated hollyhocks. For one thing, there was that annoying girl in the Sunday Funnies named Holly Hocks. But mostly it was how they looked: like a weed with those long stalks and those blossoms that looked perpetually faded and tattered, even when they were fresh. They look like an old person's flower, with none of the crisp, clean lines and sharp colors that signified beauty (and youth) to me.

Ruffian was beautiful (and young): solid dark bay with those clean, crisp white silks with bright crimson sleeves and the one bright, bold crimson bar. That was what beauty looked like, not some old, faded, already wilted pastel that seemed to droop in summer's heat.

Of course, that's the thing about hollyhocks--they bloom in midsummer.

It may have been my afternoon off, and I may have been away from the track, but my focus all day was not on my family but on that race. And I was in the center of the family that gathered around the snowy, black-and-white television on which we watched history. Looking back, I think it is sad that I have so little awareness of my own family that shared that moment with me, but I was young; and my memory is almost entirely private.

I had never felt shock like that before, and (fortunately) have seldom felt shock like that since. Much of the experience is blurred for me--a sense of my own posture, leaning in, looking harder, hoping by watching more closely to see something different.

But one thing is clear, bright and distinct above all else.

Somehow I was outside--I don't know how I got there--walking in front of that window, in endless circles, my eyes fixed on the grass where the tips of my shoes pressed it down as I circled, staring intently, as I had before at the screen--seeing not the grass, but the replay looping endlessly in my mind, trying to see it end differently--and circling, pointlessly circling, unable to look up.

And, at the edge of my peripheral vision, unnoticed on the fringe of my unfocused stare, those hollyhocks burned themselves into my retina.

And now, whenever I think of that race, I think immediately of hollyhocks.

Where Thoroughbreds Began

One of these days, I will figure out how to upload Remedios's video. But for now it's back to stills.

I spent two wonderful weeks in England last month, and spent a good deal of the time driving around crazy little narrow country roads in a crazy little car that had a steering wheel on the wrong side. And most of the sites I looked at had some connection to the very early days of the thoroughbred racehorse.






One of my favorite spots was Nutwith Cote, an obscure little farm in a beautiful setting that nobody visits where the barn (and the house) have changed very little from when it housed the son of the Darley Arabian from whom 95% of all thoroughbreds today are descended.









I took lots of photos of the barn.



And more than a few of the current inhabitant . . .












. . . and the chicken who follows him around.