Walking the Berkshires

I'm All Out of Truck

("Good Bye Old Friend" by Bill Mauldin courtesy Stars and Stripes)

I had to put my old truck down today. It still wheezed and rattled along, more rust and chrome, and just 80 miles shy of 200K.  Though it owed me nothing more it somehow kept on going.  It was a 1994 Ford Ranger with absolutely no frills - no power steering, no automatic anything, no sound system - and still it got 27 mpg and until this August was my drive-to-work vehicle as well as drive-to-the-dump.  My sister gave it to me in 1999 when she moved to the big city and downsized the number of vehicles in her household, and I've been a man with a truck ever since.

Until now.  Now we have two cars in the driveway, a late model Subaru Legacy that we got for a steal and an older model version that has many years yet to go.  There was no way to justify a third, nor enough money in the till to go for a truck that seats 4 and gets more than 20 mph.  I had to jump it every time I wanted to go anywhere and the insurance - even minimal coverage - just wasn't worth it.  Still, I feel like the trooper who just lost his faithful mount.  I sold it for junk today for $200.

Having no truck is like having the goat without the cart.  A truck means never having to have stuff delivered that you can pick up yourself, and always having the option, if not the inclination, to declutter the house and haul all the accumulated detritus to the transfer station.   Now I have to downsize our garbage cans to fit our garbage in the trunk of the car.

What I need now is a trailer.  That fat V6 on my sweet new ride ought to be able to handle a 1/2 ton hitch.  A trailer with removable sides so I can load up with gravel at $10 a yard or bark mulch at $40.  Maybe throw a Sunfish sailboat on - if I had one - and take off for the beach.  Until then, though, I'm truckless.

Bye Bye, Bivalve

Pity the poor quahog.   I have a longstanding passion for the lowly hard-shelled clam: so savory in chowder, so delectable when baked and stuffed.  The idea that some of the Icelandic cousins of my beloved Buzzard's Bay quahogs were alive before the Pilgrims decided they would make a good side dish at the first Thanksgiving frankly never occurred to me before this week, when scientists revealed that a specimen of Arctica Islandica was dredged up from the sea floor that researchers believe was between 405 and 410 years old. 

This unassuming 90mm shell sat quietly feeding and adding calcium in minute but measurable rings from the last years of Queen Elizabeth's reign until a year ago in June, when scientists determined that it was the oldest known animal specimen alive on earth.  Regrettably, the past tense is appropriate, for the clam had to be killed in order to study it.   News of this ancient bivalve has captured the attention of the media as well as the "naughty thumb of science" that yearns to extract the secrets of its extraordinary longevity, but I, like Carroll's Carpenter, shed a bitter tear that the oldest of the old is no longer among the living, out there beyond the briny beach.

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

Red Sox Sweep Rockies to Win 2007 World Series

YES!!!  Thank you, Red Sox!

Winning the War on Horror

There are some who claim that America is squandering homeland security resources on preparedness projects of questionable merit, while New Orleans is still a depopulated swamp and lower Manhattan could be underwater as well - after it gets rebuilt - thanks to human assisted climate change.  This is nonsense.  I, for one, feel a whole lot more secure knowing that Lansing's finest have a disaster plan in place to deal with an attack on their city by an army of Zombies, arguably the greatest threat to the American way of life since the introduction of New Coke in 1985, and hope they were able to bury their nose in the federal trough for this one.

"Lansing police and fire crews say they're ready for any attack on our fine city. Officials said Lansing wouldn't be taken by surprise and in a few hours could be armed to the teeth.

'We have been doing mock disasters and cross training for several years,' said Lansing Police Lt. Bruce Ferguson.

'People can feel confident, if zombies start invading, we'll know how to close the streets. We can get chainsaws too. If a swarm comes in on I-496 westbound, we'll block off the exits so they miss the city.'

City officials would not say if they've run zombie-attack scenarios. Mayor Virg Bernero could not be reached for comment.

If the undead did attack, you'd have three options: come up with a detailed escape plan; cower in your basement and wait for help to come; or head out to the nearest store, buy a machete and .357 magnum, steal an SUV and start cracking craniums.

Lansing resident Jen Wagner, 23, who says she's a 'pretty good shot,' said she'd probably go with the third option and spend her time putting bullets in brains.

Despite their claims, Wagner has no confidence in city or state officials protecting her brain from being devoured by some undead vagrant.

'Gauging how the Legislature had problems putting together a budget, they probably can't put together a plan to fight zombies,' she said."

Now I don't believe everything I read on the Internet and neither should you, so when I came across this story while idly Googling "Britney+Spears+Comeback+Dead, I naturally went looking to verify it with credible on-line sources.  I found it carried in the UK's Ananovia Quirkies and the New York Post, so you know they didn't just make this stuff up for Hallowe'en.  I also found this piece of undead propaganda on a website known to post Zombie manifestos and trust you will agree this is a warning Homeland Security and indeed all right thinking Americans ignore at our peril.

The threat that a potential Zombie hoard would pose to our country cannot be understated.  I've seen Dawn of the Dead, and also Red Dawn, and if the Cubans and Ruskies can invade Calumet Colorado, you better believe an army of the damned would wreak untold havoc on the Rust Belt if the police and citizens of Lansing failed to take precautions.  Actually, the way the Rockies have been playing against the Red Sox during the World Series, it looks like the Zombies may already be there!  Are you making the same connections here that I am, people?  Wake up!

But I have to agree with Ms. Wagner, the well armed Lansing resident quoted above.  Don't leave the safety and security of you and yours to the government if you want to survive the Zombie onslaught.  Let me tell you, a preemptive strike against my neighbors before they are turned into brain-eating zombies and come lurching up my sidewalk may well be part of my family's Zombie attack preparedness plan.  Zombie profiling, that's the ticket.  If you're ever in Canaan, boy, you better walk right.  No shambling gaits and vacant expressions around here or I'll be firing up the McCulloch.  It's a blessing that The Founders in their ineffable wisdom gave us the right to bear arms and that Zombie culture is primitive and technologically challenged, or there surely would be Hell to pay come Hallowe'en.  So long as Zombies are all we're dealing with, here.

Got Garlic?

Winner, Family Archive Caption Contest #11

There were some truly fine entries in this, the 11th installment of the Walking the Berkshires Family Archive Caption Contest.  My father even chimed in with a caption that had me in stitches, for reasons to be explained below, but in the end it was that blogging bookseller and humorist Bill West of West in New England who took the prize.

My mother's elder sisters appear in the original photograph in the summer of 1944.  That's Peggy on the left, and the one on the right with an uncharacteristically dour expression on her face is my Aunt who goes by the nickname "Happy."

Happy was by all accounts a particularly cheerful child practically from birth, setting an impossible standard for future siblings who occasionally might have had an off day or felt the need for a prolonged squawk.  My father knows the story, told with great umbrage by my mother, about a dreaded distant relative and elderly Boston Brahman "Cousin Bessie" who used to inspect the Barker girls on her annual visit and make the most dreadful pronouncements about their comportments and dispositions.  Mom was mortified to be greeted one holiday season by Cousin Bessie's; "Why Betsy, what a fat bottom you have!", and the the story goes that she also said to my Grandmother; "Athalia, how is it that you have one such delightful child and one such guttersnipe?"  Aunt Happy was not the one tagged with that outrageous label, hence my Father's caption suggestion: "Cousin Bessie thinks you are a guttersnipe. And she's right!"

Can You Feel the Love?

Curt Schilling blogs on Joe Torre:

"The Red Sox in me is happy Joe Torre is no longer in charge in NY. The person in me wonders how does a guy who obviously has the respect and loyalty of his entire roster, a guy who’s taken his team to 12 straight post seasons, a guy who exudes class and respect, how does he, in the midst of what might have been his most challenging and defining season and post season, not only have to manage his team in a best of 5 win or go home series, but also answer a billion questions about being basically told ‘win or you’re out’? How did it come to that? ...Managers don’t win ballgames, players do, and I think you’d be surprised to know how bad we feel when managers we care about get fired because we know, if we have one ounce of integrity, that our failures as players are, most times, what gets a manager fired."

Curt's blog 38 Pitches is a fascinating read by someone who is not afraid to say what he thinks but also not afraid of being wrong.  I'd imagine baseball has something to do with that perspective, where the very greatest pitchers still make mistakes and batters who only hit once out of every three at bats are considered powerhouses.  Schilling is magnanimous in his praise both for Torre and the vanquished Indians.  Can't wait to see how he wraps up the World Series...

With even Rudy Giuliani backing the Sox, can it be that there are some undercurrents of post-season respect passing between Gotham and Beantown?  Lots more "B"'s observed in the Berkshires than normal, though the Manhattan-influenced Litchfield Hills are not especially bursting with Red Sox pride.

I still have to get one of these, though.  And I believe Schilling wears one himself.

Go Sox!

Yet Another Reason to Fear the Phrag

Phragmites australis is one of the known thugs of the invasive plant world.  I have personally spent many seasons in the field combating the spread of this species in sensitive habitats and know it to be a fearsome adversary.  The introduced strain of this giant reed has out-competed native Phragmites in eastern North America, altered species composition and wetlands hydrology, and created virtual monocultures in the habitats it infests.  It has all the hallmarks that make a plant species an effective invader - vegetative propagation as well as by wind dispersed seeds, thrives in disturbed areas, able to leap spatial gaps - and now we learn that it has another arrow in its bristling quiver.

Phragmites uses chemical warfare against its neighbors (GWB, take note).

"Harsh Bais, a plant biologist at the University of Delaware, and his colleagues grew native and invasive forms of Phragmites in aquatic labs, from which they collected substances secreted by the plants. They found both invasive and native Phragmites produced so-called gallic acid, a chemical humans use to tan leather. But the invasive plant released the acid from its roots at much higher concentrations than did natives.

Once exuded into the surrounding environment, the toxin targets a structural protein called tubulin found in the roots of neighboring plants. The protein keeps plant roots intact and helps them grow straight in the soil.

Within 10 minutes of exposure to the toxin in the lab, the tubulin of a marsh plant started to disintegrate. In 20 minutes, the structural material was gone.

'When the roots collapse from the acid, the plant loses its integrity and dies,” Bais said. “It's like having a building with no foundation—it's on its way to self-destruction.'

The study is detailed in the latest issue of the Journal of Chemical Ecology."

CWCID: LifeScience

Casey at the Bottle

My Great Uncle Dayt was legendary for his ability to recite "Casey at the Bat" in its entirety, frequently with a bottle of champagne as a prop as seen here at my Uncle Rob and Aunt Marla's wedding in 1977.  Once, at a Williams College reunion dinner, his classmates called for Casey and just at the climax, he lost his grip and launched a bottle of wine through a plate glass window.  But hearts were light and they dutifully passed the hat and carried on with their merrymaking.

The story goes that when Dayton graduated, his mother who was somewhat hard of hearing was astonished that her son was to receive an award for his "Latin Average", given that he had previously shown very little aptitude in the subject.  It turned out that the honor was for his "Batting Average" rather than his facility with ablative absolutes, but the thrill of the game and the love of language were one when he delivered Thayer's immortal verse. 

The last time I heard him recite Casey was in 1990 at my cousin Margaret's wedding.  He picked up the story a few stanzas on as the sturdy batsman approached the plate but otherwise never missed a beat.  At his memorial service late in 2005, I heard one of his great nephews take up the banner and deliver a grand rendition of Casey.

Tonight on the eve of the Fall classic, where anything is possible and there is always the possibility of seeing something that has never happened before, I can see Uncle Dayt standing there in the fields of Elysium, hands clenched and eyes alight, as all the heavenly host hangs on each inevitable word.  One of these eons, given the law of averages, Casey is going to knock it out of the park.

Casey at the Bat by Ernest Thayer

The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.

Go Sox!

One For the Ages: Catherine Roraback, Dead at 87

Catherine Roraback lived in a house at the bottom of our street, and at age 82 was our lawyer when we closed on our home.  She was a country lawyer when we knew her, but the cases she took earlier in her career changed the country itself. 

Roraback was a radical civil rights lawyer who was unafraid of defending those with unpopular ideas, or taking on controversial issues.  She defended Black Panthers Bobby Seale and Ericka Huggins, and members of the Communist Party prosecuted in the 1950s under the Smith Act.  She famously defended a Planned Parenthood Clinic and doctor in New Haven who operated a birth control clinic in the early 1960s contrary to the laws of the time .  She lost the case but it went to the Supreme Court on Appeal and she was co-counsel.  The case was the landmark Griswold v. Connecticut, which in 1965 the Supreme Court determined by a 7-2 vote that "Together, the First, Third, Fourth, and Ninth Amendments, create a new constitutional right, the right to privacy in marital relations." This ruling established precedent for other right to privacy cases brought before the Court, including the basis for Roe v. Wade in 1973 where the Supreme Court ruled that "a woman's choice to have an abortion was protected as a private decision between her and her doctor."

She took on controversial cases at home as well as on the national stage, defending local teenager Peter Reilly on charges that he murdered his mother.  Reilly was convicted, but a new trial revealed exculpatory evidence that had been suppressed and Reilly was released.  She mentored women in the legal profession and was known as someone who gave and expected respect regardless of gender.  She had a ready laugh and was a fearless champion of the underdog.

Catherine Roraback died last week at 87.  She left an indelible mark on civil liberties law in this country and the right to privacy that most Americans expect but which is not assured.  I was proud to be her neighbor.

Out of the Broom Closet

J K Rowling has offered up a remarkable bit of back story for her character Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts.  He is gay. 

"She made her revelation to a packed house in New York's Carnegie Hall on Friday, as part of her US book tour.

She took audience questions and was asked if Dumbledore found 'true love'.

'Dumbledore is gay,' she said, adding he was smitten with rival Gellert Grindelwald, who he beat in a battle between good and bad wizards long ago.

The audience gasped, then applauded. 'I would have told you earlier if I knew it would make you so happy,' she said.

'Falling in love can blind us to an extent,' she added, saying Dumbledore was 'horribly, terribly let down' and his love for Grindelwald was his 'great tragedy'.

Actually, the great tragedy is that for Rowling this is still "the love that dares not speak its name."

I am left feeling disappointed.  If being gay is a significant part of a character's identity, it seems dishonest of the author to withhold it, even in what began ostensibly as books for children but became epically dark along the way. If not, then it seems a rather unnecessary and self-serving detail to reveal when all has been said and done.