A new handmade gallery opened in Downtown Crossing that I hope to go to in the next few days, but I’m going to post a link here in the happy event that anyone else wants to drop by without my physically dragging them. Boston Handmade Downtown features a collection of local artisans and craftspeople with totally handmade, original goods. So if you’re in the mood to shop locally and you’re drifting aimlessly (or purposefully) around New England, I think that this place probably warrants a stop. And after going there, you can walk over to the North End to support a local tiny restaurant or wine bar before jaunting up the artificial hill in front of the Old North Church to recite “Paul Revere’s Ride” by Longfellow. You should probably spend a lot of time in a wine bar first.

Do all of this when it is or isn’t pissing down. For now, I’m going to sit on my mama’s couch and read about rutabegas and try not to vom with the jet lag. I’m a wimp.

This blog is transforming into one big advert for Boston for one week only. Shazam.

11.26.2009

I guess one would expect one to take pictures of turkey happenings but it’s been done, and Id rather log those photos in my brainularium than on a flash card. Here’s a shot I took when I decided to stop eating for fifteen minutes and went outside instead to enjoy a cool evening pre a New England rain south/snow north event. High clouds were moving in but  the  first quarter moon was still visible.

Moon Corona

Coronas are indicative of approaching weather events.

Our Thanksgiving was great. We hope yours was too.

We had too much to eat, as planned. We visited and the children played.

Here I am with Sal Jr as he’s checking out the bird. He did a great job!

Here’s the guest of honor. He didn’t look like that for long.

Here’s Zoey enjoying our Thanksgiving toast. (The children toasted with sparkling cider so no one was left out of the toast)

We had a wonderful day!
K

I’ve expanded my carbon footprint for the year exponentially by jetting my way to Boston for a week. I never really know how often I’ll get to come home, so when I do, I generally try to cram as many memory-triggering New England activities in as possible. ..In addition to laying in bed eating butternut squash at six a.m., watching news coverage of Black Friday. But I mean. That’s pretty New Englandy somehow too.

Last night while trying to desperately stay awake at ten p.m., I was mulling over my foodie options. And my mom and Bob were asking about just how committed I was to this no-meat policy. I brought up the conundrum of steamed clams. Could I have steamed clams if they were apparently locally sourced? If I were sitting at the Barnacle in Marblehead for example and you know ate some steamed clams that might have oh my god I hope.. come from.. the harbor twelve feet away.. would that be okay? Would it? Would it? It would, right?

And Bob told me that all shellfish sold in restaurants in Massachusetts, even five feet from the Harbor, are first taken from the ocean and shipped up to New Hampshire to sit in chlorinated water for twenty four hours before returning to the shore to be sold. So, even your locally sourced shellfish probably has an enormous carbon footprint.

Guess I can’t weasel my way out of that one. It’s for the best.

Ein Update zu: Vor dem Mast und unter Segeln und: Mit Tschechow nach Marzahn

Vor dem Mast, ganz ohne schützende Kajüte, rackerte ich diesmal selber.

Vorletzten Dienstag, Berliner Tschechow-Theater in Marzahn.
Ich bin eingeladen. Ha, und Special Guest. Thema des Abends: siehe oben.

Vom Plattenbauhimmel regnet es Strippen. Wettermäßig also schonmal ein Minus für Feierabendkultur mitten in der Woche und für die Feuertaufe einer bestenfalls Backstage semibekannten Freizeit-Entertainerin. Ein Plus: die Reihe „Kultur der Welt“ ist etabliert und läuft regelmäßig, einmal im Monat. Noch ein Plus, das mindestens drei wert ist: weit und breit keine Konkurrenz.

Geplant ist… nun, sagen wir, eine literarische Reise durch Neuengland. Genau genommen geht’s eher an dessen Küste entlang: durch die einstigen Walfängerhäfen von Nantucket und New Bedford, ein bisschen Boston und Harvard, ein bisschen Geschichte der Indianer und der alten Pilgerväter; dann, wie es sich für eine Hexe gehört, rauf nach Salem zum ollen Nathaniel Hawthorne und zurück über Cape Cod mit einer Prise Seefahrerromantik. Im Gepäck Herman Melvilles dicken alten Wal und ein paar Bücher drumrum, zweidrei Rezepte zum Thanksgiving-Vogel und für das ungeschlagene chowderhafte Nationalgericht – das Ganze gut durchgerührt mit zwei Handvoll Walfängershantys.

Eine Stunde vorher da sein muss reichen für einen Schnelldurchlauf mit dem Techniker, der das Programm noch nicht kennt. Doch die Generalprobe fällt aus – meinen hergeborgten Laptop aus der Zeit der Erfindung des Morseapparates zum Pseudopowerpointpräsentieren zu überreden, kostet alles. Und der aufopferungsvolle Dompteur der Technik g i b t alles. Er umgarnt mich und und sich und die Bühne mit einem Gestrüpp aus Kabeln für Rechner, Beamer, Stereoanlage, zwei Leselampen und was weiß ich noch alles. Die Katastrophe scheint sich anzubahnen, als abenteuerliche Bildschirmzickereien mir meine im Akkord so wunderhübsch gebastelte Bilder- und Videoreihenfolge im Skript zerschießen und mein Helfer sich darin hoffnungslos verheddert. Na, das kann ja heiter werden!

Der Countdown läuft. Noch eine Viertelstunde… für angemessenes Hyperventilieren und Lampenfieber bleibt keine Zeit. Im Blick des braven Technikus die blanke Panik – als sei Moby Dick hinter ihm her. Das ist der Augenblick, in dem mich die Ruhe vor dem Sturm überkommt. Ich schenke dem Ärmsten mein schönstes Lächeln und mir den fälligen Herzkasper… setze mich hin und numeriere unsere zwei Achtseiten-Skripte per Hand neu durch.

Unser Theaterchen hat sich inzwischen gemächlich gefüllt. Nun ja, man will ja nicht grad behaupten, dass die Leut’ sich um die Tickets balgten an diesem verregneten Abend, doch das Publikum ist klein, fein und erlesen und die Stimmung an den Cafehaustischchen erwartungsvoll. Eine Dame wedelt aufgeregt mit dem Programm: sie wollte sich heute eigentlich irgendwohin „Flussabwärts“ treiben lassen, bleibt aber trotzdem. Im Parkett links (also von mir aus rechts) hat sich, wie mir von Frau Intendantin gerade gesteckt, als besondere Herausforderung eine Vertretung der Marzahner schreibenden Arbeiter oder wie die heißen niedergelassen. Ja, schlürft nur euren Schoppen, das macht gute Laune, und die kann ich heut wie nix anderes brauchen. Ich selber hab bloß ‘ne Kaffeeüberdosis und mein Hals ist ganz trocken.

Und dann geht’s los und es beginnt… nanu, nicht der Super-GAU? Wer hätte das gedacht. Dabei weiß doch jedes Kind, womit verhunzte Generalproben enden. Alles läuft super. Und das sogar trotz des alles entscheidenden Geständnisses gleich als Einstieg: Moby Dick kam nicht bis Massachusetts – schlimmer, die Reiseveranstalterin auch noch nie. Wenn man mal vom Schwimmen durch einen dicken Melville-Roman und das Internet absieht. Die geneigte Anwesenheit quittiert meinen Vorschlag, für einen derart riskanten Trip lieber das Eintrittsgeld zurückzufordern, mit einem Lacher statt allgemeinem Aufbruch. Na also, geht doch! Die Stimme räuspert sich frei und bei ihrem forschen Befehl zum Segelsetzen klettert das seefeste Publikum munter in die Wanten der Pequod und mitten hinein in den alten John-Huston-Schinken von 1956, den ich ja immer noch für den Moby-Film aller Filme halte…

Ungefähr anderthalb Stunden später gehen wir von Bord. Aufgekratzt schwatzend, vom Seewind gegerbt, mit schwankendem Matrosengang. Schütteln uns eine Zeitreise auf der alten “Mayflower” aus den zerzausten Haaren und jede Menge Seesand aus den Schuhen. Haben kichernd von Herrn Melville höchstpersönlich erfahren, dass die Nantucketer die Ostfriesen Neuenglands sind und wie wohlig Ismael und Queequeg beim Chowderlöffeln in Mrs. Husseys Kaschemme schmatzen. Wir mussten mitansehen, wie übel die ach so gottesfürchtigen Pilgerväter den gastfreundlichen Ureinwohnern mitgespielt haben. Durften den eigenen staunenden Augen trauen, dass ein unzufriedenes Filmvolk imstande ist, Father Orson Welles’ Mapples von der Regie erfundene Schiffsbugkanzel in eine reale Seemannskirche zu klagen. Wir wissen jetzt, warum dereinst hungrige Iren gen Amerika segelten, und dank einem schiffbrüchigen Seemann und einem seetüchtigen Literaten auch, wie ein echter Pottwal echte Schiffe versenkt. Wir haben uns in einem brodelnden Hafenbecken unter die Akteure der Boston Tea Party gemischt. Sind am Haus mit den sieben Giebeln des neuenglischen Schreibergottes vorbeigeschlendert, das immer noch steht in Salem. Und wir haben mit den in der Gegend ansässigen barfüßigen Hexen getanzt, die sowieso keiner vergisst, der das einschlägige Stückchen Kult-Zelluloid von anno dunnemals noch irgendwo im Hinterkopf hat.

Ach ja, fast hätte ichs vergessen, spontan wird auch ein Publikumsliebling gekürt: Ranzo, der Chanteyman von Massachusetts, samt seinem natürlichen und für Walfängerlieder gemachten Klangkörper. Der steht laut seinem Youtube-Profil auf harmony, dissonance, music, noise, rum, truth, tea & cookies, singt mit sich selber im Duett oder gar im Trio und avanciert einhellig zum Kuschelseebären des Abends. (Der Verwendung seiner Tonbeispiele hat er beiläufig offiziell zugestimmt.) Meine aus Zeitgründen vorgesehene Kürzung seines zurechtselektierten Repertoires wird von der virtuellen Reisegruppe mit grummelndem Protest bedacht und muss als Zugabe nachgereicht werden. Ist das nicht das, wovon man immer mal geträumt hat?: mit Leuten in einem Boot sitzen, die eine Wahl hatten… für das Boot.

Die Frage des Abends (aus dem Parkett links): “Aber Sie sind doch gegen den Walfang?”

Und was das Beste ist: mein finaler Werbespot für eine Fortsetzung der Veranstaltung – die für nächstes Jahr einzufädelnde Moby-Dick-Bloglesung nämlich – wird ebenso gefeiert wie die Aussicht, als Soundtrack dazu die süddeutschen Folker What about Carson in der Hauptstadt mal live zu erleben. Deren wieder mal passende und frechfröhlich über den Küstenhaken von Cape Cod lärmende Sally Brown überaus gut ankommt.

Fazit: Moby Dick kam zwar nicht bis Massachusetts. Den Leuten vom “Tschechow” ins Blut aber schon.

Bilder: Moby Dick: Via, bearbeitet. Mayflower: Stuff from Room 311.
Video: Selber gebaut – zu: Der Hund Marie: Moby Dick. Aus: Hooligans & Tiny Hands. 2006.

Heißen Seemannsdank nochmal an den Wolf, für die Hilfe beim Soundtrack.

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Along with Halloween, Thanksgiving is one of those events in the US that people elsewhere seem to know very little about, except from what we see on the TV and in the papers.

Currently celebrated on the fourth Thursday in November, Thanksgiving has been an annual tradition in the United States since 1863, but did not become a federal holiday until 1941.

Modern Thanksgiving tradition traces its origins to a 1621 celebration at the Plymouth Plantation. The Pilgrims were unable to cultivate their usual crops and were saved from almost certain starvation by Squanto, a Patuxet Native American who resided with the Wampanoag tribe. He taught them how to catch eel and grow corn and served as an interpreter for them (Squanto had learned English while enslaved in Europe and during travels in England). After their first successful harvest, the Plymouth settlers held a feast to celebrate the event and to give thanks to God for helping them survive the brutal winter. At the time, this was not regarded as a Thanksgiving observance; harvest festivals existed in English and Wampanoag tradition alike. This “First Thanksgiving” lasted three days, providing enough food for 53 pilgrims and 90 Indians. The feast consisted of fowl, venison, fish, lobster, clams, berries, fruit, pumpkin, and squash. However, the traditional Thanksgiving menu often features turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie.

You can read more about the different traditions here.

To end with, two different views of Thanksgiving, firstly, from Mark Twain:

Thanksgiving Day, a function which originated in New England two or three centuries ago when those people recognized that they really had something to be thankful for — annually, not oftener — if they had succeeded in exterminating their neighbors, the Indians, during the previous twelve months instead of getting exterminated by their neighbors, the Indians. Thanksgiving Day became a habit, for the reason that in the course of time, as the years drifted on, it was perceived that the exterminating had ceased to be mutual and was all on the white man’s side, consequently on the Lord’s side; hence it was proper to thank the Lord for it and extend the usual annual compliments.

and a more modern cultural observation from The Governator himself, Arnold Schwarzenegger:

I love Thanksgiving turkey… it’s the only time in Los Angeles that you see natural breasts.

Have fun!

———————–

Strange Random Language Fact:

In Vulcan, Alberta, Canada, the tourist welcome sign is written in both English and Klingon (alien language from “Star Trek”).

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Before each Thanksgiving Dinner we all hold hands around the table and each of us (usually 20 or more) say what we are thankful for. When you have all four of your children, each of their significant others and all eight grandchildren, plus any friends who are not able to be with their families on this day, in one room together that says it all!

Another wonderful thing to be thankful for happen yesterday; we re-connected with an exchange student from Japan who spent her senior year with us in 1986 and then returned to Japan. Candy is married, since 1990, to a U.S. Navy man she met in Japan, living with her husband and two children in San Diego. We hope to never lose touch again!

May all of you have something special to be thankful for this coming Thanksgiving Day!
K

The Neighbors Take a Surry Ride

After losing much over the past 3 years, I have learned to be constantly thankful for what I have. Each day I am thankful for:

*Being able to get out of bed because my body works!
*My eyesight, good hearing and a lucid mind (for the most part, it works pretty well!)
*My children – I’ve always been amazed that I have such great kids
*Enough money to live on – I am not hungry and have plenty of clean water to drink
*A car that runs and money to put gas in it
*Decent housing and a fabulous landlord, which means I won’t have to move again for a while
*My camera and computer, so I can earn a living
*Friends who care
*The wonderful answer to prayer that I live where I live and am surrounded by such beauty each day.

And there is so much more.
Have a wonderful Thanksgiving day, whether you are alone or with a loving family, you too have much to be thankful for.

Yesterday I wrote about the some of the mix of incentives that deter the likelihood that sustainable/simple practices will be adopted in urban and/or more accurately suburban affluent areas.

The relationship between urban and rural communities is a critical concern, deserving of great attention.

Risking over-generalizing, cities are human-centric. The virtues of city life are the virtues of human creations, what people make. That is what urban economy is about, HUMAN value addition, work. Industry, arts, governance, finance.

All of human creation, and most importantly socialized into human-centric, urban norms. We adjust primarily to our human culture in cities, the culture of our workplaces, the culture of our residences, the culture of our friendships. Even a snow storm is a small event in cities. It passes. It doesn’t form identity.

In contrast, rural small towns and cities are more nature-centric. Much more of our lives are relative to the forests, the growth on farms. We are socialized into both human cultural orientation and the natural. A snow-storm is an event, around for a long time, affecting our lives commonly for a long time. Its not just a little colder. The value-addition that we are able to realize in an economy comes much much more proportionally from things that grow, from water that gets purified naturally. Our cultural virtuous references are natural, “I am the tall tree”, more than social “We are family.”

I’ve recently spent a great deal of time in my home town of Greenfield, MA, and in the largest big city near me, Boston, MA. (I get to spend most of my time in my home town, unlike many that live in one place and work in another.)

One critical aspect of the effort for sustainability, is the implication that urban sprawl will come to be a difficult way of life, and the individuals will prefer to settle in small towns and cities, more rural. The expectation is that migration will occur, that when work is scarce, people will migrate to where “God’s gifts” are available to derive and create value from.

In Greenfield, and other  towns and small cities that were formerly agricultural and/or manufacturing centers, with a few exceptions, most are in a state of decline. There is little value-addition occurring there, very limited investment, very limited career paths for young adults to come to the towns, and therefore families inevitably get split up as children move elsewhere to work.

It becomes a downward spiral. There are less funds available for education, less vibrant and uplifting people moving to the town. In Greenfield, the biggest problem for any prospect of development in town, is that nearly all of the potentially useful land is already taken up in sprawl housing, retail, and crumbling poorly designed mills. (The prospect of universal conversion to small business incubators occurs, but is overblown.)

There is also sadly the NIMBY factor. There is the appearance of possibility of restoration to the “good old days”, so the few important developments that aren’t Wal-Mart’s also get shot down. (There was a proposal to build an office park on formerly agricultural land near a local community college a few years ago, that was fought on ideological NIMBY grounds. It would have been an uniquely appropriate use of the land, providing a great number or value-adding jobs with minimal ecological footprint per job created.)

In small towns and cities people are not anonymous. When I walk down the main street or main stores, on most days I meet someone that I know personally. There are times when its people that I’ve conflicted with that I meet, but most times its a personal friend.

EVERY project, every policy decision, involves discussion with people that we’ve worked with before. It is therefore necessary for us to keep learning (and remembering design features) all the time, so that our staleness doesn’t block up all potential.

It is important that those with vision and imagination and capital, spend a good deal of their time working to make small towns and cities more viable economically, in realizing economic viability from the “gifts of nature”, and from some participation in the urban value chain (especially with the web). I actually oppose relying on urbanizing rural communities too much, in that there is the prospect that the rural communities will become just homogenous, commercialized, and overpriced. Not just sprawl, but the vision of global currency trader operating in Greenfield as easily as Boston, upsets me. I do analagous things, and has a place. I fear its ubiquity though.

Currently there is a colonial relationship between urban and rural, between Boston and Greenfield for example. The most relevant example of that in current proposal is the proposed bio-mass plant now in permitting phase.

Tomorrow.

My squirrels are crazy…and bold! Once all the seed they can steal from the birds is gone they come looking for more – even if it means coming inside!

Heading to the food source

Hello..I need more seeds…

Don’t worry honey, I’ll find a way in..(his wife is in the background)

I see how this door opens…

I sit next to the slider most of the day while working on my laptop at the kitchen table 
and when I hear the scratching at the door this is what I see.

Maybe I could train them to fill the feeders for me.

11.25.09

I love New England because it offers one a variety of weather everythings. Thirty years wandering about these parts and I ‘ve grown to enjoy whatever I see when I look out the window happen I be inside. Yesterday was borderline raw, a slight chill calm reminder of winter, yet still a tolerable day for most. I never intend to take any photos. I’m fairly greedy and demanding of mother nature to offer what I know she can. I get pretty angry when she makes me wait. But when the time comes, it comes. Today was no different. Lunch time I grabbed food and stopped at a pond with no intent of doing anything but eating and reading……BUT…..I got bored.  And

well, I grabbed my camera.  And this is what came of it.

The  overcast acted as a filter. I’ve found it allows me to play more with natural light since surroundings are uniform and one is not fighting the sun. I tend to get deeper full tones. Yesterday was one of those days where within a half hour all the right factors fell into place via the Good Mother.

This was an awesome day.

Some Festive Games and Some Turkeys

We’ve arrived at Thanksgiving week, and the NFL season has become one of haves, have-nots, and mediocre teams.  The haves (New Orleans, Indianapolis, Minnesota, Cincinnati, San Diego, Arizona, and New England) figure to be the eight teams playing in the second round of the NFL playoffs. 

 The have-nots (Cleveland, Detroit, Tampa Bay, St. Louis, Washington, Kansas City, Oakland, Seattle, and Buffalo) have nothing to play for at this point.  To wager on these teams, one must find a reason to believe these teams’ players will have a reason to give everything they’ve got.

 The 15 mediocre teams remaining are the ones competing for the final four playoff berths.  These are the teams that must be watched carefully as the stretch drive begins.  Be careful playing against one of these teams when they are playing a have or have-not.  They can be dangerous.

 This week presents some interesting contests.  On Thanksgiving night, the Denver-New York Giants game features two of the aforementioned mediocre teams.  A match-up of two mediocre teams in essence becomes a playoff elimination game.  The loser of this game has very little chance of recovering to make the playoffs this year.

 Indianapolis plays at Houston, and the Texans find their backs up against the wall.  After losing a close Monday night game, Houston is in a must-win position.

 Arizona plays at Tennessee, and if the Titans win this one to get to 5-6, they would have to be considered a dark horse candidate to finish 9-7 and sneak in as the final AFC Playoff team.  No NFL team has ever started a season at 0-6 and finished 8-8 must less 9-7.  The 1970 Cincinnati Bengals began the season 1-6 and won seven games in a row to win the AFC Central Division at 8-6.

 Baltimore and Pittsburgh face off in a blood and guts battle that could easily be a playoff elimination game.

 The Monday night game is the best MNF game of the year.  New England plays at New Orleans.  It could easily be a preview of the Super Bowl.

© Frank H. Jump

© Frank H. Jump

History of Cranberries

The cranberry, along with the blueberry and Concord grape, is one of North America’s three native fruits that are commercially grown. Cranberries were first used by Native Americans, who discovered the wild berry’s versatility as a food, fabric dye and healing agent. Today, cranberries are commercially grown throughout the northern part of the United States and are available in both fresh and processed forms.

The name “cranberry” derives from the Pilgrim name for the fruit, “craneberry”, so called because the small, pink blossoms that appear in the spring resemble the head and bill of a Sandhill crane. European settlers adopted the Native American uses for the fruit and found the berry a valuable bartering tool.

American whalers and mariners carried cranberries on their voyages to prevent scurvy. In 1816, Captain Henry Hall became the first to successfully cultivate cranberries. By 1871, the first association of cranberry growers in the United States had formed, and now, U.S. farmers harvest approximately 40,000 acres of cranberries each year. – Cranberries dot org

© Cranberries dot org

• Also the History of Produce Crate Labels

Hayden Manufacturing Cranberry Labels & Collectibles

No matter what the posts are this week, the backdrop is that around this time  three years ago I started this blog.  Now nine hundred fiftysomething (!)  posts later, the greatest gratification for me is the  sense of community I’ve gotten from my work.  I feel it!  Thanks to all who’ve read, commented, contributed info and/or fotos, and lurked.  If you’ve only read and lurked, great although I’d love to hear from you too.

Recent traffic has been heavy on Grouper, a 1914 tug that languishes upstate along the part of the Erie Canal where I grew up.  Click here for the details.  Anyone need a project for a mere $26,000?  I took the pic of Grouper in early November 2009, less than three weeks ago.

Fire Fighter, to date FDNY’s unit with the greatest gpm output,  cuts an impressive profile as she cruises Gravesend Bay.

LORO Baltic Mercur has an intriguing silhouette.

An unidentified tanker disappears out the Ambrose, way beyond the bow of barge Charleston.

Uh . .  Brendan (3900 hp), who are you trying to kid?  You’re no stand-in for Pati R, (5100 hp), at least from a “see-over” perspective even with your telescoping house.

And what you do NOT see in the offing of the sixth boro, large fishing vessels like this one, a midwater trawler like Challenger.  This foto was taken off the east end of Cape Ann.

A front page story in today’s NYTimes links Challenger and Brendan Turecamo, in a manner of speaking:  a guy catching a 157-pound bluefin from a kayak that weighs less than 30 pounds,  human-powered although it had to be registered as a motor vessel for him to get a tuna license,  Check it out; tuna have impressive bollard pull.

All fotos by Will Van Dorp.

Here’s a herring song to hold you over til my fishing post:   version a and version b.  I prefer b.

Note:  Although I like assembling/looking at a random set of fotos, I’m aware that each one tells at least one good story . . .  only problem is that I don’t know the story, the very one that in fact I should.  These common unknowns overlay the pictures with a sense of mystery.  Maybe seeking the mysterious and exotic is why I keep doing this blog.  Of course I also do it because it completes me.

Bill Belichick is naked, in his own mind at least

I finally figured out why Bill Belichick is such an asshole: He’s simply bitter because he suffers from a rare psychological disorder that allows him to never be completed naked — that’s right, like Tobias Funke, he’s a never-nude, hence the cut-off shorts. Considering the cut-off hoodies he famously wears, Belichick likely even suffers from a rarer and more advanced form of the illness. Get well Bill…

It’s another gorgeous, grey day in New England. Time for a Bowie pick-me up.

Abandoned farm

I walk by this old abandoned farm weekly, but never really took the time to poke around.  Last week on a sunny afternoon walk I was drawn to the bittersweet brambles weaving their way towards the front door…this old farm– a testament of a time, and  long forgotten. I would imagine there’s lots of stories behind these old walls.