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by Michael Seinberg

Back in the dark ages of the 1980s, I attended an actual physical college. It was a collection of buildings, dorms, classrooms, labs, gyms, and dining halls very much like those portrayed in movies and on TV. For three and a half years, I went each semester, attended classes, turned in papers, took tests, got involved in extracurricular activities, and lived in a dorm.

After passing everything, I graduated and was given a diploma and went off to the working world, where my education continued. That was back in the year 1985. Before the Internet. Before cell phones; mostly before computers were common and before Google. Yes, kids, there was a world before Google.

Today, in 2015, I’m noticing a lot of people skipping traditional college for online learning. And, if we’re talking about distance learning, full-degree courses at accredited colleges and such, that sounds like a pretty good idea for those who can’t afford the old-school model or don’t have the time to devote to a full-time education.

But there’s a very disturbing trend that I’m seeing a lot of: People with virtual degrees from Google University.

What does a degree from GU mean? In the purest sense, it means that somebody with an interest in a given subject did a Google search and read anywhere from one to five articles that the search turned up

They hit a few blogs, wrote up (regurgitated) a few short articles and essentially declared themselves experts in the field. In some cases (look up foodbabe.com), a GU graduate with no actual professional credentials whatsoever, has turned likes, follows, and lies into an actual career. That includes publishing and selling a book and being quoted in the mainstream media.

And, just to make it very clear, foodbabe is not worth the virtual paper she blogs on, even on a good day. As a GU grad, she has a serious problem every time she publishes a blog post based on no evidence, and professionals in the field call her on it.

You see this a lot with GU grads — an inability to defend themselves when confronted with, well, umm, actual facts. Eeek! Not facts!

But stepping back from the virtual abyss, the real problem with GU and much of the information on the Internet is that it’s accuracy, provenance, intent, and honesty cannot be easily determined. That means that the coursework completed by GU graduates can’t really be counted as legitimate in the same way that a completed course at an accredited college taught by a real (breathing) teacher can be.

When folks call the Internet the modern Wild West, they’re actually far more accurate than most of the Internet. And therein lies the crux of the problem.

When any of us look up things on the Internet, the results of a given search can usually be broken down into categories. For instance, if you do a search on tomato fungus that is causing you garden headaches, you’re likely to get the following types of information: Ads for fungicide; articles by well-meaning gardeners who may, or may not, know what they’re talking about; articles about Kim Kardashian’s butt; articles that sound legitimate but are actually marketing materials for the corporate producers of fungicides; and finally, hopefully, articles from real sources like Cornell Cooperative Extension or horticulture departments of colleges or research institutes.

That’s quite a range of information. Of course Kim’s butt probably didn’t cause your tomato fungus, but hey, you never know. That thing can block a lot of sunshine, after all.

If finding a legitimate cure for your garden issue is this tricky, then how can people declare themselves experts in any subject after a Google search? Because there’s nobody out there to call them on it.

After all, as the famous line goes, “On the Internet nobody knows you’re a dog.” Anonymity has been blamed for a lot of bad Internet behavior and it’s also why a GU degree is not worth the virtual paper it’s not actually even printed on.

If you were to spend months and years carefully studying a given subject, using source materials that were created and curated by actual experts in the field, then you could likely declare yourself something of an expert after a suitable period of time. Oh right, that’s what happens when you go to college. Sorry, got carried away there.

Not everybody who uses the Internet turns themselves into publicly avowed experts on things. But we all know plenty of people who claim expertise in areas they have no right to, thanks to their GU degrees.

So what to do? Well, we could all start by admitting that, while Google is useful, it does not take the place of real, honest academic research and learning.

The truth is, a trained reference librarian can get you far better information that is more accurate than Google ever can, or will. Librarians don’t get paid by advertisers and don’t consider Perez Hilton to be a credible expert on anything (except maybe Kim’s bottom).

You’re also unlikely to get hit by pop-up ads when chatting with a librarian or pick up a computer virus either. Reference librarians are usually very interesting people, too. Think about what they do every day for a job. Oh yeah, reference librarians all have MLS degrees (Masters in Library Science) from real colleges. Just sayin’.

If you want to get your next degree in the socio-political-economic impact of Kim K’s bum and the underlying implications for the world, then by all means attend Google University. If you want to lecture on the finer points of first-person shooter video games or the latest rumors about Bruce Jenner or Miley Cyrus, you have found your alma mater.

But, if you want to actually learn real facts in a given subject, visit a library, read real books, take real college courses, and put in the time and energy. Never forget, you get what you pay for (well, sometimes anyway).

Editor’s note: Michael Seinberg holds exactly one degree, from the State University of New York College at Brockport, a bachelor of science degree in communications. He says that it’s framed and covered in dust, the way a real degree ought to be.

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by John R. Williams

Tuesday, June 12, The Old Men of the Mountain met with a classmate of some of the OMOTM for breakfast.  This classmate is Loretta of Mrs. K’s restaurant.  We met with her for breakfast and Loretta is still waiting on these old goats.

It is about time she took a break, but the lady still insists this is what she wants to do. This is her retirement. That was the restaurant of the day for the OFs.

When many of the OFs were younger (and then again not so young), square dancing started at an early age among the farmers of the group, and continued until it became too difficult to raise the arms and keep up. Square dancing, the OFs learned later on, is a good form of exercise; if the OFs knew then that it was exercise, maybe they would not have been so anxious to go dancing.

Some of the OFs still have their square-dance clothes taking up space in the closets, while others unloaded them after they realized they would not be physically able to handle the “sport.”

As the OFs continued with their dancing, they began to realize it started to become quite a fashion show with the ladies. Then, without the OFs knowing it, they became part of the show with matching outfits.

One OF mentioned they found themselves dancing at least three nights a week and maybe more, and some other OFs joined the chorus with a couple saying they traveled all over, dancing on square-dance retreats.  At these retreats, it was dancing morning, noon, and night.

One OF said it must have been fun or we would not have done it. The OFs were wondering how many of the clubs that were around when the OFs were into square dancing are still active.

When plows were horse-drawn

For some reason the OFs started talking about farming with horses again.  It seems to this scribe that we just covered this topic, but what the OFs were talking about is the size of the equipment today and the large farms with the GPS systems on the tractors. These systems actually guide the tractor in making straight rows of whatever is being planted, or harvested like planting large acres of wheat and then harvesting that wheat.

One OF repeated an oft-used phrase by the OFs that we have lived in the best of times. To some of the OFs, that is debatable. Naturally this led to horses and most of the OFs who farmed with horses said how they buddied up with these animals.

They asked the rhetorical question, “How do you buddy up with a tractor?”

One OF said he didn’t really buddy up to his tractors but he did have his favorites, and he did cuss at some of these tractors when they refused to start, or when he would snap his thumb when he hit a woodchuck hole.

The other OFs said they would talk to the horses as they leathered them up for the day, or took the harness off at night. With the tractor, all you had to do was turn the key on or off and the OF was ready to roll.

Gone was the pleasant smell of the horse, and the conversations back and forth with the animal, that was replaced by a nauseating whirr, and clanking of an engine, and the smell of gasoline, and ozone. No comparison.

Cinematic jailbreak

The OF discussed the topic of local and national news and that was the escapees from the Clinton Correctional Facility in Dannamora. Along with everyone else, the OFs had opinions on where these characters could be.

The thoughts of the OFs ranged from hiding in the woods, to being in Vermont, or Canada, or even Mexico by now. One OF even ventured that the smart thing to do would be to double back and hide in the prison until everything cools down.  One of them could shave, the other grow a well maintained beard, and, because they are so average looking, they could dress up casually and walk out when the timing was right.

Some of the OFs said they know this is going to be a movie; it has all the makings. The planning, the love affair, the execution, the manhunt with the end still to be written.

The OFs said that, if these guys weren’t such bad people and their crimes weren’t so hideous, it would almost be possible to root for them but, because of what they did, the OFs want these guys rounded up in a hurry and placed in a prison where the light does not shine.

If they had committed an innocuous crime that did not include violence and knocked off some casino where their business is robbing people anyway, the OFs would be cheering them on, but not these guys.

Those OFs who made it to Mrs. K’s Restaurant in Middleburgh, and glad they are not part of the group hunting for the escapees, were: Miner Stevens, John Rossmann, Roger Shafer, Glenn Patterson, Mark Traver, Robie Osterman, George Washburn, Roger Chapman, Harold Guest, Frank Pauli, Dave Williams, Bill Bartholomew, Chuck Aleseio, Don Wood, Jack Norray, Lou Schenck, Mace Porter, Art Frament, Bob Benac, Bill Krause, Jay Taylor, Herb Swabota, Bob Fink, Bob Benninger, Bob Lassome, Ted Willsey, Carl Walls, Duncan Bellinger, Gerry Chartier, Mike Willsey, Jim Rissacher, Harold Grippen, Elwood Vanderbilt, and me.

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by Mike Nardacci

— Photo by Michael Warner

The spectacular tower karst landscape of Guilin Province in China is a geologic wonder that has inspired many generations of Chinese artists.

When I started composing this article in my head, this thought came to me:  “tower  karst” and “Onesquethaw” — two rather obscure terms (to most people) — in one headline.  Might be an attention-grabber!

The Onesquethaw is the stream that originates in Helderberg Lake and flows southeast  — sometimes through impressive canyons and over surging rapids — on its way to the Hudson River.  It passes photogenically through a number of diverse natural preserves, some of which I have written on in the past in this column.

“Karst” is the geologic term for an area of carbonate bedrock — most commonly limestone, but occurring in marble, dolostone, and gypsum as well — with resulting characteristic landscape features.  Each of these rock types dissolves in slightly acidic water, and, given the amount of moisture in Earth’s atmosphere and the carbon dioxide emitted by decaying vegetation on the floors of forests and fields, there is no lack of mild carbonic acid on our planet.

When the acid meets the limestone, sinkholes, caves, underground streams, and bubbling springs are frequently the result.  But, even in the same general areas of the Earth’s surface, outcrops of the same rock type may weather and erode at different rates and leave behind odd and even fantastic remnants of the bedrock — a phenomenon known as differential weathering and erosion.  Think of the great buttes and pinnacles of Monument Valley beloved by Western filmmaker John Ford.

 

In the Onesquethaw Creek preserve off Rarick Road, Thom Engel stands at the base of one of the karst towers. The Enterprise — Michael Nardacci

 

Famous Asian landscape

The landscape of Guilin Province in China — commonly pronounced “Guy-lin” — is famous the world over, figuring in thousands of classic Chinese paintings and ubiquitous on the walls and menus of Chinese restaurants: giant limestone towers wreathed in morning mist, often featuring diminutive rice farmers or fishermen dwarfed by the magnificence of the rocky scene.

These towers are the last remnants of ancient limestone layers hundreds of feet thick.  They are laced with enormous cave systems and in some cases have been used by the inhabitants of Guilin as dwelling places and temples for thousands of years.

They have a mystical, otherworldly look to them and their attraction for artist and visitor as well is obvious.  And, though the towers of Guilin are perhaps the best known to travelers, there are many other such sites in Southeast Asia and elsewhere in the world.

Helderberg discovery

As often as I have hiked the hills and forests of the Helderbergs, I am still astounded to find fascinating geologic phenomena in places that — for one reason or another — I have managed to miss in my travels.

Though I have followed the valley of the Onesquethaw Creek through many of its twists, turns, and drops, there is one area off Rarick Road south of Route 32 that had escaped my notice until a long-time friend and fellow caver Thom Engel asked me if I knew that there was a display of tower karst in a natural preserve owned by the Mohawk Hudson Land Conservancy.  It is called the Onesquethaw Creek Preserve; it is a bit tricky to find in the thick forest that borders Rarick Road and there is no clearly defined parking area.

But Thom was able to get his feisty little Honda Fit off the road on what might once have been the beginning of an old logging trail, and, after a short hike, we found the fairly well-defined path that leads into the preserve.  Like many of the forested areas of the Helderbergs, the trees grow thickly, forming a green canopy that keeps the ground relatively free of large, dense shrubs, which obscure the view. 

 

Erosive action of the Onesquethaw Creek has removed the surface sediment, exposing the jointed rock and potholes formed by rapidly flowing water. Devin Delevan stands on the heavily fractured limestone bedrock that underlies much of the preserve. The Enterprise — Michael Nardacci

 

The surface undulates and the relatively thin ground sediment is a mixture of soil and glacially deposited pebbles, cobbles, and boulders known as glacial drift.  Tree roots tend to spread out horizontally due to the thinness of the sediment, and walking is a bit precarious.

We had gone only a few hundred feet when we found ourselves confronted by the first of at least a dozen pinnacles of the Coeymans limestone, this one featuring three rounded peaks.  It was highly weathered and covered with mosses, ferns, and other shade-loving plants.

Diminutive compared to the lofty towers of Guilin — 20 feet in height compared to the Chinese towers that soar hundreds of feet — it was definitely an example of tower karst, and scattered around it were others of equal or lesser height.

Exploring the mystery

As it happened, the sky was overcast that day, making the woods rather gloomy, and so I returned on a sunny day a week later with my research assistant, Devin Delevan, to take more photographs and to see if I could come up with some explanation of why these features had formed here.  One tower with a double peak was a particularly striking example, and Devin climbed part way to the top to show scale.

The pinnacles stand close to the edge of the Onesquethaw Creek, which in this stretch usually appears as a dry bed buried in rounded boulders and soil, showing flow only in times of exceptionally heavy spring melt or a storm event such as a tropical storm or hurricane.

But its appearance is misleading, for, in karst lands, streams often are flowing underground.  In many stretches of the Helderbergs, one can drive for considerable distances without seeing a major stream; however, under the surface, extensive cave systems such as the eponymous Onesquethaw Cave near Clarksville as well as Albany County’s Knox Cave and Skull Cave, and Howe Caverns, Secret Caverns, and Ball’s Cave in Schoharie County feature streams that eventually resurge from valley walls or artesian springs to find their ways to the Hudson or Mohawk rivers.

We hiked some distance upstream of the karst towers to the higher area near the edge of the preserve — beyond is private property and farmed land.  Here the ground flattens out for a long distance into a level stretch, which geologists call a bench, likely planed off by the glaciers. We soon heard the sound of flowing water, incongruous given the exceptional dryness of the downstream bed.

Shortly, we came to a portion of the stream bed that was radically different from its downstream character  It is a wide, flat exposure of bedrock limestone, which is obscured by the glacial deposits in lower parts of the preserve:  dimpled with numerous potholes and deeply fractured, with some rifts several feet deep. 

 

In a froth-laden section of one of the ponds, slowly rotating whirlpools show where the water of the Onesquethaw Creek is disappearing into a cave. The Enterprise — Michael Nardacci

 

Slightly farther upstream, hundreds of gallons of water were pouring over the exposure, forming pools full of clear or froth-laden water, many of which were inhabited by seeming thousands of inch-long tadpoles.  A startled great blue heron interrupted his lunch and took wing when he spotted us but undoubtedly returned after we had left, unwilling to abandon such a fruitful feeding ground.

We then discovered that the ponded areas covered in froth also exhibited small whirlpools, and the rotating water could be heard gurgling as it was sucked downward.  Here the Onesquethaw goes underground much of the time, just as it does in the stretch near Clarksville that parallels Route 443 where Route 85 joins it, only to reappear farther downstream.

And this explained the dryness of the stream in the lower portion of its bed: The water is moving through a subterranean conduit — in common terms, a cave.  The fact that so much water was simply vanishing from the surface hints of the size of that conduit — yet we searched in vain to find an entrance that would admit a human being.

Joints across the universe

But that open expanse of deeply fractured rock offered a tantalizing clue to the existence of the tower karst features.  An examination of the fractures reveals that they occur in straight lines and frequently intersect at something close to ninety-degree angles.  These fractures are referred to as “joints” and they occur everywhere in bedrock.

The Mars Rovers Spirit, Opportunity, and Curiosity have shown joints to be common in Martian bedrock as well.  There are a number of ways in that they may form.  When erosion removes upper layers of rock — or massive glaciers melt at the end of an ice age — the lower layers, free of all that immense weight, are allowed to expand, and their uneven rate of expansion causes the rock to crack. 

 Earth, the violent clashing of the tectonic plates sends shockwaves for many miles beyond their collision boundaries, fracturing the rock often to great depths.  Mars is not believed to have active tectonic plates, but a third possible method of formation is the uneven expansion and contraction of the bedrock due to heating and cooling at different times of day and the year, a process which certainly occurs on Mars and other planets.

Once the joints form, weathering agents such as water and ice can enter them and begin the process of widening and deepening them.  Particularly in a carbonate rock such as limestone, the solution process can go down as far as the water table.  Then, as over the centuries the water table drops, the joints in the rock can continue to widen and deepen.

Due to differential weathering and erosion, some areas will break down faster than others.  In the photograph of Devin on the flat outcrop, note that some stretches are more highly fractured than others, and consequently will eventually disappear faster than the more massive, unfractured stretches.  In centuries to come, these more massive areas could emerge as examples of tower karst.

The limestone strata (layers) in this part of Albany County are around 100 feet thick, so there is a limit to the heights tower karst features can reach — unlike in Geilin and other areas of Southeast Asia where the limestone can be a thousand or more feet in thickness.  But it should be noted that anywhere they appear, the towers have emerged from rock that formed in seas that covered the landscape scores or hundreds of millions of years ago.

And it should not be a surprise that, beneath the mosses, lichens, ferns, and other hardy plants that can grow in the thin soils atop the karst towers of the Onesquethaw Creek Preserve, one might find fossils of trilobites, brachiopods, gastropods, and other shelled creatures that dwelt in the warm and shallow sea that covered this part of New York State a couple of hundred million years before the first dinosaurs ever walked the Earth.

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by Frank L. Palmeri

— Photo by Frank L. Palmeri

Four knives: One from the author’s ex-girlfriend, a classic Buck hunting knife, a whittling and carving knife, and a throwing knife.

I had an argument with a girlfriend one time — I can't even remember what it was about — and to patch things up she gave me a nice Buck pocketknife. Well, the girlfriend is long gone but that knife is still one of my favorites. The knife was easily the best part of that relationship.

I'm a big fan of knives. A knife can be so primal, pure, and simple in design and execution. Think of our primitive ancestors honing a flat piece of stone on a big rock to make a sharp edge — the first real manmade tool.

A simple knife is not much more in concept than that. Knives may be the best all-around tools ever designed by humanity.

I know hunters and outdoorsmen need knives to field dress game. Same with fisherman, chefs, and many more — knives serve a specific purpose for them. I camp a little but I don't ever need to cut back brush or dress an animal. Still, I love my cheap machete. Every time I hold it, I feel like I'm ready to tackle the wild.

There are many ways to enjoy a knife. Pride of ownership is one but there are so many more.

A good large knife will have a heft to it, a solid feel in your hand. That's a wonderful feeling. Even smaller knives, many jewel-like in their construction, can be very satisfying to hold and admire. Craftsmanship never goes out of style.

Of course, knives are for cutting, whether something mundane like breaking down cardboard boxes for recycling or more fancy like preparing dinner. Knives are very useful in so many ways.

An interesting thing about knives is that sharp ones are much safer than dull ones. That's kind of counterintuitive, I know, but, if you think about it for a while, it makes sense. A dull knife is dangerous because you have to force it so hard to cut something.

Any time you're forcing a knife, there's a chance you might slip and that's where you get into trouble. Conversely, a sharp knife makes cutting smooth, almost effortless, so there's much less chance of an accident.

You have to handle sharp knives with respect. A quality knife will come with a sheath of some sort that protects the edge from harm and you from the edge.

Good kitchen knives come with a wooden block that keeps the knives safe from you and from each other. Despite knowing all this, I still have a drawer in my kitchen with random knives just banging around in there. Surprisingly, they still work for many tasks. Serving butter and opening letters don't require much of an edge.

Speaking about sharpening, there is an entire industry of knife-sharpening gadgets. Many of them work so poorly as to be just about useless. A lot of them are V shaped pull-through things that work for a while, but then wear out right in the spot where you need them most.

To truly sharpen knives well and consistently (assuming a clean, straight knife in good condition) requires you to be aware of the edge angle (and know how to alter if it necessary); to thin the knife (the secondary bevel) if it needs it; to use the appropriate abrasives in a consistent fashion; and to remove the burr with a final stropping step.

 

Ready, aim, throw: Frank L. Palmeri made this knife-throwing target and finds it “surprisingly satisfying to throw some knives around.” — Photo by Frank L. Palmeri

 

When you think about all that, it's easy to see why they sell a lot of cheap knife sharpeners. A lot of folks don't have the time or interest to really learn to sharpen knives the right way.

One thing you can do to prevent dulling kitchen knives is to try to avoid glass cutting boards; glass is very tough on a knife edge. Instead, use boards made of wood or a manmade material (and go easy when cutting that steak). Your knife edges will thank you very much (and don't forget to keep your cutting boards very clean so harmful bacteria doesn't become a problem).
 
  

There is an article on Wikipedia titled "Scary Sharp" that describes a simple and inexpensive method to sharpen things like chisels and planer blades relatively easily (you can use this method for knives in general but you might need a guide of some sort to hold a consistent angle until you get good at doing it freehand).

All you need is a piece of thick glass or another smooth surface and some sandpaper. Attach some coarse sandpaper to the smooth surface. Then place the blade on the sandpaper, bevel side down, and start to move it around. If it's wet-dry paper, you can spray some water on it as you go.

Then you do the same with finer and finer grits of sandpaper. If you flatten the back of the tool first, then hone the bevel using coarse to fine sandpaper, and finally remove the burr on a leather strop or similar, you will indeed get a "scary sharp" edge.

Of course, there are many variations on this — go to YouTube and search and you'll see plenty — but the point (pun intended) is you can do some really good sharpening with not much of an investment in supplies and some very basic techniques.

I collect those ubiquitous 20-percent off Harbor Freight coupons that appear in newspapers and magazines because you never know when you might need one. I'd been using a little penknife to cut them out.

Recently I sharpened the penknife. The next time I cut out a coupon, using the same pressure as I always do, I cut through three extra magazine pages. The difference between a dull knife and a sharp knife is truly amazing.

You know how yo-yos go in and out of style about once ever seven to 10 years? That's how I am with knives. Something just clicks and then all of a sudden I start buying just about every knife I can find.

Again I don't do a lot of outdoor-type activities; I just really appreciate a well designed and manufactured knife. Don't get the idea that I'm a collector, though — that's a game for investors with a lot of money.

I only buy knives that I will actually use: multi-tools, Swiss Army knives, kitchen, carving, everyday carry, etc. There are so many categories of quality knives available these days that this has to be the golden age of knife making.

I'd like to be able to carry some kind of knife on my person at all times but it's not always easy to do. In jacket-wearing weather, you have plenty of pockets to choose from but lose the jacket and things get harder.

There are only so many pants pockets and those are already spoken for by the wallet, phone, hanky, change, comb, and keys (at least I always have my trusty Swiss Army knife on my key ring). Many knives come with belt attachments, but these don't look right with office, dress, or some casual attire.

Sometimes, when I'm working on stuff, I load up my belt with a knife, a tape measure, a flashlight, and my phone, then I start to feel like Batman with his utility belt. Too much to deal with.

One of the more interesting knives I own comes with a strap that goes on your calf right above your ankle. For dinner once, I took my lovely wife to our favorite restaurant, and just for kicks I decided to bring that knife.

It was quite something to be eating a gourmet meal and drinking fine wine while feeling this knife on my leg, with no one having any idea it was there. I've not carried that knife in this manner since — too much to think about when you just want to have a good time. There's a time and a place for everything.

Some of my knives have sentimental value, like that old Buck knife. Then there's the multi-tool I thought was lost for five years until finding it behind a desk; my trusty Swiss Army knife with its tiny super-sharp scissors; and my cool little black mini-machete (I had a neighbor who felt the need to carry a full-sized machete just to visit relatives on Long Island!).   

The other day I did a YouTube search on "knife skills." As you might imagine, I found many chef's demonstrating their skillful manipulation of kitchen knives. Then there's the Japanese sushi and steakhouse chefs, whose deft knife skills are legendary.

I also found a video from an ex-Israeli Defense Forces member, giving tips on hand-to-hand combat using knives. That guy was so intense I had trouble getting to sleep that night. Amazing that the same tool can be used for so many different purposes.

Of course, the dark side of knives is that they can be used for violence. Still, it's the person, not the knife, that causes the problem. I don't like flying in general but the fact that you can't even bring a little key-chain knife on a plane anymore really rubs me the wrong way. It's the same story as always — the few bad apples always ruin it for the rest of us.

Recently, I've been getting into whittling and knife throwing. Whittling is fun because you can do it almost anywhere. Skilled whittlers and carvers can produce amazing works of art. I'm nowhere near that (if I can just carve a little without cutting myself I'm happy).

Knife throwing is simple in concept but full of subtleties in technique and execution (another pun, sorry). I built a target and it's surprisingly satisfying to throw some knives around. When you "stick" a well thrown knife solidly, it's a really good feeling.

Knives are great to own, admire, and use, and learning to sharpen knives well is a worthwhile endeavor for anyone who appreciates a precision tool. It's terrific that such simple things like knives and such basic skills as sharpening are still so useful in this modern day and age. Now that I think about it, I’ve always wanted a Samurai sword . . . .

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by John R. Williams

Labor of love: Volunteers, including some from the Old Men of the Mountain, construct a bridge at Mine Kill State Park in Schoharie county. The new bridge is wide enough to accommodate ATVs and foot traffic, too.

On Tuesday, June 9, The Old Men of the Mountain met at the Middleburgh Diner in Middleburgh, and did they meet! There were 35 OFs there and still some others did not attend because they had more pressing plans than gathering at the Middleburgh Diner.

It is a good thing that this group is totally ad hoc, and the organization plan and bylaws were scrapped long ago. Those were an unwieldy set of rules anyway, especially the rules that showed how the OFs were to deal as a body when problems with the wife and the police came up. However, when it is deemed necessary, that five-pound rule book is hauled out, dusted off, and used.

The OFs were glad to see the rain, but not all the damage that came with it. Of course, the OFs discussed the weather — it is a good conversation starter.

Along with the weekly weather reports, some of the OFs reported frost on June 7. The OFs who said they had frost, said it was not a killing frost and it came early in the morning. The ones concerned about the frost are the gardeners, and all reported that the tomato plants and pepper plants made it through.

The bridge-building OFs were at it again, building quite a span at Mine Kill State Park for hikers of the Long Path and others. This bridge is 40 feet long and 8 feet wide.

An OF who is a planner for some of these bridges had to build the bridge for ATVs. The OF said he constructed it wide enough so a 60-inch wide machine would make it across while the driver could still have a hand to handle his beer and there would still be plenty of room to navigate across the bridge. These people are all volunteers who maintain the path and repair the bridges.

Many organizations exist on the goodness of scores of people who volunteer for what interests them. These good people fall into groups that have similar likes, hobbies, or crafts. One OF thought that, if someone were to calculate all the hours good people put into volunteering, it would total more than work hours. This OF may be right.

 

Proud of their product: Nine bridge-builders pose for a portrait when their work is done.

 

Kidney stones no fun

Interspersed with the bridge discussion (and photographs of the progress of the work being done while it was under construction) was a discussion on kidney stones. Those OFs who have produced these nasty things are more than this scribe thought, and this scribe is one of those OFs who has manufactured these pointy rocks on more than one occasion.

This experience is not what anyone would place in the fun category.

An OF related a story of a kidney stone he had that was 3-1/2 inches long. The doctors had to remove two of his ribs, take the kidney out, and then cut the kidney in half to retrieve the stone.

They then stitched everything back together and returned the kidney to where it came from. This OF sent this scribe photographs of some of his stones. These photos will not be shared.

Lamenting rhubarb prohibition

The OFs found a common vegetable that they were told not to eat, and it was rhubarb. One OF explained that it was the oxalates in the rhubarb that was the culprit.

The OFs who had rhubarb taken off their foods to eat were disappointed because they all like rhubarb. Rhubarb-strawberry pie, or rhubarb-peach pie with vanilla ice cream — gone; no longer can this group of OFs enjoy these culinary delicacies.

One of the OGs mused, “Why is all the good stuff bad for you?”

This was just a rhetorical question — no one has the answer. One OF thought that is what Hell would be like for him — passing one kidney stone after another for eternity.

Shades of honey

Our honey expert brought in two jars of honey for show and tell. Tuesday’s breakfast was a good morning for interesting show and tell — one topic was the bridge, and the other was the honey.

What the honey OF had in one jar was honey the bees produce from May flowers, and then honey from later on in the season in the second jar. This is raw, unadulterated honey.

The May flower honey was almost clear while the late-season honey was much darker. The late-season jar appeared like honey on the shelf in the store, while May flower honey was almost like water.

The OFs thought that, if they saw the May flower honey on the shelf, they would leave it there because it appeared to be watered-down honey.

Some mornings with the OFs it is like going back to school as the OFs who have expertise in a particular matter give a little talk on what they do. These are not stand-up lectures but just discussions with the people who are within earshot of their table.

Those OFs who ambled into the Middleburgh Diner in Middleburgh and there were many, so that you know who they were, they were: Dave Williams, Robie Osterman, Otis Lawyer, Chuck Aleseio, Mark Traver, Bill Bartholomew, George Washburn, Don Wood, John Rossmann, Harold Guest, Glenn Patterson, Miner Stevens, Jack Norray, Mace Porter, Lou Schenck, Roger Shafer, Steve Kelly, Roger Chapman, Bob Benninger, Bob Fink, Jay Taylor, Bob Benac, Art Frament, Herb Swabota, Duncan Bellinger, Bill Krause, Jim Rissacher,  Henry Whipple, Mike Willsey, Gill Zabel, Gerry Chartier, Elwood Vanderbilt, Warren Willsey, Harold Grippen, and me.

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June 18, 2015

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by Judy Rothstein

On the Memorial Day weekend, we were in Austin, Texas for a grandson’s graduation from the University of Texas. You may recall that weekend had devastating flooding in Texas. We woke up on Sunday morning to hear what the damages were.

San Marcos was badly hit. The mayor came on the news to thank first responders, the National Guard, and many others, but also neighbors who helped people in need. Schools were shelters; 300 homes were reduced to slabs; 300 to 400 homes sustained damage; several hundred people were evacuated; 7,000 people were without power — all this within a 12-hour period from 9 p.m. to 9 a.m. on May 24.

If you remember that weekend, you know it got worse. What struck me at the time was the mayor’s reference to “neighbors.” The San Marcos neighbors are not unlike the neighbors in our region. And, indeed, the neighbors, your neighbors, who provide the wonderful services that Community Caregivers arranges for those in need. We connect those who can help with those who need it.

Mary Morrison, Caregivers Transportation Coordinator says we need drivers for St. Vincents’ Food Pantry on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month from 12:30 2:30 p.m. Last week, I drove six people.

If there are two drivers, you can divvy the rides up and each spend one hour instead of two. Here is an example of literally devoting one or two hours a month to volunteering.

These folks have many groceries to get home. Some have farther to go than others. I know my help is appreciated.

There are also seven or eight people who Mary says have requested assurance calls or visits. Mary explained some clients live with families but the members work. They’re safe but they’d like company.

Some people live alone, are elderly, and need some visitors and reassurance calls. What do you talk about or what do you do? Mary said that the caregivers give suggestions for activities or conversations. Reading, playing cards, watching TV as possible activities.

Building a relationship would be a good outcome. It’s also possible you might just keep the person safe while the caregiver gets some much-needed relief.

Upcoming orientation sessions are June 16 at noon, July 7 at 1 p.m., July 23 at 10 a.m., Aug. 4 at noon, and Aug. 17 at 5:30 p.m.. If none of these times work, you can always call the office to arrange a time that is best for you.  All orientations are held at the Caregivers’ office at 2021 Western Ave in Guilderland, Suite 4. Please call ahead, 456-2898, to let the staff know you’ll be there so they have enough materials.

Our lives fluctuate. If this is a good time frame, consider joining the Caregivers’ team. If you want to do something that matters, that’s another good reason.

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June 12, 2015

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by John R. Williams

On Tuesday, June 2, the Old Men of the Mountain met at the Hilltown Café in Rensselaerville; we’re wondering who the wise guy is that took summer! The OFs know we went from winter into August with cracked clay and all, but on Monday, June 1, and Tuesday, June 2, the OFs had to retreat to the plastic bins (where the winter clothes have been stored away for the summer) to get something to wear.

The OFs are just commenting not complaining.

The OFs have mentioned many times about what happened to them while in the service. When these experiences are enumerated back and forth, it indicates how many OFs are veterans of different branches of the service and many different campaigns.

One OF veteran mentioned that he was selling poppies in Cobleskill (by the Stewart’s store across the street from the college) when a mother with two little girls about 6 years old said the girls wanted to know if they could hug a veteran. This blew the OF away and the OF said sure, if the mother would, too.

You can’t beat an OF, especially the ones who are veterans, in taking advantage of every opportunity.  The OFs learned that in the military.

Domesticated cats and wild birds

The OFs talked about how we really do not domesticate animals; it is the animals that take a shine to us, and we cater to them. Who is the domesticated one, the cat or the person?

The cat gives nothing except an occasional purr and catches the occasional mouse. For that, the cat gets a roof over its head, groomed, fed, vet services, and pampered no end. The cat’s claw marks are even tolerated.

That discussion brought up the topic of wild birds that just fly in and take up residence with whomever. How does the bird know he is not going to wind up on the dining-room table surrounded by carrots, and potatoes?

But on occasion they do drop in, from crows, to wild geese, to ducks, and even wild turkeys. The OFs were talking of ducks and a duck that followed one particular OG around and pecked at his shoes for food; another OF said a clutch of turkeys kept coming to his back yard and he would have to chase them away by going right into them and jostling them to the woods with a little switch.            

One OF had a Canada goose just drop in and hang around and come right up to the family members and rub against their legs for attention, and it even made attempts to follow them into the house.

It must be these birds and even some so-called “wild” animals have a sense we OFs don’t know about.  They have learned early on how to pick on certain people who are not going to hurt them and they seem to be able to follow this instinct.

Mystified by Jenner’s transformation

The OFs touched a little bit on real current events, one of which was the Bruce Jenner transformation. The OFs are OFs and do not quite understand this.

The OFs remember him/her when he was a he and a great athlete in the Olympics. The OFs just can’t get a handle on this.

The younger generation might understand this better just because of the numbers of people around now. The percentage may be the same as it was in “our” day but the numbers will be greater in 2015 than 1940 or so. Then there is the advent of so much information now being in real time makes what was once hidden now out in the open with little chance to manipulate it.

OFs march on

When many of the OFs were YFs, marching in parades was something many of them did. Some OFs marched because they had to — there was some burly sergeant making sure they did.

But many of the OFs were in their school bands, or they were Cub Scouts or Boy Scouts, or some were even in the Grange. Now many of the OFs have to think about putting one foot ahead of the other without the added thinking of which one it was supposed to be, right foot or left foot.

Some of the OFs would still go by hay foot, straw foot marchers.  (A note from American Heritage magazine:  In the mid-19th Century, the drill sergeants repeatedly found that among the raw recruits, there were men so abysmally untaught that they did not know left from right, and hence could not step off on the left foot as all soldiers should. To teach these lads how to march, the sergeants would tie a wisp of hay to the left foot and a wisp of straw to the right; then, setting the men to march, they would chant, “Hay-foot, straw-foot, hay-foot, straw-foot” — and so on, until everybody had caught on. A common name for a green recruit in those days was “strawfoot.”)

However, there are still a few OFs who do get dressed up and march in parades and for these  few this marching happens quite often. Marching is better than going to a gym to keep the OFs in shape. At least in marching there is a change of scenery, plus bringing a certain kind of joy to people the OFs don’t even know, especially the kids.

Gardening on high

The OFs who garden are slimming down. This scribe thinks he knows why; this is called “old backs.”

That may be why those who still get out and plant gardens are doing their gardens in raised beds. One OF said that he has gone to raised beds but not for the entire garden. Then another OF said that all his garden is now in raised beds.

One OF said that he made a series of stepped beds for his wife’s herb garden but the rest of it is still, till the ground, plant the seed, weed the garden when the plants begin to sprout, and then, at harvest time, the garden can feed the deer, rabbits, and mice and what is left over they can put on the table around one of the turkeys that wandered in.

One of the gardeners also made a brief comment on the watering of gardens, saying that rain is better than watering a garden with a hose. The OFs who garden said there are different kinds of “wet water.” Rainwater is better water, and is wetter than water from the sprinklers or the hose. Hmmmm.

Those OFs who made it to the top of hill and the Hilltown Café in Rensselaerville and are all talk (because at their ages the testosterone level has dwindled to almost a negative number) were: Miner Stevens, Roger Chapman, Harold Guest, John Rossmann, Frank Pauli, George Washburn, Robie Osterman, Karl Remmers, Dick Ogsbury, Bob Snyder, Al Latham, Bob Benac, Art Frament, Jay Taylor, Lou Schenck, Jack Norray, Gerry Irwin, Mace Porter, Chuck Aleseio, Otis Lawyer, Glenn Patterson, Mark Traver, Bill Krause, Jim Rissacher, Ted Willsey, Henry Whipple, Bill Rice, Mike Willsey, Warren Willsey, Gerry Chartier, and me.

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June 12, 2015

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by John R. Williams

This scribe wonders what life was like when there were no days of the week, months of the year, or even time. We would not know if it was Tuesday or not.

Well, on Tuesday, May 26, the Old Men of the Mountain met at the Home Front Café, where the breakfast hors d’oeuvres were served up by Jack.  Now that is an interesting touch but, if there were no indications of days, weeks, months or years, how would we even record that such a miraculous event ever occurred?

The early arrivers talked about the unusual rainbow that was in the southwest sky at about 6 a.m. Tuesday morning. There had to be a shower someplace but where most of the OFs were it was not raining. So many of the OFs observed this rainbow that it let the OFs who had seen it alone early in the morning know they were not crazy and seeing things.

Another OF mentioned seeing on Channel 6 News a story about a girl wrestler from Gallupville who was wrestling in Madison Square Garden. This OF asked the OFs who lived anywhere near the Gallupville area if any of them knew of a girl wrestler (who had a reputation of being a rather good wrestler) living in the Gallupville area.

None of the OFs knew of such a person. Well, there is such a person and she is from Gallupville; her match was with a wrestler from Cuba, and she won. So that is another not crazy OF. Yet.

Lawnmower cowboys

Then the OFs spent quite a bit of time talking about riding lawnmowers. From this discussion, it was a good thing the OFs are country folk and keeping up with Joneses is not a priority, because most of the lawnmowers used by the OFs are so old and beat up they would be right at home in Bedrock. (Think Flintstones, Yabba dabba do).

One OF said he went to call on a fellow many of the OFs know who repairs small engines and fixes lawn mowers — riding or not. This OF purchased two basically identical riding lawnmowers for a hundred bucks each from him.

He uses the best mower to mow the lawn and the other mower for parts as the mower the OF selected as best starts to fall apart. Keeping these old things running becomes a challenge, and it’s fun to see how long they can keep these old mowers going.

The OF who has to go shopping for another mower because his mower is 17 years old, with so many cobbled up parts nobody could drive it except the OF, not unless they had a complete checkout on the mower’s idiosyncrasies.

No matter how the mower looks, if the blades go around, it will cut the grass just as well as any new, fancy, green and yellow tractor.

One OF reported that he had one of these green and yellow machines and was out mowing the lawn when his wife called. With the ear protectors on and the tractor running with the mowing deck spinning, it is tough to hear anything. The OF turned to holler, “What?” and ran full tilt into a tree.

That did a number on the plastic engine shroud of the tractor and a few other things like lights, and being able to close the hood — just little things. The OF said now the engine is really air cooled because the shroud is somewhere other than on the tractor. The OF did not say whether it was behind the shed or in the dump.

Somehow this drifted into a conversation about how much the riding mowers with the front engine have gone up in price, but the newer zero-turn machines have gone down in price. Then one OF questioned why is he able to get a riding lawn mower with all the attachments for less money than a mattress.

One OF said, “Now we know who is making all the money — the amount of profit in a mattress has to be ridiculous; just look at what goes into making a tractor and the amount of people required to do it. Now look at a mattress, one great big wooden pallet, with a bunch of springs attached to it and fabric, then on top of that is a fabric box stuffed with cotton and maybe some coil of wire or whatever inside that and it is done.”

“Big whoop,” the OF said, “If I had a heavy-duty sewing machine, I could make a mattress in my shop in two or three hours.”

Made in the USA

This led to a brief discussion on merchandise made in the United States of America, and products made elsewhere. These types of conversations can get to be a little political so the points made are short, and don’t go too deep. In this case though, consider that many of the common items most of us use, the average person could not afford if they were made in the USA. This is a sad but true commentary.

This led to another brief discussion, which is common knowledge (at least to the OFs).  They feel that New York State is killing off small industries, and the OFs are beginning to think it is intentional. Both of these are debatable.

Those OFs who made it to the Home Front Café in Altamont and most being wide awake after a good night’s sleep on a mattress of their choice, but not the few who were kicked out of the house and had to sleep in the barn, were: Miner Stevens, George Washburn, Robie Osterman, John Rossmann, Frank Pauli, Henry Witt, Dave Williams, Harold Guest, Mark Traver, Glenn Patterson, Chuck Aleseio, Otis Lawyer, Jack Norray, Gerry Erwin, Lou Schenck, Mace Porter, Bill Krause, Jim Rissacher, Bob Fink, Bob Benninger, Andy Tinning, Gil Zabel, Harold Grippen, Allen Befazio, Elwood Vanderbilt, Henry Whipple, (Mike Willsey, Warren Willsey, Daniele Willsey, Ted Willsey, Emily Meduna, and Gerry Chartier, a small part of the Willsey clan; one of the distaff side was a chauffer for one of the Willseys who had recent shoulder surgery; the OFs are tough old goats), and me.

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June 4, 2015

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by Alice Begley

The Enterprise — Melissa Hale-Spencer

Chits covered expenses for Guilderland’s poor, including for coal, boots and shoes, hospital stays, telephone messages, horse keeping, doctor’s services, and coffins.

GUILDERLAND — In the beginning days of the town of Guilderland, there was no Medicare or Medicaid for the ill, poor, or elderly.  Individuals had to rely on their neighbors or persons cited by the town as "Overseers of the Poor" to perform such duties.

Early documents also reveal that the town's "poor" residents received medical attention from doctors who lived in Guilderland, and the services of those doctors were paid by the town.  Listed as doctors who were given a $12 annual fee for attending to the sick residents were:   Thomas Helme M.D., Abram DeGraff M.D.,  George Squire M.D.,  R I Barton M.D.,  Jesse Crounse M.D. and Frederick Crounse M.D.

In addition, several residents also performed such services.   Town archives hold many receipts of the handling of those cases.

In March of 1893, Albany Hospital presented a bill for two weeks’ board at $5 a week for a Guilderland resident that included the "washing of a dozen pieces at $1.00 per dozen,” services of a special nurse, medicine, and extras.

In May of 1898, another chit was received from H.A. Vosburgh, Overseer of the Poor, for 12 weeks’ board for a child.  In that same year, in November, a bill was presented to the town for $3.50 for a coffin for Mary Bent's child. And later still, Prospect Hill Cemetery was paid $1.50 for the internment of that child.

In 1896, Mr Vosburgh presented a bill for $10.25 for 41 pounds of coal for a poor family.

Chits were turned in by "Overseers of the Poor" in 1897 for "horse keeping  $.65 and for "horse hire" in regards to Jacob Smith's mule for $1.20.

Dr. Thomas Helme turned in a receipt for professional services up to the date of Jan. 12, 1896 for $25. “Boots & Shoes” cost $4 and were purchased at M. Mandelbaum at Washington Avenue, a wholesale and retail dealer of footwear, for a needy Guilderland resident.

Many groceries were listed next to Guilderland residents’ names as the "Overseers of the Guilderland Poor" took good care of buying food for the medically ill and the needy in the town.  It was a far simpler method than today apparently.

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June 4, 2015

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by Frank L. Palmeri

I need a hug. I don't need a drink, or a doughnut, or a Cadillac CTS sales brochure. I just need a hug.
The kind of hug I need is the kind that comes out of nowhere. An unexpected hug, if you will. A hug that comes with no strings attached, like a sun shower that comes in and out before you know it. That's the kind of hug I need.

 In return for this hug, I promise absolutely nothing in return. I'm not going to install your room air-conditioner, or move your yard-sale dresser purchase, or babysit your parrot. The hug you give me has to come with absolutely no strings attached. That's the kind of hug I'm looking for. A free as in beer hug.

The hug you give me can be a smothering, bosomy Aunt Lena type hug. Those are always nice. But let me state for the record that you don't need to have a big bosom to give me a hug.

In fact, it's perfectly all right if you have a small bosom, or even no bosom. That's right, even if you are a man, you can give me a hug. I'm open to hugs from one and all, with no regard to age, gender, national origin, etc. It's all good, as they say.

When you give me the hug, please make sure it's on a day when you have no or very little perfume or cologne on. A little of that stuff goes a long way. Sometimes I'll get on an empty elevator and the lingering perfume is so strong, you can still smell it.

Speaking of perfume in elevators: The other day, four young girls got on an elevator and one had the most intoxicating perfume I've ever encountered, a deliciously fragrant combination of flowers, fruit, and candy, if you can believe that. I tried to think of some non-creepy way to ask her what it was but then the door opened and she was gone. Never before or since have I encountered anyone who smelled that good.

If you are wearing that perfume, please hug me as soon as possible. Also please let my lovely wife know what brand it is. I need more of that perfume in my life.

While administering the hug to me, you are allowed to squeeze as hard as you like, within reason. Please do not squeeze so hard or so long that I begin to have difficulty breathing.

While I like hugs very much, I like unobstructed breathing even more, thank you very much. If you insist on hugging me too long or too hard, I'll pull out my CPAP (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) machine and mask. Trust me, you don't want to see that.

If you give me the hug between normal business hours — from 9 to 5 between Monday and Friday — you will earn Double Points in your Permanent Record. Remember in high school when they told you, if you did something bad, it would go in your Permanent Record? Yes it's true and we all have one.

The reason you receive Double Points when you give a hug during normal business hours is because these hugs are so rare. Hugs during normal business hours are inversely proportional to Fucillo commercials. So why not go for it, it'll be HUGE.

I'd prefer it if, during the hug, you spoke very little or not at all. I know it's tempting when we're close like that for you to say something heartfelt to me, like, "I love you" or, "Get off of my foot" or whatever. But truly, let's keep the moment as simple and sweet as possible. "Silence is golden" is more than a cliché.

I understand a hug from you comes with no warranty expressed or implied; however, if you should fail to more your head to the right enough and bump me in the noggin (it happens), requiring me to visit a doctor for my headache, or worse, I feel it's only fair if you at least make my medical co-pay. A tray of brownies would be nice as well (made with applesauce instead of oil so they're low-fat and relatively healthy).

Every now and then, they have master pickpockets on TV. I've seen these guys go in for a hug and remove watches, wallets — heck, I think I saw one guy remove a person’s underwear during a hug. Please don't remove anything from me when you give me the hug. Trust me on this; it's not very nice, and you don't know where I've been. You've been warned.

I haven't been able to exercise much lately, so there's a good chance you'll feel all or part of my belly during the hug. This doesn't give you the right to make snarky comments like, "Have you been eating for two?" or, "Boy, there's a lot of you to love" or anything like that.

Middle-age spread is nothing to laugh about. My stretched-out belts will back me up on this.

There was a guy named Leo Buscaglia who made a whole career on giving and getting hugs. Can you believe that?

I'm still working full-time so, as much as I'd like to, I can't spend that much time on hugging. Still, if you have an idea for a part-time hugging based business venture, I'm all ears.

Think I'm kidding? There are actually very well paid full-time "professional cuddlers" now. I saw it on TV so it must be true. Leo would have loved that I'm sure.

On the day of the hug, if you should buy a lotto ticket and hit the big one, you are surely not required to throw some my way. However, if you want to buy me, say, a drink or a Mazda Miata — in crimson red of course — that would be fine. It's entirely up to you.

After the hug, I may say something like, "Thank you" or, "I like chicken," but, if I don't say anything, please don't be offended. I may have something else besides your hug on my mind so I may just give you a smile or a dumb stare. You know, just looking normal.

You can rest assured that your hug will make me feel better. How could it not; it's a hug after all.

If world leaders hugged more often you know the world would be a better place. We need a World Hugging Summit in some nice place like Oslo. If you want to start one there, let me know (and when you buy my plane ticke,t get me an aisle seat so I can get to the bathroom easily; I'm old after all).

I need a hug.

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June 4, 2015

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by Michael Seinberg

Over many years, I’ve heard a lot of jokes about women’s purses and refrigerators. Most involve the size or color, or capacity or whatever. But my wife’s purse and our fridge have certain curious physical properties that simply defy the laws of physics and logic on an almost daily basis.

To begin with, her current purse is a large blue bag that’s open at the top and features one small zippered pouch on the upper inside on one side. The rest is just a big (massive) open space with seemingly no obstacles to make finding things hard. The trouble usually begins with a simple request from her. “Honey, can you grab my phone?”

“Sure, where is it?”

“In my purse.”

Cue eerie, fear-inducing background music from a movie where the killer is about to jump out of said purse holding a bloody machete.

I slowly advance on the purse, leaning innocently against the cabinet on the floor. I reach carefully for the top and pull it open very carefully. OK, no killer popping out. Good first step.

I gaze into the impossibly dark interior and think of those magic bags Harry Potter and friends carry where they can tug a Cadillac Escalade out of a coin purse. Heck, even Mary Poppins managed to pull a coat rack out of her purse as I was reminded.

I pull the opening wider, to allow more light to enter, but, like a black hole, no light seems to penetrate past the first inch. I reach into the interior, feeling my way past the cosmetics bag, the iPad, the wallet, frying pan, rechargeable drill, chainsaw, potting soil — and try to find that smooth, bright red case.

No dice.

I reach for a flashlight and shine it into the inky blackness and still, the light can’t seem to make it past the low-hanging plants and palm trees. Finally, I call her phone from mine and follow the faint ring until I find it beneath a missing World War II B-25 at the lower right corner.

Why does whatever object you seek always migrate to a corner beneath an aircraft wing?

The other, even scarier request is for her keys. When it comes time to search for the keys, I don a miner’s helmet with a halogen lamp on top, slip into climbing gear, and slowly lower myself in.

It’s like a vast cross between a subterranean big-box store and a badly lit cave. I move things, listening for the distinctive key jingle, and finally find them just to the left of the lost Ark of the Covenant and to the right of Jimmy Hoffa.

The fridge is kind of the reverse issue. No matter how big a fridge you buy and how carefully you move things around, arrange them and fit them, the thing always appears full to bursting. And yet, no matter how much you empty out, eat, cook, consume, or dispose of, it never looks any emptier.

But, getting back to the purse, I have no idea how the purse or the fridge really do these odd things. The true irony is, when we’re out and about and you need something simple like a water bottle, tissue, lip balm or Band-Aid, they’re in the inventory and easily grabbed.

If she needs a lipstick or hairbrush she can find them without even looking. Seriously. How does that work? Radioactive tagging? GPS? Magnetism?

It’s like I said, a violation of the laws of physics as we know them. But then that works both ways.

Remember dinner from last night with that large pan of lasagna that you had to fit into the fridge in the space normally occupied by two small yogurt containers? And somehow you manage. Every time.

I realize these are truly First World problems and I respect that. But you’d think if we can deal with this stuff successfully, on a daily basis, we could come up with a way to travel faster than light, beam things from place to place, and elect an honest politician.

Well, maybe not the politician part; that really would be true science fiction.

Editor’s note: Michael Seinberg was last seen trying to fit two racks of leftover ribs into the nook normally reserved for butter in the fridge door. It worked.

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June 4, 2015

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by Dennis Sullivan

“Sappho Kissing her Lyre” is an oil painting by Jules-Élie Delaunay, a 19th-Century French artist.

φαίνεταί μοι. If that’s Greek to you, you’re correct, it is. And if you detected they are the first two words of the great Seventh-Century, Lesbos-born, Greek poet Sappho’s Poem 31, you are correct as well. It translates “He seems to me . . .”

It is Sappho’s most famous poem, an epithalamium, a wedding poem sung for a bride on the way to the marriage chamber.

The poem — or more correctly song because Sappho plucked a lyre (barbitos) while she recited — is quintessential Sappho and deserves the attention of not only poets but every living soul since Adam and Eve because it touches the feelings of a heart experiencing loss of a beloved.

In Poem 31 the singer, poet, lyricist — it could be Sappho or a projected other — is expressing feelings of jealousy because a woman she loves has gone off and married someone else, a man. The loss is so great, the poet says, she’s broken out in a cold sweat and shaking, her symptoms so acute she feels dead.

This ancient torch song contrasts greatly with the same theme country music stations play every day of the year but Sappho sings with more authenticity, immediacy, and accuracy of feeling. The listener cannot escape experiencing the pathos of the singer, thus the poem becomes a mirror for the listener’s soul.

And while our lesbian poet reveals she is in the throes of death, she tells her story “slant,” as Emily Dickinson commanded, so the reader does not feel Sappho — or whoever the projected singer is — is one of those 19th-Century repressed “hysterics” who came to Sigmund Freud in hopes of jettisoning sorrow.

Sappho was among the first Western literary ancients to address the world in the first-person, and the first to do so with such outright candor, without shame or malice, which is what every human being beset by loss desires, especially when laced with jealousy.

Because of her depth of insight, the ancients adored Sappho. They said she was as great as Homer, calling Homer “the poet” and her “the poetess.” Plato called her the “10th Muse.”

Her image was engraved on coins in Lesbos; a beautiful statue honoring her was erected in the town hall at Syracuse; elegant vases depicting her plucking a lyre were cast only two generations after her time for which cultured, well-to-do Greeks paid good money to display in their homes. It may not be too much to say she was an ancient rock star.

When the Athenian statesman, lawmaker, and poet Solon heard his nephew sing a song of hers at a drinking party, so enchanted was he, legend says, he asked the boy to teach it to him. He said, once he learned it, he would be able to die.

Long-time fans of Sappho are elated these days because the bard is back in the news. Last year, Dirk Obbink, a papyrologist at the University of Oxford, revealed he had been the recipient — secretly from a private collector — of two previously unknown poems of hers: one about her brothers, the other about unrequited love.

The finding of the “Brothers” poem was especially lauded because it makes only the second complete poem we have of Sappho; the other is called “fragment 1,” a hymn to Aphrodite, where the singer beseeches the Greek goddess to aid her in her pursuit of a woman she’s after (religion as an aid to libido-satisfaction).

Scholars are indeed grateful for anything “Sappho” that comes along because 97 percent of what she did is gone; her extant work consists of little more than 200 fragments of poems, a considerable number of which amount to no more than a line or two. It’s maddening. The greatest shame is that cataloguers in the ancient library of Alexandria said Sappho had nine books of poems to her credit amounting to more than 13,000 lines!

Whatever happened? You will find it written all over the Internet that those verses vanished because Roman Catholic officialdom burned her in disgust. The Byzantine archbishop Gregory of Nazianzen and Pope Gregory VII are always mentioned as the sanctioning culprits, but there is no evidence to support condemning them.

It is known, however, that the Second-Century ascetic and Christian theologian Tatian in his address to the Greeks (Oratio ad Graecos) called Sappho "a whore,” a whore “who sang about her own licentiousness.” But that fellow must be relegated to nutdom because he said that marriage was the institution of the devil.

The reality seems to be that Sappho’s work fell on rocky soil in large part because she wrote in a difficult vernacular Lesbian-Aeolic dialect that differed from the lingua franca of Athens at the time, so later copyists selecting books to transcribe triaged her to the trash in the interest of time and limited translation skills.

A new translation of Sappho appearing last year by Grand Valley State University (Michigan) Professor Diane J. Rayor (with introduction by André Lardinois) titled “Sappho: A New Translation of the Complete Works” helps to assuage the ignominy of such (idiotic) shortsightedness.

Rayor’s efforts have been lauded in all the scholarly mags (Lardinois’s introduction as well) but the nuances of her translation keep being compared to those of the laser-minded Greek scholar and poet Anne Carson in “If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho,” which appeared a dozen years ago. Vis-à-vis Carson, Rayor always seems to finish second.

Sappho said a poet can sing about wars and all that tough-guy stuff but what matters most is where a person’s heart is. In Poem (fragment) 16 she says (Carson’s translation):

 

Some men say an army of horses

and some men say an army on foot/

and some men say an army of ships

is the most beautiful thing/

on the black earth. But I say it is/

what you love.

 

Because she came from Lesbos and had an abiding affection for women — though she was married and had a daughter — during the latter part of the 19th Century women whose feelings of love were directed toward other women began to call themselves “lesbian.” The Greek verb lesbiazein (to act like the women of Lesbos) has highly erotic connotations and those interested in divining them can check their Liddell and Scott rather than expect explication in a family newspaper.

Sappho was exiled during her twenties or early thirties — depending on her actual birth year, which ranges from 630 to 612 B.C.E. — at a time when Lesbos was undergoing great political turmoil but no evidence exists to suggest she was politically involved.

And the erotic themes she sang about were not outlandish in any way. That judgment came during the Hellenistic period (third/second centuries B. C. E.) when what she said was regarded as disgraceful for a woman.

For those interested in exploring the mansions of the human heart, Sappho is cherished all the more because her few remaining texts keep out of reach like the apple she sang about in Fragment 105A (Carson translation):

 

as the sweetapple reddens on the high branch

high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot —

no, not forgot: were unable to reach.

 

But there is hope. Each unearthed papyrus, in which her words were sealed for over 2,000 years, enables the yearning heart to tiptoe a bit higher and just reach the sweet red apple of sapphic love.

Post date: 
June 3, 2015

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