Personality

SO.....I haven't blogged in a long time, I know, I'm bad, but I've had too much going on and then too exhausted to think clearly. Now, however I realized over a month has gone by and I had to sit right down and write myself a letter.

Living up here in the country you see neighbors helping neighbors, people doing for others..of course one still encounters rude, self-serving idiots, but what can you do? This past month two friends needed some help. One, needed a place to stay for a few days due to some marital strife, so we had a house guest for a few days until he got himself re-situated, the other, got caught in a bit of a car accident, and after my other half and another friend fetched her from the side of the road, took her to the hospital and waited to learn of her broken hand. Since she couldn't drive or do too much, she too wound up here for a few days.

It rained nearly every day in June, and every time we went to check on our new bees, the weather wouldn't allow it. I was able to do one cursory look when the new, beautiful copper hive tops arrived, and I snuck a few minutes to remove the old ones and install them, but that was it.
The bees don't like wind, rain, thunder or lightning, and since we had one of those every day, I just couldn't open those boxes.

Now last year, the hives we had were so docile. During an entire year, I was stung once. Most of the time, they buzzed around me crawled on me and were not remotely threatening. They didn't survive the winter. The colonies we have this year, are nothing like that. Virtually the minute I come near they buzz wildly, fly around in a snit and dive bomb my hat and veil. I nearly asphyxiated myself puffing smoke around me to drive them away. I did manage to do the majority of what I needed to, but I could have gotten more accomplished if the two of us were here with two smokers to keep the little buzzers at bay.

Macavity, the orange cat did a little investigating at one of the hive openings and was smart enough to walk away. Cyrano, on the other hand, suddenly took off like a rocket, so I think HE may have not been quite as wary as the cat...so much for that old adage about curiosity...this time it got the dog.

It is interesting to ponder how every bit of fauna seems to have a fairly distinct personality. I've encountered plenty of animals, and more than enough people. This is petition season, the time we knock on doors to put candidates' names on the ballot in November. As people come to their door, it is always interesting to see how they respond. I only go to doors of people who are registered to the same political party as the candidates on my ballots. I generally knock on the same doors every year. It is amazing to me who remembers me from time to time, who is clueless, nasty, one can see in their faces when they answer how their words will be.

And somehow, what I can't get out of my mind is: the police who raided the gay bar in Ft. Worth and threw people down, arrested them and made lies about a "former bartender" who called in a complaint. We know it wasn't a former bartender, because the place had been open one week and had its original staff. Then there was the sheriff's deputy in San Diego, who threw a woman in her sixties onto the floor, and twisted her recently operated on shoulder when he got a "noise complaint" about the fundraiser in the woman's house for a politician. And then he sprayed the guests with pepper spray when they objected to the woman being treated that way. As for the noise complaint, it was early in the day, before the time a noise ordinance took effect, and the neighbor was shouting down the politician while she tried to speak at the party.

And personality comes into play, when I get nasty, sarcastic and petty and wonder why our president wants gay people to wait for civil rights until the "time is right" while he appeases the religious right who will never accept him anyway. I want to know why Mr. Obama can't grow a pair of balls as big as his ears and just do the right thing? if Truman could understand where the buck stops and integrate the armed forces with one presidential order and not wait until the joint chiefs approved, then in 2009 Obama can do the same thing. If he had the personality of my bees, instead of my dog.

Rule # 1: Don't Piss Off the Bees

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight!

So now you know rule number 1. Rule # 2 is remember rule #1.

I read in one of my bee books that the only time the author was stung is when he was careless, a little too cavalier about approaching his bees. So what did I do today? Broke every damn rule of beekeeping and almost wound up like poor Gloria Swanson at the end of 1974's Killer Bees, with the little buggers crawling all over her. We didn't bring the smoker, wore dark clothes, went in the late afternoon, my shirt wasn't tucked in, and when they attacked, rather than standing still, I panicked and ran! O what a fool I be.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!

What was especially foolish, was the fact that these are new colonies and I really did not know their temperament. I learned. Colony number two is just a wee bit irritable when you open their hive top and start playing around with their comb.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!

And all we were trying to do is make sure they were happy and settling in well. Well, they are settling in, but they sure weren't happy today.

I'll show then who is boss -- I'm calling up a local bear to pay them a visit.

Since this already seems like Sesame Street with the counting, I'll tell you, today's word is... OUCH.

Why couldn't it have happened to someone more worthy, like Dick Cheney.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Don't worry, Ma, I'm all right (and they say it's good for arthritis, so the joints in my left hand should be terrific.

Spring has Sprung

So the lilacs are running rampant, the tulips are almost all gone, the grass is too high and I've just ordered 25 pounds of sugar.

Last week three new packages of bees arrived (David met the truck on his way back from dropping off 150 or so packages to a winery on the North Fork of Long Island) and they got shaken out of their boxes into the hives. We drove the three hours up to Betterbee and bought all kinds of supplies (and some honey in the honeycomb) to keep them happy and healthy. It is wonderful to crouch off to the side and watch them going in and out of the hive entrance, carrying away the dead bees. It is amazing to see them come in for a landing with huge balls of yellow-orange pollen stuck to their legs. In a few days, we open the hives for the first time to make sure the queens are laying eggs, and that all is right in their worlds. That's why the 25 pounds of sugar -- we're mixing up sugar water for extra food to make sure they are getting enough to eat. We'll stop that in another week, or so, as they will be acclimated and able to find enough food on their own.

One of our hens has been very busy sitting on a nest, so we're getting many fewer eggs, but soon the peep-peep of little chicks should be filling the barn.

Speaking of pounds of supplies, Bessie II has arrived...well, half of Bessie II, which we shared with some neighbors. Bessie is the locally raised, grass-fed cow (actually it could have been a bull, in which case it would have been Ferdinand) which arrived on our doorstep, after she went off to the nice man who put her into little white packages to go into our freezer. So the next few months will be beef fest here at Bear Ramble Farm. Luckily, there are no bears rambling quite right we we are lately. Our poor friend, Wayne, lost two sheep and someone else lost a goat about five minutes from here. DEC caught and moved the 500 pounder! It's starting to feel like Mutual of Omaha's "Wild Kingdom."

Mea Culpa

I know it's been far too long since my last blog...I've been naughty, spank me. Actually, I've been busy. Those who read this probably know about the museum and the exhibit that opened this week. Movie Stars and the history of them is just about all I have been thinking about for the past few weeks, with no time to really even write about the subject here. Our small museum in the country had a successful exhibit opening...a packed house to see the exhibit, which I think looks pretty good. Big thanks to all those who helped make it happen (it takes a lot more than just this village) Demetre, Joe, Fred, Monica...now I have to put together the companion booklet.
All the while, the goats still get fed, the eggs get gathered, the bees get checked on the cats and dog get all the petting time I can spare.

Deaths In The Family

So it was a warm day today, warm enough to go out without a jacket, so it was a day to inspect the bees.

One hive was a buzz, they were doing their thing of cleaning house, which means sweeping out the bees that didn't make it through the winter. The other hive all was still, which I half expected, as the lid of that hive came off one morning, and I assumed they got hit with chill (even though there was a weight on the lid).

I began to disassemble the still hive, slowly removing each layer. A few bees came over to investigate, but I assumed they were from the other hive. As I removed each layer, I discovered more and more dead bees. Now, I can't say I was really attached to them, unlike the chickens I hadn't attempted to name the bees (although a few were called Bob, Beatrice, Barney, Betty, etc. as i saw them, but they do all look pretty much alike). Taking out each frame and seeing more bees stuck to the wax cells immobile and greyish was pretty horrifying, especially as the other hive had those brownish-yellowing girls all buzzing about and doing their thing. As long as one hive survived, I will go forward and get another colony of bees as soon as the weather gets warmer. This year, I'll monitor more carefully, get better hive tops and grow from my experience. One only learns by doing, but at the expense of all those little lives, it is a karmically painful lesson.

With so much death and destruction on the planet, it almost seems foolish to be lamenting the deaths of bees -- Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, the Middle East, Africa -- so many places human beings are dieing - greater tragedy. Even on an individual basis, when not factoring in the numbers of people there are many situations worth mourning more than the bees.
I walked past Lenox Hill Hospital this week, thought of poor Natasha Richardson who died there and welled up with tears. I met her once, a long time ago, and she was warm and lovely. To lose one so kind, charitable and talented is truly a great tragedy. My heart goes out to her entire family, for the loss of this irreplaceable soul on this planet.

I can buy another box of several thousand bees.

The seeds are waiting for the ground to warm up so we can start the next Spring adventure.

March Madness

Haven't blogged in a while -- life and facebook taking up too much of my time. The snow and ice have finally melted, winter is over and Mud Season has arrived. The roofer drives his truck across the side lawn and tracks so deep I could plant bowling ball sin them appear. The mud is so wet, the cats come in and soon every counter they can sneak onto reveals their fiendishness...tell-tale paw prints. Did I mention it's muddy out there? All of my black shoes are now brown shoes. The ground is so soft the back fence gate isn't holding tight in its anchor and the goat can but the door open....which means the roofer has to watch those horns and run up the ladder -- serves him right for putting those ruts in my lawn.

So the roofer starts replacing the roof: removes the asphalt shingles, removes the metal roof under them and finds the cedar shingles dating back to the 19th Century -- good-golly! He also finds that thanks to a bad repair job the back of the house has sunk 5.5 inches, and has bowed out 3 inches. So now there are chains pulling the side walls in, and an almost six inch gap between most of the first and second floors of the back of the house. (was there a budget for this job? yes, when we started). At least all of the beams have now been sistered and the back door has been replaced (3 weeks with a plywood wall in place of the back door was fun). Now all the wood siding that had to be removed has to be replaced and the last section of roof still has to be installed. As grandma would say back at the shtetl (her shtetl house was probably built after this house was) OY!

Meanwhile, I lost my key to our mailbox, but OK, we still had one key...then David goes away for a few days and takes his keys...oops, now I can't get into the mailbox, but wait! -- this is Cuddebackville/Godeffroy (yes the two towns are small enough to share a zip code) -- so I tell our letter carrier my predicament and she offers to just drop the mail off to me at work instead, it's virtually on her way home, anyway. I LOVE LIVING IN THE COUNTRY!!!

Meanwhile, it's warm enough that the chickens don't need the electric heater under their water and I just have to try to not get stuck in the mud as I walk to the barn to collect eggs each morning....Did I mention it's so muddy that our black dog has turned brown?

I am hysterically writing the historical notes for the exhibit I am curating -- the deadline looms larger than the Hollywood Hills, but isn't that appropriate as the exhibit is "The Star Is Born: The History of the Movie Star in America from Florence Lawrence and Valentino to Heath Ledger"? I'm even editing the poster copy at the same time...I need to get the walls spackled and painted, then set up the exhibit, after I'm finished putting it together (bit by bit, dot by dot -- and that is the state of the art) (5 points if you get that reference).

It's been raining, everything is wet, I feel wet to my bones, even the firewood is damp from the air, which makes for not hot fires in the stoves and mud everywhere. Have I mentioned it's muddy? I forget...must be part of my March Madness. Speaking of madness, next week is St. Patrick's Day (St. Paddy's for short, NEVER St. Patty's) and even though I will be in NYC, I promise not to drink any green beer. Maybe I'll write more on this next week if I steal a few more minutes.

Took my car to the car wash, came out nice and clean, drove three minutes, it was covered in mud...better than salt and sand, I guess. have I mentioned it's muddy out there? The mud is like sand from Coney Island, it keeps appearing in the strangest places long after you've been in the house.

To quote W. E. Coyote: "Hello, my name is Mud."

The Russians are Comming, The Russians are Comming!

So in all the TV chatter about Tom Daschle and his tax evasion/withdrawing from nomination problems, one commentator said that he was not only going to have his cabinet position, but was also to be the new Health Czar.

Can we stop this crap? Please? First of all, the word is Tsar. That's how the Russians pronounce it T-sar, not zar, so there is no way to pronounce czar that reflects the actual pronunciation.

Now we have to stop the rest of the crap. (note I'm watching my language, unlike the last blog, and not saying "shit", but using the polite version, "crap") We have appointed drug Czars, Energy Czars, and plenty more I can't think of yet, and we still have drug problems (i.e. prescriptions still cost too much, too many drugs are over-prescribed, the street drugs aren't as pure as they used to be and are also more expensive (so I'm told)), and still have energy problems (i.e. We're running out of oil, people think windmills are ugly, at my age I'm lucky I have the energy to get through a day without a nap) with no end in sight. Maybe that's because we are appointing czars, not Tsars.

If we appointed a few Tsars, maybe things would get cleaned up. Remember, friends, the Tsars were pretty awful tyrants. Despots. Supreme rulers who believed they got their powers from God. Just the other day our local PBS channel showed Dr. Zhivago. Great movie, better book (I had tea in Pasternack's house outside of Moscow in the early 90's, but I digress) and there's that one scene where the communists are having a peaceful march through the streets, playing music and carrying banners. Zhivago watches as the Tsar's mounted police charge them with swords flailing, trampling and cutting every non-violent protester they can. This is what Tsars do.

Let's get a drug Tsar in position in Washington and he can order the troops to go into every suburban high school and kill every pot smoking and cocaine snorting teenager, go into the better neighborhoods and kill the meth and e taking party boys, and go everywhere and shoot up the heroin users (pun intended).

Let's get a real Energy Tsar and he can order troops to shoot every driver of a big gas guzzler, kill that damn teenage girl who refuses to turn off the lights when she leaves the room, waterboard oil company executives for not developing new technologies, or for hoarding reserves, or whatever it is they do or don't do.

Maybe we could appoint a marriage Tsar to protect the sanctity of Marriage. Let's see, put up in front of a firing squad for abusing the sacred vows between one man and one woman: Zsa-Zsa Gabor, Elizabeth Taylor, Brittney Spears, and especially that lesbian couple from Massachusetts -- they really have some nerve fighting for the right to get married and then not staying married to set an example for all these straights who can't figure it out. Hell, even my mother was married twice and that was a loooooooong time ago. -- Sorry ma, but I think, we've got to back you up against the wall, put that blindfold on, that cigarette in your mouth and...no, wait, no cigarette.. our new Tobacco Tsar won't allow that.

We need to stop the war on drugs, the war on poverty the war on crime, the war on Christmas, the war on peace (sorry Tolstoi) and all these Czars/Tsars and maybe try to come up with some new, less despotic, less violent ways of handling our problems. Of course, Russia did get rid of their Tsars, and it didn't help them much. Just go watch Dr. Zhivago, if you don't believe me.

P.S. Maybe I'm thinking about the Tsars so much because there's still so much snow and ice here on the farm with the thermometer hovering at 11 fahrenheit that I feel like I'm in Siberia.

Parental Advisory: some language may not be suitable for young children

So, I'm driving in the car today, and I'm not getting my usual stations in on the radio and I say to myself, "Self, Obama is now president, you listen to conservative talk radio." So I turn to the only station I know and Rush Limburger is on. I rarely listen to him, but I've seen his picture and read interviews (but I've never read his police reports for his drug dealing, I admit), so I know a bit what he's about.

He's ranting about the closing of Gitmo, reading the Dick Morris column about how Obama will turn our nation into a socialist, or at least democratic socialist nation, an editorial from the Daily Mail of London opining that this will be the end of the United Staes, etc. He takes a call from a woman in California who says, "as an American citizen, I am offended that he would close Guantanimo." She wanted to know how he could just free all those terrorists, and why isn't he doing what he promised and giving her health care and paying her mortgage? She admitted sarcasm. Limburger railed about how obama is going to give everyone a "welfare check" of $1,000. He went on and on. I was thinking, "W-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ell, a lot of the people held in Gitmo were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the U.S. one is innocent unless proven guilty by a jury of one's peers, I could actually use some healthcare, government welfare to individuals is so much better and more cost effictive to government welfare for corporations (Exxon, Haliburton)...but I wasn't insane with rage yet.

He talked about how the U.S. elected Obama because he was intelligent, and if anyone saw him on TV talking about his signing statement is was abvious what an idiot he is. he doesn't know anything....This from a man who admires G.W. Bush!...but I wasn't filled with rage, yet.

Mr. Limbaugh then began talking about the economic situation in the U.S. and the government bailout of the banks (since when don't these conservatives like government helping big business?) and he says, "next, we'll talk about the banking queen, Barney Frank." That's when I began to turn red, and remembered all those pictures of Limburger with a huge smile and his big cigar posed at his mouth and thought, "Boy it sure looks like he's happy to have that huge phallus-like thing in his mouth." I'll be he'd much rather have a hard cock in his mouth than those dried out leaves. Now I know why Al Franken wrote the book "Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot." I want to know who that fat fuck Limburger thinks he is calling Barney Frank names. Who does ABC radio let him get away with this shit. Why can he say that and stay on the air, when Imus got thrown off for offending African-Americans? Why does Obama get elected president the same day they make marriage for all Californians illegal, and why does Rick Warren, who fought hard to achieve that dubious milestone get to speak at Obama's inaugural ceremony? Who the fuck do these cocksuckers think they are keeping the real cocksuckers from having the same rights that they have? ooooops did I really say that?

Boy Under Wire

I just finished watching the film “Man On Wire,” the documentary about Philippe Petit’s realization of his dream to cross between the towers of the World Trade Center on a tightrope in 1974. It is a wonderfully made film that I thoroughly enjoyed, but it brought back a very personal memory. While I was at Sarah Lawrence College, Petit came to perform. A huge group of us gathered in front of the performing arts center to watch him. One of the features of this building is a large metal column that supports a staircase in front of the main entrance to the theater and dance section of the building. As part of his performance, Petit tied a think rope around this column, about six feet above the ground.

He then chose five or six volunteers to hold the other end of the rope as taught as they possibly could. Petit looked through the rest of us in the audience, spotted me and beckoned me to step out of the crowd. He placed what I remember as a small folded towel on my right shoulder and had me stand so that the rope rested on the towel. He had those standing behind me pull taught again. He tested the rope, went over to the far end of the rope and hopped on. Philippe told me to look at in his eyes. It was quite difficult.

Difficult, because I wanted to watch his body, his feet, his arms as he stepped, hopped, danced, bounced on the rope as he entertained. Difficult because the tension on the rope dug into my shoulder, even through the towel. I kept moving my eyes from his eyes to his amazing feats and each time we re-made eye contact he softy asked, “are you all right? Are you okay?” and I would reply as softly, “yes.” It was an amazing connection for me. He wasn’t high up, but I knew if I slipped, if I faltered, then he would come crashing down on the stone pavers below. I knew I had to stay with him, be where he was to make it possible for him to display his talents. I was concentrating so hard, I was almost in a hypnotic state. If one of the people behind me lost their grip for a second, there were others to maintain the tension, if I screwed up, the rope would turn from a taught cable able to support a human being to a floppy coil on the ground.

I always dreamed of running away with the circus as a boy, perhaps that is why I worked as a magician and clown through my high school years, performing at birthday parties and charity affairs. Those few brief moments “working” with Philippe were as close as I ever got to the big top. When this film came out, I learned he lives near Woodstock, so he is actually not very far from where I live. I’ve met many celebrities in my life, worked with some incredibly talented actors, singers, dancers, chefs, but there was something ineffable about those few moments holding the rope for Philippe Petit, and they will forever remain a special part of my life.

Service with a Smile

So I walk into the post office the other day, the one in Huguenot, not Cuddebackville, (check the map! http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Huguenot%2C%20New%20York%2012746&rls=com.microsoft:*&oe=UTF-8&startIndex=&startPage=1&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wl (slide the bar on the left down a little to zoom out) my house is under the second f in Godeffroy) and an older gentleman in a cap and plaid shirt/jacket is complaining because he can’t get his hand into his P.O. box. There was all this stuff around the edges of the inside of his box and he couldn’t get his mail. One of the women behind the counter explained that he had said that he kept scraping his hand on the inside edges every time he went to grab his mail, so they fixed it. They cello-taped cotton balls all around the edges! We all had a good laugh!!!! These are the same people who will cover me and still send my mail out if I am short the postage money, because they know I’ll be back and am good for it. Now the women in the Cuddebackville post office are every bit as accommodating, but that office closes from 11:30 to 1:30 every day for lunch, which of course is the time I usually want to mail things, so….I wind up south, not north more often than not. Not long after we moved here, someone sent us a letter addressed to “Seth & David Cuddebackville, NY 12729” and they delivered it to us. They can do it with every address here. Yes there are only a little over a thousand people living in Cuddebackville and Godeffroy (the one post office serves both towns, since the Godeffroy postmistress retired and they couldn’t use her living room for the post office any more –that was against regulations, though someone told me she was happy to rent that part of her living room for the purpose.

Having recently experienced airport hell as we travelled from San Diego to New York through snowstorms Christmas week, with lost baggage, other people’s baggage coming to us, etc. It is good to be reminded that customer service with a smile (and a joke or two) still exist in this country. One wouldn’t know it from the air lines that raise fares, cut services and flights and generally expect you to thank them for treating you badly. Remember the days when air travel seemed like first class even when you flew coach? When flight attendants smiled? When passengers didn’t push and shove on the jetways afraid the planes will take off without them, even though it’s 20 minutes to departure time? When they loved to fly and it showed?

Did I tell you about the two different neighbors who arrived with their snow plows as we were taking our baggage from the cars? They knew we were coming home that day, and since there had been a snowstorm, wanted to make sure we could get in the house. Go ahead you city and suburb folks, ask me again why I live in the country!

The Man Who Fell for Eartha

Driving home from work I listened to Eartha Kitt. I hate how all of the legends that I grew up knowing are one bu one departing this earth. Like most my age, my first encounter with Eartha Kitt was when she played Catwoman on Batman. My father taught me more about her: his Aunt's husband was a major investor in "New Faces of 52" the Broadway show that made her a star (and had my friend Ellen's mother, Faith Stewart-Gordon in the chorus).

I bought her albums, I went and saw her at The Ballroom, at Cafe Carlyle, any chance I could get. Then there was that one special night: It was partner David's birthday, and we had planned to see Eartha at the Carlyle. Unfortunately, her night off was the same as David's and we had to cancel the plans. David had a friend, Jon, who worked with her on tour and remained friendly with her, and we were all going to go and have a drink with her afterwards. We were bummed.

We planned to just have a dinner party instead. I had graduated from cooking school and was eager to show off. We invited Jon and a friend of mine for a small party. A few minutes after David left for the matinee Jon called. He told me that he was bringing a guest to dinner and that it was Eartha. I scrambled to get the house spotless and really pull out all the stops.

When David got home, things were buzzing. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang and I asked David to get it. I heard the door open and David call out "Oh my God! Eartha Kitt's come to dinner." And so she had.

We had no dining room or real table to eat at and usually gathered around a huge square coffee table. Eartha pulled off her boots, sat on the floor at the table and we spent the next six hours talking politics, theatre, anything and everything. We were all overwhelmed by her intelligence, her intensity, her warmth. She admired a wooden bird my father had carved, and I had Dad send her one the next day!

Just a few years ago, David was hired to design the hair and provide the wigs to the Off-Broadway musical "Mimi LeDuck," in which Eartha was starring. It was another chance to ge to know her. She liked the wigs David made for her for the show so much, she ordered more after the show closed.

It's odd that most of the people around here that I encounter don't have any idea who she is. I'm feeling old, very old...how can one compare an Eartha Kitt, a Hermoine Gingold, a Marlene Dietrich to Britney Spears, Kindsay Lohan or any of these contemporary "performers"?

If you don't know about her look up what she said a luncheon held at the White House by LadyBird Johnson.

Where's Einstein When You Need Him?

OK, this is CRAZY. We left Ft. Lauderdale Florida, Eastern Standard Time. Sailed east to Cartagena, Colombia, which technically was one hour ahead of us, but we did not set our clocks forward. We then sailed west to Panama, certainly crossing back into our original time zone, and going through at least one in the other direction, probably two (central time, mountain time). We did not change our clocks. Last night, after going through the Panama Canal and sailing into the Pacific Ocean, we set our clocks back one hour. We are now sailing up the Pacific coast of Central America, where everyone is living on pacific Time, yet we are on U.S. central time. Twice more on this cruise, as we sail north, we will set our clocks back one hour, until we arrive in San Diego at US Pacific standard Time. We will then get on a plane, fly to New York and be back on Eastern Standard Time. Our time zone has nothing to do with location and everything to do with “I said so, that’s why.” I need Mr. Einstein to explain this whole time thing to me. Who came up with this whole 24 hour day thing anyway? Why aren’t there 10 really long periods of time instead, divided by ten shorter (but longer than a minute) or 100 longer than a minute units of time. Why this twenty four, divided by sixty thing anyway? Most of the world is on the metric system, but universally our time is on this 24-60 system. I’m not even sure I get this seven days a week thing. Why aren’t there six or eight days (I could use that extra day for laundry and yard work). We would simply adjust our months accordingly. As of now, things don’t always quite work out. We do have leap year, after all. The Hebrew Calendar, a lunar-based system has a leap month every seven years, for Pete’s sake! (actually we know it’s not for Pete, especially if by Pete, we’re referring to St. Peter, who might have started out Jewish, but certainly didn’t wind up that way – but I digress). You’ll have to pardon these ramblings, but as I write I am staring at the blue-grey Pacific as it meets the white-blue sky at the horizon, moderately early in the morning. Is it &:00am? 10:00am? 8:00am? 9:00am? HELP!!!!!!!! I’m caught in a whirlpool of timezones.

A Man: A Plan: A Canal: Panama

A hot, hot and humid day…sun beats down on us as we stand or sit along the railings of the ship as we slowly creep into the first channel of the Panama Canal the tugboats and pilot boats come along side, the pilot boards our ship. A marvel of engineering that takes water from the river which pours into the lake and dumps 26 million gallons a day into each of the Pacific and Atlantic oceans, all relying on gravity. Hot people, sweaty people, pushy people, obnoxious people, people who won’t let others get the photos they are getting, people who are happy to complain about everyone else, people who are happy to lend a hand to someone else, who are generous of spirit and railing position.
The lush thick green jungle on either side of this human-dug waterway was pregnant with animals and birds. Every second we expected to see some creature make its appearance on the water’s edge. Finally, a small crocodile came out of some weeds on the shore and went for a swim just close enough for us to see it with our binoculars.

It was exciting to go through the canal, yet I can’t quite figure out why. The actual process was slow and tedious. The ship moves slowly, the gates close behind you, an act you can only see on the aft deck, so if you are anywhere else, you don’t notice. The boat stops for 30-45 minutes, raising or lowering almost imperceptibly. The gates in front of you open (which you can’t see because even if you are at the bow, you are too far above and your own ship gets in the way. The ship slowly moves a little bit, then repeats the process. After the first lock, it’s the same thing three times, a slow sail through a lake, then more of the same on the Pacific side. So why was this exciting? Was it crowd mentality? Nearly 2,000 people lined up around the edge of the ship waiting with antici------pation for this to start. Was it a sense of history? The nature of seeing something we learned about in history class in person, for real, ourselves? Was it the fact that this was something to do, something mildly exclusive? Not everyone, in fact no one I knew had ever been through the Panama Canal, so although the actual passage through was not exotic, the act of the passage was. Learning about the failed French attempts to create a canal, and then the eventual success of the UNITED States, the more than 20,000 deaths that resulted from its construction , how it was actually constructed, the political machinations and corruptions: these are all interesting and somewhat exciting to me. The actual, boring process of going through the canal was not exciting after we were halfway through the first lock’s machinations……so why did I take over 500 photographs today? Why could I not turn away from the activity, moving from bow to stern to port to starboard, up to the highest deck, down to the lowest? Why the hell was I so excited?

Happy Thanksgiving

OK, once again I had to get up at 5:30am. This time it was a wake up call from our Hotel on 7th Avenue and 31st Street. A recorded voice yelled into the phone "This is Milton parker from the Carnegie Deli" and encouraged me to wake up and get some real corned beef or pastrami....I don't remember it exactly because it's now 1:00am -- a long day since that recorded wake up call.
It reminded me of my first job after college at Circle in the Square Theatre, where one of my jobs was to arrange for producers' house seats for all the Broadway ahows (not just Circle) anytime milton or his partners needed tickets for themselves, their friends, their families, their good customers. For this, I got a terrific gift certificate from some fabulous place each December (Bergdorf's was one) and, most importantly, when I went to the Carnegie Deli, I was ushered to the front of the always long line, and when seated, I was given a CLOTH NAPKIN, not a paper one like everyone else. Henny Youngman got a cloth napkin at Carnegie, as did all the greats and notables when they ate there. I went into Carnegie about a week ago for some take out...only one of the faces seemed to be one of the old-timers, the rest didn't quite seem the same. Luckily the knish, pickle and pastrami DID seem the same! The take out was for a friend of mine...see http://isothegoldenegg.blogspot.com for the details on that. (Yes I am DD!)

Speaking of old timers -- why did I get up at 5:30 on Thanksgiving morning? Because once again, my partner David and I had to be at Macy*s by 7:00am to join Santa in an executive board room to get ready to be in the parade. We were the elves driving the reindeer on the Santa's sleigh float -- our ninth year! What a trip riding in the stretch limo with Santa and Mrs. Clause, helping them get in the sleigh (A very high, so not always easy situation) and then riding down Central Park West and Broadway to herald square.

It's impossible to relate the feeling as we see the crowds smiling up at us, screaming "Santa" sitting on their balconies and window sills from the extraordinarily huge apartments lining CPW the San Remo, the Majestic, the Dakota anyone?), the kids dressed in their Thanksgiving best jackets and dresses or still in their pajamas (the probably 3-year old in nothing but her panties this morning), the older people already sipping cocktails, the woman cooking who refused to look at us, theose who refused to smile and those who beamed like the children in the next apartment, waving and calling to santa as if they were still 5 or 6 years old; the family with the beautifully taxidermied turkey in their window, the crowds lining the rocks and trees in Central Park, or blocking traffic on Broadway, gathered in office buildings, seemingly everywhere....they say 3 million people watched us today in person and did I hear 100 million on TV?

Pulling the reins on the reindeer, ringing the sleigh bells with the foot pedals, smiling for the cameras. This year we got a lot of time on NBC....could it have been because Al Roker's daughter was a Christmas Tree on the float with us this year? Exhausting, fun, pictures once they get uploaded.

When Your Rooster Crows at the Break of Dawn

This title of this is a quote from one of my all time favorite songs -- Dylan's "Don't think Twice" which is sung fabulously by my friend Barb Jungr -- get all of her albums if you don't have them yet (www.barbjungr.com). The reason for the blog title will become clear shortly.

I know I'm not a real farmer....I have two goats, a few chickens (sell the eggs) and 3.6 acres, almost 3 of which are plantable. But I'm a boy from Brooklyn (at my age, some boy!) and am not one to rise with the sun. Neither is Cyrano, our Portuguese Water Dog who will stay asleep on his or our bed long after I've gotten up, showered, dressed and started my day. My preferred alarm-set time is between 8 and 9am, luckily I can usually stay in bed that late. NOT SO THIS MORNING. This morning, the phone rang at about 5:30am that's FIVE-FREAKIN-THIRTY-A-FREAKIN-M. It was the security company that monitors the alarm system at the museum where I work. I live closest, so I'm the first they call. I drag my sorry ass that didn't get into bed until about one the night before into some clothes and stumble in the pitch darkness to haul that sorry ass into the car to drive the 1.2 miles to the museum. Did I mention it's November? Did i meantion HOW DAMNED COLD it was?

Of course, it was not a burglar, merely a fault in the fire alarm, so i deactivated it, reactivated it, and had a brief chat with the friendly Town of Deerpark police officer who got there just before I did. He of course was up, dressed and at work when HE got the call to check things out. We talked local town politics for a few minutes and home I slogged to shrug off my clothes and curl back under the down comforter.

As for the title of this blog: I'm not the only one in near proximity who has roosters. I have five right now -- all beautiful, some nasty, some timid, but all obviously well trained by me. I say this because as I was walking to my car in the 5:40am darkness I could hear from the neighbor's yard the familiar, raucous ERR-er-er-er-ERRRRRR this is the call of the cock. From not too far away came the response: a riotous ERR-er-er-er-ERRRRR. What I noted, and have explained to a few non-fowl-owning neighbors was that none of the cacophony was coming from my barn. My roosters, keep hours like I do and were fast asleep. My roosters are sensible birds, and of a class not to mingle with lesser birds who feel they have to get up before the sun even. Now if only I could get them to kill a fox or two!

weather or not

What a weekend of weather! Driving across the top of the mountain ridge on Friday, one could only see fog and clouds, with the mountains peeking through. White haze everwhere blanketing the valley, which had disappeared below. That evening, fog made nearly invisible everything around. The heavy mist coating each branch and blade of grass. In New York city that night, only 80 miles away: cloudy skies, dry, warmth to the point of hot (for November, certainly).

Yesterday -- so much rain and water in the yard that if they weren't still feathered, we would have had chicken soup! It ruined the day for our finishing the construction of the new storage shed -- now we must wait until next Saturday. The fence gates we were going to build must also wait. Time is running out, as the fences and gates must be finished so the goats can run free while we go away in a few weeks.

Today, when I'm not available to do anything around the house, the air is crisp, the sun is shining -- it's a perfect day! Next job after these is putting upo the new greenhouse, so we can get a jump on next year's growing season....I already have my seeds for organic edible marigolds I'll be growing next year.

This week

Well, the fence posts are in, waiting to have the rails put up and the gates made. The goats can soon run free, instead of being on a looong leash so they don't wander in the road.

Yma Sumac has died, Gerard Damiano has died. Footnotes to American culture? Perhaps. I wonder about all these people the younger generation has never heard of, and in the case of Yma, probably wouldn't even "get". From all genres of the entertainment world there are these people who have impacted our society in small ways, but how do we explain them? Someone about 20 years younger than I am said to me a few years ago, "I don't watch anything in black and white -- it's boring," when I brought up "The Honeymooners". I had no answer to that...how can one respond to a dismissal of Capra, Wilder, Welles -- Casablanca has no value anymore? All of D.W. Griffith, Chaplin and Keaton should be dumped in the ashcan. It's hard to compare Damiano to Griffith and the other directors, I know, but he did break the mold and his films were as reviled as "Birth of a Nation," though for obviously very different reasons! :-)

Happily there is youtube, so just maybe the digital generation will be able to get a bit of insight into our now "camp" heroes like Yma: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LUSUel_kck&feature=related (one of my favorites of her recordings) and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOgE0b5DzLo&feature=related which is Yma on Letterman Show in 1987 Somethings just are, if they have to be explained to you, it's already too late.

And my college resident advisor has been named Obama's chief of staff... had I stayed in touch I might have been able to be the next White House Chef. (I could bring the goats and chickens to the South lawn).

Election Day Ramblings

What a day! Got to bed at nidnight last night after seeing my good friend Barb Jungr in concert in NYC with my good friends Ellen Kaye, Dani Almany and Peter Yannello...a spectaular show, as always.

This morning, I got up at 4:30 am -- yes, it was very dark, as I walked the dog and fed the goats and chickens by flashlight after a quick shower. THen it was off to the races; the political races. As a poll inspector and Chairman of District 1, Deerpark Town, Orange county NY, I had to be there at 5:30am. (it's now 10:50, so forgive the typos -- it's been a looooooooooooooong day).

Highlights...all the young children coming in, wanting to help mom and dad vote....showing so many firtst-time voters how the machines work.....the adult first-time voters who were finally energized to actually come out and vote, whethere they voted the way I hoped or not...Mrs. JM walking into the polls, her eyes as bright as her dyed crimson hair. Chatting away, signing her name, walking into the voting booth, voting and walking out....Mrs. JM turned 100 in March of this year...our town's oldest voter!...The excitement of opening the machines and reading off the numbers of votes and hoping that the winners in our district for President and Congress would also win everywhere else.

Nature's balance...with the happy news of the election results comes the sad news from Los Angeles...I've learned that Yma Sumac has died. If you have to ask, you are not worthy, but go ahead and google her -- adn see the photos and hear the songs.

It's a Hard Rain Gonna Fall

I don't have ducks. We did, Jaye and Andre. Jay laid eggs, they were tasty. The ducks must have been tasty too, as a fox got them early one morning, the first night they refused to go into their little duck house. Why? We never figured out. Can ducks have a death wish? But I digress.

It's a pity we don't have ducks, becasue today's weather was fit only for ducks and fish. It rained all day. It rained on my parade. We did have a small parade indoors at our Halloween Fair at work, which would have had a much better turn out had it not been pouring.

One of the great things about living on a few rural acres is that things you can't do in the city, becuase people will see or hear you, you can do up here. Like standing in the middle of the field at night, while the dog is running around sniffing out rabbits, deer, squirrels, chipmunks, foxes (go get em, boy) instead of doing what I brought him out to take care of -- standing in the field, the rain beating down on my uncovered head, splotching on my eyeglass lenses and singing every "rain" song I could think of in a not-too-subdued voice. It's sort of like Julie Andews spinning around on that mountain field singing about the hills being alive. Then the dog runs up and it's time to go in.

The Holidays Are Coming

OK, I've decided there are very few holidays I like. Easter (I don't have to do anything) Passover is great, because I just have to eat a great meal (admittedly after a long service, that in our family we take seriously, but have fun with). Independence Day is great, because I like fireworks! Now, however comes the season of dread...first comes Halloween, costumes, candy, and because of work, a huge event I've been prepping for for the past several days. Christmas and Chanukah are frought with figuring out gifts, sending out cards and far too many obligations. Thanksgiving is cool, if you're reading this, you probably know why, if you don't I'll blog about that later in the season. Then there's Arbor Day...all that schlepping of trees, digging, dirt....oh wait, I live on a farm, I like all that digging and dirt!!!!!!!